Page 163 of Wounded King
It is actually consoling. Sharing this day with Papà is like a dream come true. He has declared that he won't kill Mom, but I don't think he'll ever forgive her or allow her to share a room with him. Not that I can fault him.
"Here, we found something," Scarlet says, entering first, holding up an anklet with tiny blue dice attached to it.
"No, this one," Gigi basically throws a kitsch necklace at me with a fake blue diamond the sizeof a golf ball.
"My brother is going to like this, trust me," Sophia says, holding a blue garter in her hands, stitched withViva Las Vegas.
"Na-ah, this takes the cake." Cat is wearing her find, a kitsch tiara, filled with rhinestones, playing theViva Las Vegassong, while blue LED lights shine in the rhythm, lighting up the words,Here cums theVegas Bride.
I laugh, "Girls, I have no idea how to choose."
"Take them all," Elaine decides, grabbing my foot to help Scarlet put the anklet on it. Cat uses the moment to press the tiara on my head, while Gigi puts the fake diamond around my neck. Sophia is a bit more timid, pushing up the damn garter, but it's fine. We're all toppling over laughing, and that's all that matters.
"Are you girls alright in there?" Papà's loud voice penetrates the door.
"Coming," I yell back. The others think that's even more hilarious, and the giggles begin anew.
When we walk out, Papà does a double-take, looking me up and down, from my blinding tiara to my necklace and the anklet I show off, pulling up the hem of my long skirt. And finally, taking in the long, wide veil covering me from head to toe. He shakes his head.
"It's not too late to run." He advises.
"Like you would forgive me for making you miss out on Marcello's yacht this summer," I tease. Themen have already made plans for a trip since Papà has really taken to the yacht.
"I would, for you," he tells me, halting us, looking seriously into my eyes.
"Thank you," I say, glad I have the veil down now, so he can't see the tears gathering. The veil is really, really hideous. When I said it makes me look like a marshmallow, I wasn't exaggerating. It covers everything, even my dress.
Papà's hotel offers a small chapel, and it has been tastefully decorated in the way I would have liked my wedding to look like. Lillies and ivy decorate the benches, and I'm holding a bouquet of them against my chest, noticing my fingers slightly trembling.
Marcello's eyes widen at the sight of me, looking like a Russian doll, and Toni, standing next to him, grins from ear to ear, shaking his head at some unknown joke, but when he winks at Gigi, my suspicion meter rises.
"Who gives this bride?" the priest standing at Marcello's side asks.
"I do," Papà answers with a slight tremble in his voice, very unlike the brutal expression on his face.
The door opens, interrupting the ceremony, and my heart skips a beat. Now what? The man by the entrance looks like a figment from any mafia book ever written. Dressed in a black suit, he emanates the kind of power that cuts the air. A blood-red tie and pocketsquare are the only touch of color on him. Many men would look ridiculous in this, but for him, it's a statement. One, he pulls off easily with his deep black hair and eyes. A scar runs down the right side of his face, distracting from his otherwise handsome face. Whatever happened to him—maybe a blade?—cut right across the side of his face, dividing his eyebrow.
"Massimo," Papà gasps, taking a step forward, but stops when the man lifts one gloved hand in a casual wave and walks straight toward me.
Next to me, Marcello stiffens.
"Forgive my intrusion," Massimo says, his voice as smooth and sharp as polished obsidian, "but affairs are calling me to Mexico. I did, however, want to meet your daughter, Enzo."
He steps in front of me. Up close, he's even more intense—power rolling off him in steady, quiet waves. The kind of man who doesn't speak unless it matters. One who doesn't show up unless it's to make a point.
A small black box appears in his hand, held out with elegance that borders on theatrical. "For the bride."
I reach for it slowly. "Thank you…"
He doesn't release the box right away. Instead, his dark gaze lingers on my face.
"You're even more beautiful than your father described," he says, his lips curving into something between a compliment and a threat. "Marcello… congratulations."
Marcello's jaw flexes beside me. His hand twitches. He wants to punch him. I can feel it radiating off him like heat off asphalt. But he doesn't move, because this is my father's boss. And it's our wedding day. I gently, almost imperceptibly, place my hand over Marcello's forearm. A grounding touch. A warning. Not now.
Massimo sees it, of course. He sees everything. He winks at me with his left eye, making the cut eyebrow stand out even more, giving him a devilish appearance.
He nods to Enzo. "We'll speak later."
