Page 23 of Bad Bishop
My father swore up and down Tiernan Callaghan had insisted. How he swore to fight the Camorra’s wars for a chance to make me happy. Lies dipped in folly.
Everything about the manor made my skin crawl now. Every inch of it was soaked with the memory of my brothers carrying me back at dawn, muddied and bloodied, a torn rag doll.
Was my rapist in the crowd tonight? Was he watching? Basking in my misfortune? Laughing at the turn of events? Did he put two and two together? After all, this wedding was me paying for the consequences of his actions.
I couldn’t remember his face. Only the evil glint in his eyes. But I wanted to. Oh, I wanted to remember, to tell my brothers, to give him the painful death he deserved.
What Ididremember was the once-white tiara of roses. How the petals turned red when he’d split my lip, cheek, and forehead. I couldn’t stomach seeing roses from that day forward. My wedding was decorated with lilacs only.
Tiernan released me from his hold. I nearly collapsed on my ass but managed to grab onto the wedding arch. When I looked up to see if my husband noticed, I saw his broad back striding into the enthusiastic crowd, like a titan rising from the ocean.
After the official ceremony, Mama and Imma rushed me upstairs, away from prying eyes. They gave me water and dry crackers. Imma knew the secret of my pregnancy. She was like my second mama. An ample, tanned woman with silver hair, kind eyes, and drab gray dresses.
I placed my hands on the marbled banisters of the second floor, the ballroom stretching below me like a naked woman on canvas. White colosseum columns arched upward, onto a round ceiling painted with Raphael’sTransfiguration. Clouds of pink and purple lilacs sailed from every corner of the room, and the golden glow of a thousand candles licked the muraled walls.
It was different from Luca’s wedding, where everybody mingled and danced together. The Irish and Italians didn’t mix. They sat at different tables on different sides of the room, drinking different liquor, eating different dishes.
“You should let her watch the wedding, Lady Chiara. It’s hers, after all.” Imma pushed away flaxen locks from my eyes, dabbing my face with powder. “And make sure one of the boys warns Callaghan to be gentle with her.”
I put my hand to my lips. They still stung where Tiernan’s mouth touched, the ghost of that ravenous, greedy kiss that took but didn’t give.
I turned to Mama so I could see her answer.
“Luca assured me it’s taken care of.” She popped another pill and tossed it down her throat without water, refusing eye contact with me. Her third Valium today.
Apparently, Luca squeezed some kind of promise from Tiernan not to touch me on our wedding night. That should put me at ease, but I oversaw Luca telling Enzo how Tiernan’s promises were worth less than a three-dollar bill. He wasn’t a Camorrista. He didn’t abide by the Omertà. The code of silence and honor.
“He gave Blackthorn his word he wouldn’t kidnap his wife, and ten days later, the woman was tied inside his van, tranquilized to her fucking eyeballs, roughened by his soldiers,” Enzo had spat out.
“He’s hurting her before he even laid a finger on her.” Imma’s eyes tapered. “He’s disrespecting her in public.” Her gaze traveled down below, and I followed it.
My husband’s copper-haired head, rising at least three inches above the heads of everyone else in the room, sliced through the parting crowd of well-wishers. He had an aura, a pull about him that made people clear the way, stop, and stare.
A brunette bombshell was at his heel. Big, puffy hair, scarlet lips, and generous cleavage. They weren’t walking side by side, but she was chasing him around in a tiny beige cocktail dress and red-soled heels, touching his wrist, her smile triumphant.
“Che baldracca,” Mama hissed, white knuckling the banisters. “Send Enzo up. Now.”
My brother showed up immediately, flush-faced and clearly drunk. “Mama?”
“Who’s thestronzoparading around at his own wedding?”
“A Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.” He ran his knuckles over his jawline. “Don’t worry. It’s all a part of the plan.”
“Is the plan to make us look like weaklings?” she sneered. “Because it’s working.”
“The plan is he comes to his wedding suite well sated and…satisfied.” Enzo cleared his throat.
My mother’s face relaxed somewhat. “Make sure the whore gets fired.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The women who raised me had a very specific idea for what constituted a good woman.
A good woman dressed modestly, spoke quietly, and didn’t hold a job. Much less a job that required showing off her body.
“Also, she’s wearing white head to toe. Bad luck for the couple. Tear that dress and put her in something drab.”
“On it.”
