Page 18 of Irish Brute
When she’s standing on the left side of the altar, facing the congregation, Trap offers me his arm. “Ready?” he asks.
Am I?
I didn’t have a normal childhood. My parents died when I was ten. My Zia Sara lavished attention on her own children, on Elisabetta and Giorgia and Gianni, but she never had time for me.
My nanny, Bettina, was the only grown-up who spoke to me with love, but I didn’t dare invite her here today. Not after Don Antonio threatened her.
I glare at the back of Don Antonio’s head. He’s the reason I’m here. He’s the man who stole my future.
What else do you need, counselor?
I hear Braiden’s voice, only a week ago. I see his amused eyes in the elevator doors, not twenty-four hours before I agreed to this crazy marriage. I remember my sudden certainty that he was a man I wanted.
He’s been a good client. He saved Bettina Leone. And now he’s saving me.
I slip my hand through Trap’s waiting arm. “Ready,” I say.
It’s a wintry day, cold and dark outside, with clouds threatening fresh snow after last week’s blizzard. The church’s stained glass looks dark against the stone walls; there isn’t enough light outside to make the pictures clear.
The congregation rises as I walk down the aisle. I feel their eyes on my face, but I look ahead, at the dais in front of the altar.
Alix waits, ready to help me. Father Brennan looks tired but patient, his hair gray and his eyes a little bloodshot.
But my attention isn’t on my maid of honor or the priest who’s about to conduct the ceremony. It’s not on the best man, either, Braiden’s brother Madden.
I’m watching Braiden Kelly, Captain of the Fishtown Boys.
He’s wearing a good black suit, with a shirt so crisp it looks carved out of snow. His tie is a rich green, embellished with tiny Celtic knots that match the ring on my left hand.
His hair is short and his cheeks are freshly shaved and he looks like his picture should be printed in the dictionary next to “Black Irish.” With every step down the aisle, I can see the blue of his eyes, his sharp attention as he measures the bride he’s bought.
Because we both know what’s happening here. Braiden wants to best his rival. That means acquiring me, before Don Antonio gets the chance. All the organ music and sweetheart roses and wedding guests in the world won’t change that truth.
Trap and I reach the front of the church. He brushes a kiss against my cheek and moves to his seat in the first pew. Alix takes my bouquet, and Father Brennan says, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
My lips automatically form the response—amen—along with the rest of the congregation. I know the mass in my bones. Every cell in my body knows the service, when to stand and when to sit.
When Father Brennan delivers his homily his voice starts out shaky, as if he hasn’t spoken to a congregation in a long time. He gains confidence, though, after the first few words. From little details, it’s clear he knows Braiden well, knows his family here and in Ireland.
I should listen to the father’s message; I should focus on the sacrament of marriage. But I’m not an ordinary bride. I’m not getting married for the usual reasons. I pray that God understands why I’m doing this, how it’s the best possible option among a range of terrible choices.
Did Eliza feel this way when she married Antonio? Did she worry she was saying the words for the wrong reasons?
Father Brennan asks, “Have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
Braiden lies first. There’s no possibly way his whole heart is in this sham. “I have.”
That makes it easy for me to twist my own reply.
We promise to raise our children in the church. I look directly into Braiden’s eyes and promise to be faithful in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and honor him and cherish him all the days of my life.
We give each other rings. They’re plain gold bands, but Braiden insisted on engraving mine on the inside curve:Is liomsa tú.You are mine.I shiver as the new ring touches the gold signet I already wear.
Father Brennan tells us we can kiss.
This should be the easy part. I’ve kissed plenty of men before. I’ve done a lot more than that—Samantha Mott has never been bound by the strict rules that governed Giovanna Canna.
I certainly know what’s expected of both of us—nervous little laughs, shuffling our feet, a sweet close-mouthed peck before God and everyone.
