Page 7 of Velvet Cruelty

The music changes to a slow, melodious song. I haven’t heard it before, but it feels familiar. Inevitable. As though in the back of my mind, it’s always been playing. The song I’ll walk down the aisle toward Mr. Parker to.

Carolyn looks like she’s about to pass out. “Okay, January. Now!”

I move automatically, slowly in time with the music. I’m aware of my whole body. My feet in my kitten heels, the lace shifting across my thighs, the air brushing my bare shoulders, the circle of warm metal at my breast.

The crowd turns to face me, a thousand-headed monster. I keep my gaze unfocused and walk forward, one step at a time. The aisle is so long, Mr. Parker and his groomsmen are just tuxedoed blurs. I haven’t met any of his friends before. Maybe we’ll become friends too and I’ll entertain them and their wives at dinner parties. I could make arancini and stuffed artichokes.

I pass Senator Billingham, Princess Clara of Sweden, my father’s old friend Joshua Price the third, and Uncle Benedict, the patriarch of the Whitehall family. He gives me a small smile and relief floods through me. Whatever else happens, I’m making my family proud.

My stepmom stands in the front pew, flawless in her lavender Chanel suit. Her eyes sweep me for imperfections, narrowing when they fall on my cleavage.

Sorry, mom. Not my choice.

Her gaze flicks from my chest to Mr. Parker and I know what she’s trying to say. Look at your husband. Do your duty.

I obey and meet Mr. Parker’s eyes. His round face shines with sweat and he’s smiling so hard his cheeks are apples. The song swells around me and I smile like I practiced in the mirror, but inside my stomach turns over.

Mr. Parker’s tongue flashes out, licking his lips, and my left heel turns underneath me. I stumble sideways and gasps echo around the cathedral.

“January!” Mr. Parker makes a nervous motion forward, but my gaze is caught by a flash of gold. Behind the alter, a blond priest grins at me. I know that man. I met him once during pre-wedding counseling. Archbishop Bancroft said he was Father Monastero and said he was there to take notes. But why is he here now? And where is Archbishop Bancroft?

Cursing myself, I straighten and continue my way down the aisle. A murmur of relief rings around the church and Mr. Parker steps back into place.

I glance at the priest, hoping I imagined him out of wedding nerves. But there he is. He doesn’t look like a priest; he looks like Zia Teresa’s forever crush, Elvis. He has the same razor cheekbones, sneering mouth, and bright blue eyes. If his golden hair was black, he’d be a dead ringer. I sneak a peek at my bridesmaids. They’re staring at the priest too, but none of them look worried. Margot’s cheeks are pink, and Penelope is running a finger over her lips.

I reach the base of the marble altar, my bridal smile glued to my face. Someone—Sadie?—takes my bouquet and Mr. Parker steps toward me, his pale eyes scrunched in skin. “January. Finally.”

He holds out a hand and I wish I’d run. To the train station. To Starbucks. To anywhere. I think of the St. Christopher medal and pray that someone will help me.

A crashing roar tears through the air, and I stagger backward, my ears ringing. The walls are shaking and the carpet moves beneath my feet. I’ve done this. I wished on St. Christopher and now he’s bringing down the cathedral.

All around me people are screaming, pushing, running, knocking over pews, and crashing into each other. Mom. Giuseppina. Strangers. Hats fall, mouths freeze into wide O’s. Mr. Parker is balled up in front of the altar, his tuxedo’s arms over his face. I whirl around looking for his security team. For Theodore and Kurt. For anyone. A rough palm closes over my mouth, another around my waist. “You’re coming with me.”

A man is touching me. A man is touching my mouth. I try to scream but the sound is swallowed by his palm.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses in my ear.

The arm gripping me has white and gold sleeves. It’s Father Monastero. My stomach knots. Are priests allowed to curse? He drags me backward past the altar and toward the tabernacle. His arms are hard with muscle, and his cologne is heady, almost boozy. My blood turns to ice. A priest might swear in an emergency, but he’d never, ever, smell like that.

I pull at the gold-lined sleeve. Wrapped around his wrist is a snake tattoo, its fangs dripping black blood. “You’re not a priest.”

He laughs in my ear. “Nice work, idiot.”

I struggle as I’m dragged through a small door at the back of the cathedral, kicking his shins and tossing my head, trying to bash his nose.

“Bitch!” He lifts me off my feet as easily as if I’m a doll and carries me into the room. The door slams shut, and he drops me like I used to drop my schoolbag. I hit the carpet gasping for breath. The room is small, the walls covered in bookshelves and priest robes. Father Monastero’s blue eyes glitter down at me. “Don’t move.”

A second explosion rumbles the cathedral. The floor shakes and heavy books fall from the walls. It must be terrorists. Men who want to kill the senator or the princess or uncle Benedict. How many bombs do they have? Are we all going to die? I think of Zia Teresa and her small, beautiful face. Thank God she’s not here, thank—

Pain explodes in my head as I’m yanked upward. Father Monastero grins at me, his hand tight in my hair. “Hi.”

“H-Hi,” I say automatically.

He jerks his head at the back of the room. “Two minutes and we’re going through there.”

“The… wall?”

“Fuck you’re even sillier than you look. The door.”

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