Page 1 of Till Death Do Us Part

CHAPTER ONE

Thunderrumblesthroughthedarkening sky, the boom deafening as it echoes across the city. They say rain on your wedding day is a sign of good luck, promising a lasting marriage.

Can the same be said for a tumultuous storm?

I can’t help but think of it as an unwelcome omen.

Flashes of lightning zip through the clouds, coming and going in quick succession. From where I stand on the balcony, facing the gardens of the hotel, the tent for the evening reception is in my direct line of sight.

Hotel workers rush in and out of the space overseen by the wedding planner. The vision comes to life slowly, though nothing like I would have chosen for myself had the choice been mine.

Turning, my gown catches my attention from the wardrobe where it hangs. Laid at its feet are the most beautiful off-white lace and crepe satin Louboutin heels.

They were a gift from my father.

Only the best and most expensive for his little girl.

For most women, their wedding day is a day of great celebration. A day they’ve been dreaming about their whole lives.

The white dress.

The handsome groom.

The happily ever after.

Unfortunately, that isn’t my story.

My groom is a man I’ve only met twice. My dress was chosen for me by a handful of people whom don’t know the first thing about my taste and style.

And the happily ever after?

That’s something that only exists in fairy tales.

Being wed to a man of the Mafia at only twenty-one is the furthest you could get from a fairy tale.

I drop down into the seat at the vanity, waiting for my sisters to arrive to help me into my dress. The only thing I have left to do now. They wanted to be here with me while I was having my hair and make-up done this morning, but my father kept them busy with other tasks.

I glance at myself in the mirror, letting out a heavy sigh at the girl staring back at me. My chestnut brown hair is twisted into a low bun with loose tendrils framing my face while my make-up has been brushed on to perfection.

Gold and brown shadows coat my eyelids, accentuating the usually dull brown, and the layers of foundation, concealer, and bronzer hide all my blemishes.

The girl in the mirror looks beautiful.

Radiant even.

But that girl isn’t me.

The door behind me opens, loud voices spilling into the room as their footsteps follow. I force a smile while turning to face my sisters. The three of them stand before me, each with varying expressions on their faces.

Rosa, the rebel child—as my father calls her—looks bored out of her mind, while Elisa looks excited and happy.

It’s my eldest sister, Sofia, who sends my stomach soaring with butterflies when I get a glimpse of the sorrow reflecting at me through her blue irises.

“Are you ready to get in your dress?” she asks, moving towards me with a wry smile on her face. It’s almost as fake as mine.

Out of the three, she’s the only one who has verbalised any concern about this marriage. She tore my father to pieces when she found out he’d signed on the dotted line and passed me over to a stranger for the rest of my life.

Arranged marriages are common within the Mafia, but since our father moved us from America to England when I was only six, it had never crossed my mind that mine could—or would—be arranged for me.

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