Page 3 of Till Death Do Us Part

Lofty ceilings with stained-glass windows spread across them hide the rain falling outside, while statues of the saints pave the way from the grand entrance.

Opulence and glamour everywhere you look.

Though the building is beautiful, truly; it is cold.

A bitter cold that seeps into my bones, chilling me from the inside out. Another omen, perhaps.

It feels as though the world is screaming at me not to do this.

Urging me to turn around and run away.

The signs are glaring, and I want to listen.

To follow them out of that door and far away.

But when the opening notes of Bach’s “Arioso” trickle into the room and my sisters take their places ahead of the door that will lead them down the aisle, I know I’m too late.

It is time.

There can be no running now.

I’m regretting the choice to drink several shots as my father pulls me towards the door. My stomach churns, threatening to bring up what little I have eaten today, and I know it will not be pretty if I let that nausea take hold of me.

Though, it could put an end to the proceedings if I feign a sickness. I’m busy pondering whether that could actually work when the doors open ahead of us.

My sisters descend the aisle slowly, in an orderly line, and I almost laugh at how out of place they look in their sage green dresses amongst the sea of black filling the pews. I’m not sure if there was a dress code the guests had to follow, but there isn’t a single flash of colour in the waiting crowd.

The women are dressed in expensive black evening gowns while the men sit in tailored black suits.

I wonder if it’s a uniform.

Or it’s another sign.

It cannot be a good thing when you enter your wedding and it looks more like a funeral.

The guests stand following the change in music to signal my arrival. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath before taking the first step towards my new life.

My gaze is trained on the floor as my father leads me down the aisle, his grip tight where our arms are linked. I fear if I look up, I’ll be tempted to tuck tail and run. I imagine the only thing I will wind up with if I were to do that is a bullet in my skull.

Not the ideal beginning to one’s wedding day.

Or end, I suppose.

“You have to breathe, bambina,” my father whispers. “This is a good thing, you’ll see.”

I don’t believe him, and I’m not sure he believes himself either if the tension in his voice is anything to go off.

I doubt there is anything good that can come of this day, but I send him a small smile anyway. The last thing I want to do right now is lay my emotions out for all to see. This room is full of dangerous people, most of whom wouldn’t hesitate to use them against me.

Letting out a breath, I squeeze his arm. “I’m sure you’re right, Papá.”

I barely register the rest of the walk down the aisle, and long before I am ready, my father is slipping my arm out of his and placing my palm into the waiting hand of my groom. I keep my gaze on the floor for another moment, pulling in a deep breath before coming face-to-face with Antonio Bianchi.

My soon-to-be husband.

The boss of New York City.

The Capo Dei Capi of the Italian Mafia.

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