Page 4 of Till Death Do Us Part

He is everything I would imagine the boss to be in his black pinstripe suit. His dark hair is slicked back, perfectly styled to accentuate his high cheekbones and strong jaw.

He reminds me of a Disney villain, though that thought has me fighting off a giggle. Laughing at your groom is another sure-fire way to receive a bullet to the head, I imagine.

He does not speak nor smile as he stares at me, his deep-blue eyes leave a burning in their wake as he takes in my features. A harsh frown mars his lips, his eyes narrowing when he finishes his perusal.

Well, fuck you too, buddy, I don’t want to be here either.

I face the priest, ignoring the man at my side. While handsome enough, there isn’t a spark of lust in my body for him. His face is too sharp, his body too lean, and his personality too stiff for my liking.

While I know better than to judge a book by its cover, there’s something viciously chilling about him.

“O’ God who consecrated the bond of Marriage . . .” the elderly priest starts.

While he speaks, I focus on his black Cassock; the traditional attire reminding me that this marriage isn’t just in front of friends and family but God Himself.

If ever there was a time to step up and say I can’t do this, it would be now.

I’m sure the Big Man would forgive me.

But whether anyone else in this room would, remains to be seen.

With every word spoken, my blood chills further and my heart races violently. My eyes flicker over the altar, my hands twisting in the material of my dress. I’ve never had a panic attack before now, I wonder if this is the start of one?

I take a few calming breaths, trying to remain inconspicuous to the audience, but when Antonio tightens his grasp on my wrist, I know I’ve failed.

He leans into me, his voice low and threatening. “Calm the fuck down. You do not want to embarrass me, Bride.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, turning my gaze to the marble floor. It seems strange that a church would be filled with such opulence.

Surely God isn’t about lavish designs and magnificence.

Then again, what do I know?

I barely pay attention when Papá drags me to Mass on a Sunday.

The ceremony drags, and I swear the priest talks slower with each line just because he can. Can’t he see that everyone’s patience is wearing thin? Or maybe that’s just me and everyone else is loving his spiel on why marriage is sacred.

All I know is by the time we’re finished here, I will need a large alcoholic beverage.

The tipsy haze I was in earlier has gradually faded, and all that remains is a low-level headache and a sickness in the pit of my stomach.

“Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands and declare your consent before God and His church.”

Shit.

Antonio tugs at my hand, squeezing me tightly. I lift my gaze to his, biting my tongue to stop myself from asking him to let me go. That would be a weakness to him—a weakness I cannot afford.

He says his vows, promising to love and cherish me in sickness and in health and blah blah blah.

It’s all bloody bullshit.

The most a man like Antonio could offer me is a lifetime of pain and sorrow.

When it is my turn, my throat dries. The priest stares at me. Antonio stares at me. Every single person in this church stares at me.

But I can’t get the words out.

I don’t want to get the words out.

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