Page 6 of Till Death Do Us Part

Why was I chosen to be a wife for the Capo?

I open my mouth, the questions on the tip of my tongue, but his phone rings and I lose the chance. Sighing, I glance out the window, watching the streets of London as we fly past.

“We’re here, ma’am,” Nico, Antonio’s driver, tells me when the car slows, rolling to a stop at the kerb.

With his brown hair, hazel eyes and black suit, he fits right in with the rest of them—but there’s something softer about him, a kindness in his eyes that Antonio and most of his men seem to lack.

Antonio pushes his door open, stalking up to the entrance of the hotel without a word of backwards glance, and I let out a sigh before rolling my shoulders.

“Manners cost nothing,” I mumble under my breath, sliding out of the car. Nico chuckles softly, a small shake of his head as he holds an umbrella over me. It hasn’t stopped raining all day, and comes down harder now, soaking everything as it bounces off the pavement. “Thank you, Nico.”

Thunder crashes through the sky, a flash of lightning follows, and I almost jump out of my skin at the unwelcome storm.

“We should get you inside, ma’am.”

“Please call me Pippa,” I tell Nico with a grimace. “Ma’am is for someone far older than me. I’m not quite there yet.”

“Okay. Shall we go, then, Pippa.” He smiles softly, offering me his arm which I graciously accept as we make our way towards the lobby. The moment we reach the doors, he folds the umbrella down, pushing me into the entrance before turning on his heels and heading back to the car.

I blow out a deep breath, blowing the tendrils of hair away from my face, before entering the hotel . . .alone.

Only a handful of people move around the lobby, but each stops in their tracks to stare at me. A flash of heat spreads up my neck to my face in embarrassment. I wonder what they’re thinking as I walk through the hotel, in my wedding dress without a groom in sight.

Do they think I’m a runaway bride? Or a bride abandoned by her new husband on her wedding day?

If it’s the latter—well, they wouldn’t be wrong.

A shiver passes through me when I make it to the reception tent. I slow for a beat, trepidation stealing my breath. Each step I take is a step closer to my life no longer being my own . . . and I’m not ready for that.

But I don’t have a choice.

“Where is your husband?” Elisa asks when I make it inside and find my sisters at the head table. I grab a glass of champagne, tipping it to my lips and swallowing the contents down in one gulp before I answer.

“Not a clue. The man left me in the car and came inside, so I’m guessing he’s got to be around here somewhere.” Dropping into the seat meant for me, I kick my heels off, a happy moan slipping from my lips “Oh, that feels good. Those shoes may be beautiful, but my god do they hurt.”

“Classy as always, my girl.” Rosa laughs, clinking her full glass with my empty one. “How does it feel to be a married woman?”

“Ask me again when I’ve drank a few more of these, and maybe my answer will be a favourable one.” I exchange the flute for another one, taking a large swallow while Rosa only laughs and drinks alongside me.

“Don’t get sloppy,” Elisa says, her brow furrowing as she glances warily over the few guests that have made it to the reception. “These people are dangerous, P. You’ll probably get yourself killed with a slip of that tongue of yours.”

“Don’t be dramatic, maybe just a light spanking,” I tell her with a laugh. She rolls her eyes, but a smile forms on her lips anyway. “Besides, it’s my wedding day. Surely it’s a rite of passage to get super drunk and pass out on the dancefloor.”

“Sure, if this was a normal wedding. You just married into the Mafia, girl. I don’t think the usual traditions apply here.” She chuckles, twisting a finger through her blonde curls. We couldn’t look more different, my sisters and me.

There were many times when we were growing up that I wondered if we were even related.

Elisa and Rosa look the most alike, both olive-skinned with bright green eyes. They could be twins, if it wasn’t for the eighteen-month age gap. Sofia is the most like our mother with her auburn hair, sea blue eyes and pale skin.

Then there’s me. Brown hair, brown eyes, lightly tanned skin. Papá has the same brown eyes as me, but besides that, I look nothing like him—nothing like either of my parents.

Not that I can say that with absolute certainty about my mother since the only memories I have of her come from photos hidden around our house.

She up and left one night when I was only a baby. There one moment, gone the next, as though she never existed.

Papá and Sofia refuse to speak of her, and Rosa and Elisa have only a handful of memories to share, given they were also too young when she ran off for her to have left a real imprint on them.

“So, you’re telling me I’m not allowed to drink all the champagne and get white-girl wasted on that dancefloor over there, while getting down and dirty to Cardi B?” I ask Elisa, raising a brow and pursing my lips disapprovingly at her.

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