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Gia
I’m so excited, I can hardly sit still.
It’s just one week until my wedding. But it’s more than just the wedding itself I’m excited about. Like so many other mafia daughters, my marriage is arranged. But unlike others, I had a hand in picking my future husband. A prince of the Bratva—the pakhan’s heir.
As I sit at one end of the long dining room’s breakfast table, picking at my plate of poached eggs, fruit, and toast, I can’t stop thinking that today is the last time I’ll get to see my fiancé before our wedding day. With the date so close, an entire week feels like an eternity. My skin prickles with anticipation, my mind filled with memories of all the moments we’ve spent together over our courtship. Of small touches and near-kisses, whispers that hint of everything still to come. My pulse flutters in my throat, imagining the moment when we won’t need to stop short of a kiss any longer—when we won’t have to stop at all. Just last week, I bought my lingerie for my wedding night while out shopping with my friends. Now, all I can think about is the moment that my new husband will undo my dress, and see what I chose for him.
I’ve been lucky so far; I know that. Most girls in my position either don’t even meet their husbands until their wedding day—or they know who they’ll marry, but it’s not a match that they’re excited about. I’ve been to three weddings this past year alone, and all of the grooms made me feel all the more fortunate that my father cares about my choice in the matter.
Cared, rather. I swallow hard at the reminder that instead of my father sitting to my right at the breakfast table, it’s now my godfather and guardian, Salvatore Morelli. He glances up at me as I shift anxiously in my seat, raising one dark eyebrow.
“You’re energetic this morning,” he observes idly. “Something to do with the Lasilov heir coming by in a few hours?”
I bite my lip, unsure of how to respond. “You don’t always have to be so irritable about it,” I mutter, unable to keep as quiet about it as I know I should. My excitement dims just a little as I look at the stern expression on Salvatore’s face, and my irritation grows. “I know you don’t approve of Pyotr, but my father made the decision, not you.”
My petulance doesn’t seem to affect him. But then again, not much does. I look away from him, wanting to return to my daydreams about my wedding day, my first kiss at the altar, Pyotr’s lips finally touching mine after so long. His mouth has always looked warm and soft, and I’ve thought a hundred times at least about what it would feel like to be kissed. To be kissed by him, the man I’m promised to.
Salvatore’s voice breaks through my fantasy again, and I grit my teeth.
“I served your father loyally for all of his life,” Salvatore says calmly. “I will continue to do so. A part of that is honoring his wish that I be your guardian until your marriage vows are said. Whether you like me here under your roof and at your table or not, Gia, that’s how things will be.”
I don’t like it. Every time Pyotr Lasilov is mentioned, or the Bratva in general, I can feel the tension in him. I can see the way his expression darkens. And although the mafia has long had no love for the Bratva, and vice versa, he seems to especially dislike them.
“My marriage is supposed to bridge the gap between the two families,” I remind him. “That can only be a good thing, right?” Improved by the fact that I’m looking forward to my wedding day, rather than dreading it.
I stab irritably at a piece of strawberry on my plate—part of a spring fruit salad that our cook has made a regular part of the breakfast rotation for April. Since Salvatore came to live here, he’s quizzed me on things like that—how much I know about running a mafia household. Apparently, he thinks my future husband will expect me to be well-versed in managing the staff, directing the menus for the week, and generally overseeing the running of a mansion. I don’t actually think Pyotr will care about that at all—as far as I’m concerned, what’s the point of having a staff if I have to manage all of it? My father never insisted that I learn any of that, and our household has seemed to move along just fine. But my godfather appears to be of the opinion that was a major oversight in my education as a future mafia—or Bratva—wife.
If I’d grown up with a mother, maybe that would have been different. But she died when I was young, and my father remarried. He didn’t seem overly concerned about finding someone to teach me the things she would have, either.
Salvatore makes a noise low in his throat, one that seems disapproving to me. “You’ll have security for the meeting, as always. Don’t try to slip out of the gardens or sneak off anywhere private with him. Stay in full view of the guards at all times. Do you understand me?”
I let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “Yes. I understand.”
He frowns. “You’re blushing, Gia. Whatever you’re thinking about your fiancé, it’s not appropriate for the breakfast table. Truthfully, it’s not appropriate for you to think about things like that at all.”
“Do you always have to be such a wet blanket?” I snap, pushing my plate away. My appetite is gone, because Salvatore seems intent on taking my anticipation and turning it into a lecture on good behavior. His reminder about the guards is just another way of doing that.
When it comes to that, at least, Salvatore and my father are similar—there’s always been a heavy guard on me and instructions that I not try to get away with sneaking off into dark corners with my intended. But my father was worried about things going too far, the natural desire of two young people who will eventually be married getting out of hand—and even I had to admit that was a possibility. The extent of it was one uncomfortable conversation where he pointed out to me that the Bratva could back out of the marriage if my innocence was lost before the vows were said, and I didn’t want that, did I?
Since I very much want to marry Pyotr, I agreed. We’ve mostly kept our hands to ourselves. He hasn’t so much as gotten away with a kiss. And my frustration and eagerness to get to the wedding night has only been building with every week and month that has passed.
“Good.” Salvatore cuts a bit of sausage on his plate, looking at me levelly, with his dark, serious gaze. “The Bratva are dangerous, Gia. You need to be protected until the treaty is complete.”
I’m going to be the heir’s wife. They wouldn’t dare touch me. Pyotr would kill them. I bite my tongue because we’ve had this conversation before. Salvatore doesn’t trust the Bratva, seemingly believing that every interaction is an opportunity for them to cut us down in our own home instead of honoring my father’s arrangement. And I don’t understand why he thinks they’re one step away from being feral beasts.
It’s all the more evident when they arrive. We’re waiting in the formal living room when Giorgi, the head of the house’s staff, shows Pyotr and his entourage in. I feel my heart leap in my chest the moment I see my fiancé—he looks as handsome as always, dressed in black wool suit trousers and a dark red button-down with the sleeves rolled up over his muscular forearms. His honey-blond hair is swept back from his face, dark blue eyes immediately lighting on me the moment they walk in, as if he’s been anticipating this moment just as much as I have. A half-smile curls his full mouth, his lips the only soft part of his otherwise strong, chiseled face. I feel a swirl of butterflies fluttering in my stomach when I remember that in one week, I’ll get to kiss those lips for the first time.
Or sooner than that, maybe. A part of me wants to try to sneak a kiss today, just to get back at my godfather for how strict and cold things have been since he’s arrived. He’s said over and over again that he’s only concerned for me, that he wants to make sure I’m protected and ready for my future. But I’m used to more freedom, and his way of doing things feels restrictive and oppressive.
My closest friend, Rosaria, thinks that it’s Salvatore’s way of handling his own grief over my father. He’s always been a dutiful man, I know that, and I can see that she might have a point—that he’s channeling his own sadness into making sure that nothing goes wrong for me.
I, for my part, have been trying to remain hopeful, as much as I miss my father. Trying to look forward to the life he arranged for me, rather than allowing myself to be mired in grief. I don’t think he would want me to lose myself in sadness, and I’ve tried not to allow that to happen. The first few months were terrible, but in the past weeks, especially as the weather has warmed and I’ve been able to get out of the house a little more, I’ve started to feel my heart lighten a bit. And seeing Pyotr today will only help.
“Are you ready?” Pyotr glances at me and then at Salvatore. I can see his expression darken a little as soon as he looks at my godfather—it’s clear there’s no love lost on his side, either. “Where am I allowed to spend time with my dorogoy today?”
Dorogoy. Sweetheart. He taught me that word early on in our courtship, and I taught him the Italian word for the same—tesoro, or treasure. It was one of the sweet, romantic moments that I’ve held onto these past months—especially as the visits have been fewer since Salvatore has been in charge of things. His caution has meant I haven’t been able to see Pyotr as often—he felt that my father was too lax in allowing it as much as he did. He’s leaned on tradition heavily to justify it—that mafia daughters typically don’t see their husbands-to-be outside of formal events until the wedding, if at all—but it has felt overprotective to me, instead. That overbearing need to keep me safe from an imagined threat that’s hung over me since he came to live here.
“The gardens are fine,” Salvatore says, his voice clipped. “I’ll be in my office. My personal security will keep an eye on Gia, while the two of you spend time together.”
