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If I could, I would run. I would try to find shelter with the Bratva, with Pyotr, as I’d threatened to when Salvatore and I argued a week ago. I almost wish he’d refused me then, gone ahead and forced a postponement, so I could have tried to evade his security and run then. Now it’s too late. The doors are blocked by his men, his grip on my hands is iron-hard, tight as chains. There’s no escaping. And I have no idea what will happen if I stand my ground, if I stubbornly refuse to say my vows. They can’t be pried out of me; the marriage can’t go on if I refuse to say I do, but this is new territory for me. I look at Salvatore, and I no longer recognize him.
I resent being called spoiled, but my father would never have hurt me. He would never have forced anything out of me, never coerced my agreement to any arrangement. He would certainly have never held me at fucking gunpoint. Even if that was Josef acting out of turn, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m just now realizing, as I look up at Salvatore’s hard, angry expression, that I don’t actually know what he might do.
He’s always been a brutal and commanding man; I know that. My father’s right hand, willing to enforce what my gentler father could not. I’ve heard stories about who Salvatore was as a younger man, things that he did for my father before others took up those roles, and Salvatore filled a more diplomatic position at my father’s side.
I never thought of Salvatore as a threat to me. And even now, he claims he wants to protect me. That he’s doing this for my own good.
But he’s taking everything from me. And at this moment, I hate him for it.
I feel tears drip from my lashes as Father McCallum begins to read the vows. Salvatore’s hands are warm and broad around mine, his long fingers holding me firmly in place, and I feel myself tremble at the thought of what’s ahead. Of what he will be to me—once my godfather, and soon my husband.
Salvatore speaks his vows clearly, firmly, his deep voice resonating in the absolute quiet of the cathedral, silent as the grave except for his voice. ‘Til death do us part. I’ve never wished for that to come true as much as I do at this moment, as I numbly repeat my own vows, feeling sick.
Everything has changed too quickly. The panic recedes to a blissful nothing as I look up at Salvatore, repeating what I’m told to say, his words and mine a low hum in my ears as I struggle to keep my composure. My fingers shake as he takes my hand and slides a thin gold band onto my left ring finger, and I nearly drop the thicker match to it as I start to put it on Salvatore’s hand. It’s too small, sticking at his knuckle, and Salvatore closes his hand into a fist to hold it there until Father McCallum can finish the rite.
“That ring wasn’t meant for you,” I whisper under my breath. “That was Pyotr’s.”
If he hears me, he says nothing. And then Father McCallum’s voice cuts through the fog, as he announces us man and wife.
You may kiss the bride.
I stare up at Salvatore, feeling my heart crash into my ribs. He won’t. He won’t. He can’t. Resentment boils up in my chest as he steps towards me, my hands still clasped in his, as he leans down to steal yet another thing that was meant to belong to Pyotr.
My first kiss.
The shock of his mouth against mine reverberates through me. It’s the barest brush of lips, the ghost of his mouth against mine, so light that I barely even feel the warmth of it. But it stuns me all the same, as much as if he’d crushed me to him and slid his tongue into my mouth.
Or, at least, it feels that way.
My eyes close without thinking, as his lips touch mine. I feel that hint of warmth, briefly, that momentary caress, and something sparks over my skin. A recognition of touch, of intimacy, that my body recognizes even as my mind and heart cry out that this is wrong. That all of this—my vows, my kisses, my emotions—were meant to be for someone else. That I was meant to be feeling excitement, pleasure, anticipation…instead of fear and dread.
The guests are on their feet, Salvatore turning me with him as we walk down the aisle, man and wife. Dizziness washes over me again, making it an effort for me to walk without my knees buckling, shock rippling over me in waves that hit me again and again, the realization of what just happened freshly painful each time. But I don’t want to trip. I don’t want him to have an excuse to catch me, to touch me.
He’ll be touching you far more, in a few hours.
My stomach twists, fear snaking down my spine. Angelica’s warning comes back to me, her disappointment with her wedding night. Only pain, and no pleasure. And in a way, now, that almost seems better. I don’t want pleasure from anyone other than Pyotr.
From the man I was supposed to marry.
The car is waiting outside. I blink in the bright sunlight, feeling as if I’ve walked out into a dream. None of this can be real. It can’t be happening.
But it is.
Salvatore opens the door for me as if nothing is wrong, helping me with my skirt and veil as I slide numbly into one side of the car. “Given the upheaval,” he says calmly as he joins me on the other side of the car, as if nothing were wrong, “I think the wedding reception will be canceled.”
“Where are you taking me?” I hear the thread of fright in my voice, feel my pulse beating hard in the hollow of my throat, anger and fear and numbness all taking over by turns. The volley of emotions is dizzying, and I clutch my hands together in my lap, digging my nails into my palms to try to ground myself.
“To a hotel.” Salvatore glances at me, his dark gaze sweeping over me as if to assess my mental state. “I’ve arranged for a suite at the Plaza.”
“For what? To take advantage of your new bride?” I snap at him, narrowing my eyes. “I hope you have enough security there for what you’ve brought down on yourself, Salvatore. Pyotr will come for me?—”
“The Bratva may make a move, yes.” Salvatore sounds almost tired as he says it, as if the gravity of what’s happened is finally settling on him. “But it won’t be because Pyotr cares for you, Gia. I need you to understand that?—”
“You’re lying. All to get what you want.” I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the stiff satin bodice of my dress as I look out the car window. We’re moving slowly through the afternoon traffic—too slowly for my liking. The large interior of the limousine feels cramped and small, this close to Salvatore, after what he’s done.
Salvatore lets out a slow breath. “I’m sorry for the lack of a wedding reception, Gia,” he says slowly. “I know you did a great deal of planning. I’m sorry that you’ll miss it.”
“You think I’m angry over a party?” I sneer at him. “You think I’m that much of a spoiled brat?”
