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He’s claiming me.
That’s right. The nephew of the man I was supposed to marry will claim me on my wedding night. The worst part is that there’s nothing I can do about it besides accept it and get on with my life.
Actually, there is something I can do about it. Or rather, the one thing I am doing about it.
I’m hating him.
Actively.
Viciously.
With every fatty cell of my being. It must be fatty cells because I have more of those than I do of fiber ones.
Severio gets up from his seat and buttons the front of his suit jacket over his white button-down shirt. He starts to push a baby stroller away from the party, toward the ramp that leads to the level below. The ramp connects with a narrow path lined with a few small round tables set for couples dining under the wisteria trees.
At least seven broad-shouldered men wearing suits and bearing tattoos over their necks and knuckles follow him. Others replace them where they’d stood. These men wear blue pins on their suits. The ones with Severio wear red serpent pins.
I think it might be an Order insignia of some sort, but up until my father’s death, I was a bird, a civilian like my friends,blissfully unaware that Gio had initiated my father into the Order without consulting Severio first.
I can’t fathom why Gio would do such a disrespectful thing to a dangerous man like Severio, but I’m here paying for it nonetheless.
Gio’s phone rings, and I turn in my seat as he presses it against his ear. Black tux. Dark hair slicked back with more gel than he’s ever admitted using. Deep lines around his cold blue eyes are made even deeper as he narrows them on Severio’s back. “Keep your distance,” he says into the phone. “I don’t want any blood spilled in front of the birds.”
He’s talking to his men since the security at our event is insane. All the mobsters brought their families and are surrounded by their own security teams. When I say mobsters, I’m including my mother and the group of men Mom calls enforcers whom we must keep around now that we’ve joined Gio’s Order.
Severio’s Order. Technically, it’s his, but Gio speaks of it as if he runs it, rather than his nephew. Hence, Severio’s show of dominance, though not force.
A waitress carrying a single whiskey glass on a tray bursts out of the indoor bar area, almost falling down the steps to the lower level as she rushes after Severio, I presume to deliver his whiskey.
On her way back, her cheeks are red. She’s clearly gushing over serving Severio.
I roll my eyes.
Now seems like a good time for a butchered Jane Austin line: A single man, no matter the size of his fortune, can’t make me gush with a single glance, which is all I’m sure she received from Severio. He might’ve not even seen her.
He seems reserved. Watchful. A panther sprawled on a tree, watching the gazelles graze the grass.
Gio’s rough grip on my shoulder startles me. I look down at his hand, his wedding band mocking the most sacred event of my life.
“That’s your cue,” he says.
“Sorry?” I look up and find my mother also hovering.
“Severio is alone,” she says, her warm brown eyes showing kindness. I think she feels bad for me, but is helpless to stop the claiming Severio insists on. “He’s expecting you to come and introduce yourself.”
I push my chair back and rise, fixing my wedding gown, the fabric soft under my touch. No lace. All tight corset and silk. I pick up my white gloves and slide them on, then approach the railing behind our table.
Since the resort’s built into the mountainous terrain and we’re on higher ground, I glance below, but unfortunately, through the thick wisteria he’s sitting under, I can’t spot him.
“Are you sure he wants me to join him?” Severio walked away from the party, and that means he needs nobody’s company.
“Cristina, my dear,” Mother says in her best parental voice. “Do what your husband says.”
He’s not my husband, I want to answer, but I don’t because I avoid conflict with my mother if I can, and having to sleep with a stranger on my wedding night is conflicting enough.
Gio grabs my elbow and digs in his fingers. “Now, Cristina.”
“Ouch,” I say, hoping he’ll ease his grip, but he doesn’t. His clear blue eyes reflect the coldness of his heart. That’s not how he looks at my mother. Or his dog. Or me, usually, for that matter, but today’s getting to him.
