Page 3 of The Mafioso’s Bride

Papa jerks my arm. “Walk.”

“I need one minute.”

Papa does not release me. “No.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Move.”

My shoes stay against the stone.

He wraps my arm against his side and drags me through the doors. Papa’s nails dig into the soft skin above my elbow while my feet stumble into pace.

One step. Another.

The organ pounds.

Perfume and lilies and hot candle wax. The veil sticks to my lips. Lace scratches my neck unbearably. A man coughs three times. Giuseppe’s daughter whispers to her brother and hides a laugh behind her program.

Tardigrades have five body segments, including the head.

One step. Another.

The aisle runner catches the toe of my shoe, but Papa hauls me upright.

“Smile,” he says through his teeth.

I move my lips apart.

“Not that much. You look deranged.”

I close them.

Giuseppe reaches for me when we arrive. His damp fingers wrap around mine. I pull once, but Papa blocks the aisle behind me.

“Giada,” he says.

His warning needs no explanation. The last time I refused him, my lip split against my teeth.

I leave my hand inside Giuseppe’s.

“Beautiful,” Giuseppe says. His eyes travel down the front of my dress. “Worth waiting for.”

The priest opens his book.

Papa joins Mama and my siblings in the front pew. Giuseppe’s family sits across from them. His sons trade a look. His daughter smiles at me, then taps one finger against her mouth.

Tape.

The candles blur into long yellow bars. The organ stops, but the silence is worse. Fabric rustles. A shoe squeaks. Someone breathes through a blocked nose.

The priest welcomes both families. He speaks about God, duty, marriage, and two houses joined in faith. Giuseppe rubs his thumb across my knuckles.

I try to pull my hand free.

His smile remains for the guests. “Don’t,” he hisses.

The priest keeps reading.