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Kira

The stems of the red roses dig into my palms hard enough to leave marks as I walk down the aisle in a white dress I didn’t choose, toward a man I barely know—though I do know he doesn’t want me any more than I want him.

Yet he’s to be my husband.

In just a short amount of time, I’ll be Mrs. DeLuca, married to Paolo, the Don’s only son.

Saint Benedict’s Church is packed with DeLuca soldiers in dark suits. Some of them have a woman on their arm, each of them dressed in beautiful dresses with flawless hair and makeup. I want to roll my eyes at the thought that they probably got to pick their own outfits.

If I’d had a choice of my wedding attire, I definitely wouldn’t be walking in five-inch heels, in a dress that was designed to put every part of my body on display.

The bodice molds to my torso so perfectly you would think it was sewn on, cinching my waist before hugging my hips and flaring into a sweeping skirt that trails behind me. Intricate lace winds across sheer panels, leaving just enough hidden to preserve my dignity while making me feel as though everyone can see straight through me.

It’s beautiful. It’s exquisite. And I’d give anything to trade it for something that let me disappear. But when the dress arrived two days ago with a note from the Don telling me to wear it, I knew I didn’t have a choice.

And as I glance toward the altar where Paolo’s waiting with his dad, I note the way Don DeLuca’s gaze burns into me. The intensity in his blue eyes makes my breath hitch, causing me to almost falter.

I have to do this. The words beat in time with my steps. I have to do this.

As if hearing my thoughts, my dad’s hand tightens on my elbow as he guides me forward through the nave of Saint Benedict’s like I’m livestock he’s presenting for slaughter.

“Remember what I told you, Kira.” Dad’s breath is hot against my ear. “This marriage isn’t worth shit until you take him to bed. The DeLuca boy wanted a virgin. Play it up so he can fulfill any sick fantasies when he breaks you in. Once that’s happened, our deal will be complete.”

The congregation rustles as we pass. I don’t look at them. I know who they are—DeLuca soldiers, the dangerous men who make up the network of power and violence that runs Boston.

Nodding, I do my best to fight the tears stinging my eyes. I won’t cry. “And you promise you’ll take care of Mom?” I whisper back, daring to glance at him. My voice barely carries over the organ playing the same processional I’ve heard countless times before.

Dad’s jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. “As long as you hold up your end of our agreement, I’ll hold up mine.” He says it like he’s doing me a favor, which I guess he is.

To him, the choice was ending all of Mom’s care and cashing in her life insurance when she dies, or selling me to the DeLuca family. I chose the latter. Even though he made a big show of acting indifferent as to which choice I picked, I think my pick secretly pleased him.

My dad isn’t important or powerful. He has a small accounting firm which is made up of two people. Their biggest and only client is the DeLuca family. But now he gets to boast they’re family instead of just doing business.

None of that matters to me. But I’ll grin and bear it as long as it means he’ll keep Mom alive. She’s always sacrificed everything for me, so it’s only right I do this in return.

Paolo stands at the altar in a fitted charcoal suit. He’s clean-shaven, sharp cheekbones, his dark hair swept back from his forehead. His smile is easy, practiced, and his blue eyes track me.

As I reach the front, I’m proud that my knees don’t shake. I peer up at my husband-to-be as he takes me from my dad. At least Paolo’s being forced as well. I know I shouldn’t be happy about that, but I can’t help it.

I guess it’s true what they say: misery loves company.

When the deal came about almost three months ago, he made it clear he had no intention of marrying me. He never said he didn’t want to marry in general. Nope, he made it very clear that I was the problem.

But just as I had no choice, neither did he.

Father Joseph clears his throat. In all my years working at the church, I’ve never heard his voice shake before. He’s nervous, sweating despite the cool September breeze that seeps through the church’s stone walls.

“Dearly beloved,” he begins.

As he continues, I can’t take my eyes off Paolo. The more Father Joseph speaks, the smaller Paolo’s smile becomes. I see it happen—not a gradual shift but rather a sudden collapse, like someone reached inside his face and turned off a switch.

He looks at me—really looks at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Turning, his eyes sweep across the assembled room of dangerous men watching him, judging him, waiting for him to claim his bride and secure his place in the family succession.

Paolo looks at his dad. “Fuck this,” he scoffs. “I’m not marrying her. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, but it isn’t happening.”

“Paolo,” Don DeLuca growls, grabbing his son’s arm. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”