Page 5 of Stolen Vows
“Oh!” He brightens at that—the pig. “Yes, absolutely. You can have as many goes with her as you’d like.”
My head turns, taking her in as she stands a few feet away with her arms crossed over her chest, watching silently. If she were as smart as they say, she’d be halfway out of the church by now while I’m otherwise occupied.
Not that it’d matter.
She wouldn’t get far.
“I don’t wantturns,” I tell her father, my pulse quickening as I lock eyes with Stella. “Your last-born princess will be my wife, and no one else will touch her.”
3
STELLA
Iglare at Papà as the priest rushes through our vows, barely stopping long enough for me to even utter, “I do.”
Since Leopoldo’s marriage offer, things have moved at lightning speed. A priest was called in, asked for our first names, and then jumped right into the ceremony.
I’ve hardly had a chance to process the fact that my father didn’t drag me here solely to fulfill his end of a business arrangement but to absolve himself of apparent debts created by Mamma.
Marriage wasn’t even where he wanted to start negotiations, despite what I’d naively come to this place believing. He used my inexperience as a selling point, so while I’ve always known the people in this world to place emphasis on such patriarchal notions, for some reason, I believed the Riccis were above that.
I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the ease with which they allowed my older sisters to continue their lives, uninterrupted. How they didn’t care when I showed more interest in science and academia than the pageantry of being a Mafia princess and socialite.
Whatever the case, I’m in it now. My dreams of Papà coming to my aid are dashed as he continues to ignore me, bearing witness as the priest seals my union to Leopoldo De Tore.
“Y-you may kiss the… bride,” the older man stutters, pressing his Bible to his chest.
Shit, shit, shit.I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that we’d need to kiss to complete the transaction—perhaps because this is a farce, and I didn’t think Leopoldo would care about such displays of affection.
Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I’m forcibly turned toward him as he steps slightly away from the priest. I don’t know who moves me—whether it’s Papà or one of the De Tore guards who revealed himself from the shadows—but in the next second, I go from wishing death upon my father to staring into the bleak gaze of the man I’m now legally tethered to.
I lick my lips, then curse myself when his gray eyes drop to track the motion.
He’s handsome—in a lethal way. His cheekbones are severe, like two shards of glass, and his jaw is something you could sharpen a knife on.
When I was younger, I found him fascinating. He’d attend Sunday Mass like everyone else on our block despite spending the week indulging in every sin known to man. I’d watch him take a seat in the back, listen to the homily, and leave before the Eucharist. Almost as if he thought himself better than God.
Back then, I couldn’t help but take note of his every move, his every breath and attribute—like the leather gloves he seemed to wear atalltimes and the black hair he kept just a tad too long, which made him seem strangely boyish.
Something about him was intriguing. Maybe it was the way he didn’t repeat or finish the Father’s prayers, or how an aura of darkness seemed to follow in his wake despite the holybackdrop. It amazed me that evil like him could exist, even inside a blessed structure, and that his skin didn’t seem to burn.
Maybe that was what killed my religious faith and made me store it in scientific thought instead—the realization that my parents’ beliefs and stories held no weight in the real world. Evil would prevail whether God watched or not.
Sometimes, I’d catch him looking back and find myself unable to break away. As if he were a magnet and I were some precious metal drawn to him.
Mamma used to curse at me and say I shouldn’t stare Death in the eye.
Now I can’t seem to look anywhere else, though I do my best to ignore the tug in my stomach as he inches closer.
Death shouldn’t be attractive to me.
Yet the razor blade in my mouth says maybe it always was.
My legs wobble, bringing me forward a step. Hints of amber and cedarwood drift casually around me, and I wonder if he donned cologne to mask something or if he smells like this all the time.
“Well?” he goads, cocking a dark brow.
