Rafaele’s arm is steady under my hand as we walk into the buzzing cathedral for Vale’s wedding the next day.
I’m technically the maid of honor, but Vale didn’t give me any tasks before the ceremony, so Papà arranged for Rafaele to pick me up from the house.
We drove here in uncomfortable silence.
At least it was uncomfortable for me. Rafaele seemed completely unbothered.
I try to keep my nerves at bay by focusing on the elegant decor instead of my fiancé’s intimidating presence.
Woven baskets are suspended from the ceiling, with delicate white and purple flowers spilling over their edges. The smell of lavender wafts through the space. A lilac-colored carpet stretches from the entrance of the cathedral all the way to the altar, where a priest stands dressed in a black cassock, a bible in his hands.
Rafaele leads me to the front pew where my parents and Cleo are already seated. Cleo doesn’t hide her disdain for my fiancé, her expression morphing into a scowl.
Yesterday, my sister called him every name imaginable. I had to remind her that he could have gotten her into a lot more trouble if he’d told everyone how drunk she was when he picked her up.
I was furious. I dragged her into the shower as soon as we got to our room, and by the time Mamma came up to scream at her, Cleo had washed the smell of Jack Daniels off and managed to sober up. We were told to stay in our room until we were called.
I kept eyeing the door, waiting for Papà to storm in. Turns out he, Damiano, and Rafaele had a meeting, and when he finally returned, he was in a surprisingly good mood.
We got off the hook too easily.
I’m not complaining. It’s the only lucky break I’ve gotten since I arrived here.
We sit down. Rafaele gives Cleo only a cursory glance, which I know must irritate her. She’s itching for a confrontation. I give her a warning look. She scrunches her nose and turns toward the altar.
I relax slightly and try to get comfortable in my seat.
Rafaele’s platinum cufflink winks against the light streaming through the stained-glass windows. It’s engraved with the letters RM.
Those two letters remind me that soon my own initials will change.
Something unpleasant stirs in the pit of my stomach. It’s been doing that all morning. I hope it’s not the fish I had for lunch. It tasted slightly off.
I turn in my seat and survey the rest of the guests. There’s at least a hundred people, most of whom I don’t recognize. Vale told me that Damiano invited all of the capos and their immediate families, as well as made men who’d been close to his late parents. Some apparently had a problem with the wedding being in Spain instead of Italy where Vale and Damiano live for most of the year, but Vale explained that the location made the event far more secure. The only person with a private army on the island is Damiano.
A prickling sensation spreads over my neck. Someone’s watching me.
I turn in time to see Ras walking down the aisle, his ma by his side.
Our eyes meet, and my breath catches.
He looks damn good.
His suit is a masterpiece, fitted to highlight the broad, powerful lines of his body. A crisp white shirt collar peeks out and contrasts with his skin, making his tan stand out.
But no matter how perfectly his clothes sit on him, there’s something disconcerting about him looking so put together. It feels like a disguise meant to make people think he’s civilized, when I know he most certainly is not.
A few of the other female guests turn to watch him. Someone whispers his name.
He and his ma turn into the pew across the aisle from us, and he helps her sit down before taking his own seat. She says something to him, but he answers without looking at her.
His gaze unabashedly lingers on me.
My cheeks heat.
We haven’t spoken since the kiss, which is exactly what I wanted. Being alone with him isn’t something I can risk again, especially not with Rafaele here. Ras’s too unpredictable, too likely to get me into trouble.
He stares at me like he knows me far better than he realistically could. Like his gaze can penetrate through the thick layer of makeup on my face and see the fading bruise.
“I think I get it now. You’re angry and miserable. You can’t show anyone how you really feel, can you?”
“Fucking hot in here, isn’t it?” Nero slides into the pew behind us, his sudden arrival making me jump. He grins and unbuttons his suit jacket. The bench is comically small compared to him. He looks like an adult sitting in a kid’s playhouse. His knees bump against our backrests. “AC’s broken in our hotel too. I’m melting. Tell me the reception is somewhere cool.”
I give him a terse smile. My future husband’s consigliere has always been friendly to me, but I don’t trust him. I get the sense he’s constantly trying to disarm people with his charm. Maybe that’s how he tricks them into giving him all their secrets.
“It’s in one of Damiano’s restaurants on the beach,” I say. “There might be a breeze if we’re lucky. But it’ll cool down after seven anyway.”
He checks his watch and whistles. “Three more hours. Fuck me.” When he lifts his gaze back up, his eyes flash with amusement, and his grin widens. “What’s up, Cleo?”
“Absolutely nothing,” my sister spits out, making no effort to be civil.
“You planning any more strolls later today?”
She huffs. “If I was, you and your boss would be the very last people I’d tell.”
A strange sound comes out of Rafaele. It almost sounds like a stifled chuckle.
I glance at my fiancé. His expression reveals nothing. He’s studying the front of the church as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
But I know I didn’t imagine that sound. It wasn’t Nero, and my parents are far past the point of being amused by anything Cleo says.
It had to have come from Rafaele.
Weird. I didn’t think he had a sense of humor.
“Go, Gemma. They’re about to start,” Mamma says, nudging me with her elbow.
I get up just as Damiano steps onto the altar. On the other side of him, Ras appears.
Our eyes lock, and heat expands inside my chest.
I must be still angry with him.
The string quartet begins playing. Everyone turns to the back of the church, eager to see the bride.
Vale appears at the end of the aisle wearing a silk-chiffon wedding dress that nips in at her waist before flowing out around her legs. The hem of the skirt is strewn with pearls and white flowers. She looks perfect.
She walks toward Damiano alone, her head held high, and her eyes sparkling as she keeps her gaze on the man she loves. She carries herself with such confident ease. I wonder if any of the other guests note the absence of Papà at her side.
To us, the message is clear. She doesn’t need Papà. She’s already got everything she needs.
After the ceremony is done, we change into our party dresses, and head to Damiano’s restaurant where the reception is taking place. Everyone takes their seats. I’m relieved to find that Ras isn’t at my table. Nero and Rafaele are, but they’re sitting on the other side of it, far enough that I won’t have to make attempts at conversation.
A woman’s melodic singing fills the air. Candles flicker in the elaborate centerpieces on the tables. The waiters move around us in deliberate arcs, making sure not a single glass is empty.
Cleo leans closer. “Here’s what I’ve been wondering. How big do you think Nero’s dick is?”
My champagne goes down the wrong pipe. Cleo pats me helpfully on the back while I work through my coughing fit. My eyes are watering by the time it passes.
“Come again?”
She lifts her glass of wine to her lips. “I mean, he’s got to be like six-six? Six-seven? If his body is proportional, his penis must be—”
“Cleo! He’s right there!” I whisper hiss.
She purses her lips at my outrage and casts an unconcerned look to where Nero is sitting across from us.
“He can’t hear us,” Cleo says. “You probably wouldn’t be able to walk after he’s done with you.”
My cheeks heat. “What’s gotten into you? Need I remind you this is the man who tied your wrists with a zip tie and taped your mouth shut a day ago?”
She rolls her eyes. “First of all, my memory is just fine, thanks. And second of all, Nero didn’t do that. He just carried me into the car. The rest was your fiancé. Who, by the way, is staring.”
I shoot a discrete glance at Rafaele. “Yeah, at you,” I hiss. “He probably overheard you.”
A smirk unfurls over my sister’s lips. “God forbid I bruised his ego by talking about his consigliere’s package instead of his. Just look at Rafaele. He’s so wooden. Even with that handsome face, something tells me no one’s rushing to jump into his bed. He can’t exactly glare his way to a woman’s orgasm.”
I tug on her arm. “Do I really need to remind you that’s my future husband you’re talking about?” I say, my voice clipped.
Her expression sours. “Right. Sorry.” Her gaze drops to my hand and turns admiring. “At least the ring he gave you is beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
She notes the lack of enthusiasm in my voice and snorts. “You hate it, don’t you?”
The ring isn’t my style. I like dainty jewelry that I can layer, the kind Mamma always tells me looks cheap. She was thrilled when she saw the enormous emerald.
“I guess we have slightly different tastes,” I offer.
My sister studies me carefully. “You don’t want him.”
A wave of frustration rolls through me. “Just don’t, Cleo. You think I haven’t heard enough of this from Vale?”
“You keep hearing it because it’s true. You don’t want to marry Rafaele. It’s obvious.”
“You’re all missing the point. What I want doesn’t matter.”
Cleo’s lips thin with pity. “When did you internalize that, Gem? It’s really sad you think that way.”
My hands curl into fists on my lap. God, I’m so sick of these conversations. “No, you know what’s sad? The way you don’t seem to see the big picture. My marriage will strengthen our family. You know, that silly thing you and Vale seem to scoff at. Have you forgotten what we just lived through? Tito’s gone. Our uncles…gone. If I have to make a sacrifice to prevent that from happening again, I’ll do it.”
“God, Gemma. You sound just like Mamma. Always helping clean up Papà’s messes for him.”
My anger rises to a boil. “This has nothing to do with Papà.”
“If he wants to get in bed with Rafaele that badly, maybe he should marry him,” Cleo snaps. “Instead, he’s getting you to bail him out.”
“It’s not. About. Him,” I growl. “I am not doing this for him. I’m doing this for Nona, who has to worry about her grandsons bleeding out in the street. I’m doing this for Aunt Lia and Aunt Daniela, who’ve got four sons between them as made men. Don’t you care about anyone but yourself?”
Cleo’s face turns red. “How noble of you, Gemma. Did it ever occur to you that all those men chose to be made? They knew what they were getting themselves into.”
I laugh. “Honestly, Cleo, it’s time you stop living in fantasy land. We were all born into this life. We can’t do anything about it, so why don’t you try to accept it?”
“Vale didn’t.”
“Look where she ended up.” I gesture at the restaurant. “She’s married to a fucking don. She may have left New York, but she never left our world. Few ever do. So enough, all right?”
Cleo’s eyes are shining by the time I’m done. She shoots out of her seat, throws her napkin on the table, and storms away in the direction of the bathroom.
I look at the calm waters of the Mediterranean and let out a long breath. My stomach groans. I think that fish is definitely not sitting well with me.
When Cleo returns, we don’t speak. Over the next two hours, there are dozens of courses and as many toasts from Damiano’s capos. Their fast-paced Italian quickly becomes background noise since I’m not fluent in the language. I pick at my food but don’t get very far with any of it. There’s a steady ache inside my belly. The air should have cooled by now, but I’m still feeling too hot.
From time to time, I get the same feeling I had at the church. Like someone’s watching me. I don’t need to look in Ras’s direction to know it’s him. For the life of me, I don’t know why he keeps staring at me. It makes me feel exposed.
My abdomen is as hard as a rock. I pop a pill from my purse and put on a brave face, because that’s the only option I have. This wedding is what we came here for. Mamma would never allow me to leave the dinner early.
I’m sipping on some water when I feel a presence at my back.
“Will you join me for a dance?”
A cold shiver runs down my back at the sound of Rafaele’s voice. I force a smile and take his offered hand. “Of course.”
My head is aching as we make it to the dance floor where a few couples are already dancing.
Rafaele keeps our right hands linked and places one clinical palm over my waist. Even his touch is cold. Uninterested.
It dawns on me then that I’ve never really asked why he’s marrying me.
Rafaele has something Papà wants, but their agreement has to provide some benefit to both of them, right? What is Rafaele getting out of this?
“May I ask you something?”
My fiancé’s heavy gaze brushes over my skin. “Of course.”
“Why marry me?”
The rhythm of the song picks up speed, but Rafaele’s movements stay slow and steady. This is a man who does everything at his own pace, I realize. Everything and everyone else be damned.
“I need a wife.”
“I understand. But why me? Surely, you had plenty of other candidates to choose from.”
A single line appears between his brows. Since I can’t read my future husband, my first instinct is to assume it’s anger, but then his eyes flicker with what can only be confusion.
“Didn’t your papa tell you?” he asks, his voice dropping low.
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Tell me what?”
For whatever reason, Rafaele’s gaze flicks over to Vince, who’s sitting at a table a few feet away. Something dark seeps into his expression. Something that sends a pang of worry through my heart.
“You should ask your father. It’s not my place to say.”
I blink. My thoughts begin to race, galloping down various paths inside my head. What did Papà promise him? It sounds like something big. “O-Okay.”
We turn, and the room spins for what feels like too long. I tighten my grip on Rafaele’s hand, using it as an anchor against my dizziness, but he must misread the action for something else. The line between his brows deepens.
“I’ll talk to your father. This marriage is a business arrangement, and since you’re a part of it, you should know the terms.”
I can tell he’s attempting to reassure me, but his words have the exact opposite effect. Panic rises inside of me. What did Papà sign me up for?
“May I?” A hard voice slashes through my thoughts.
Rafaele’s attention moves to someone behind me. After a moment, he lets go of me without any warning.
I sway, only to feel a new pair of hands settle on me. They’re warm and big, and there’s nothing clinical in how they wrap around the hollow of my waist.
My eyes lift.
Ras shoots Rafaele a tight smile before moving his darkened gaze to me.
I wait until Rafaele leaves before I glare at Ras. “What are you doing?”
He’s removed his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt are now undone. Dark hair peeks out from within the white triangle of fabric. “I wanted to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“What if I said I want to apologize?”
I slide my hands over his shoulders, trying not to note how hard and muscular they are. It’s just to steady myself. My legs feel halfway to jelly.
“I’d assume you were lying since you haven’t demonstrated any sign of a conscience,” I retort.
His expression hardens. “You know, you’re extremely difficult to talk to.”
“Which begs the question why you insist on trying.”
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I keep wondering the same thing.”
I suck in a lungful of air, fighting against the nausea. Jesus, something is wrong with me. “Any hypothesis?”
Ras lowers his voice. “I’m sorry for kissing you.”
I notice that he doesn’t answer my question. “Apology not accepted.”
His shoulders stiffen beneath my palms.
“I’m also sorry for the whole thing in New York.”
“Oh, are you? It’s been nearly six months.”
“Better late than never, right?”
I shake my head. “If you think your two half-assed apologies are enough to smooth things over between us, I’m afraid you’re way off mark.”
Some color leaks out of Ras’s skin. His hands tighten on my waist. “Seriously, what’s your problem with me?”
“Problem with you? Didn’t you conclude earlier that I’m just redirecting my anger at other people onto you?”
He studies my face. “I’m reexamining that conclusion.”
There’s a sharp stabbing pain inside my gut that freezes me in place. “Shit.” My throat constricts, and a surge of acid comes up.
Ras’s gaze flashes with concern. “Hey, are you okay?”
My fingers dig into his shoulders for support. I’m practically hanging off him now. When will this stupid song end? I need to get away from him and sit down, but I’m afraid I’ll collapse as soon as I let go.
He brings his palm to the side of my neck and hisses. “Cazzo. You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Like hell, you’re fine. Come on.”
I’m too weak to argue. He leads me to the closest chair, hands me some else’s glass of water, and gets down on his haunches, his eyes weirdly concerned. “What is it?”
I take a gulp, wince, and put the glass back down. “I’m nauseous. Dizzy.”
He stands up and glances around. “Where’s Cleo?”
“I don’t know.” The dance floor is full now. She’s probably somewhere in there. “We’re not currently on speaking terms.”
He slips an arm under my arm and around my back. “I’m taking you home.”
I try to push him away and fail miserably. “Don’t you dare.”
“You need to lie down.”
“I can’t just skip my sister’s wedding party. Mamma will kill me.”
“I think your mamma would prefer you not puke in front of a hundred people.” He helps me up, effortlessly lifting my entire weight with one arm.
I expect someone to stop us. To demand to know where we’re going. But everyone’s been drinking for hours now, and no one pays us any attention as we slip out of the restaurant and head toward Ras’s car.
He helps me into the passenger side. I drop my head back against the headrest and focus on my breathing. My palms press against the supple leather of the seat. This is a nice car. I’d hate to vomit in it, even if it’s Ras’s.
The other door opens, and Ras gets in. He reaches over me, his scent blanketing me for a long moment while he clips in my seat belt for me.
“Vanilla. Chocolate. Burnt wood,” I mutter, trying to distract myself from wanting to hurl.
He gives me a deeply concerned look. He’s close enough for me to count his stupidly long lashes. “Are you hallucinating?”
“Maybe,” I rasp. I’m not about to admit to him that I was just cataloging his scent.
Click.
He moves away, his hand gently grazing my waist. “We’re just ten minutes away. Hang in there, all right?”
“Uh-huh.” My fingers clutch the seat belt, its narrow side digging into my palm.
The car begins to move. “Do you want music?”
I shake my head.
“Do you want to talk?”
“Just drive.”
“Okay.” His voice is patient. It’s weird to have him talk to me like this, without that mocking lilt infusing his tone.
This road is bumpy. I know it is because we went back to the house after the ceremony at the cathedral to get changed before driving to the restaurant. Ras drives carefully, but still, every few minutes the car jumps, and I have to press my palm against my mouth.
“Oh God,” I groan.
“I’ll pull over.”
“No, just get me to the house.”
I’m sweating bullets by the time we arrive, and my back is sticking to the leather seat. Ras pulls right up to the guesthouse and jumps out of the car before appearing at my side.
“Okay, I’ve got you,” he says, sliding his arm around me once again. I moan pitifully and let him practically carry me inside the house and up to the bedroom I’m sharing with Cleo.
I beeline it to the door that leads to the bathroom.
“What do you need?” he calls out after me.
I slap my palm on the doorjamb and peer at him over my shoulder. “Nothing. You’ve done enough.”
His brows furrow. “You need a doctor.”
“No. I need you to leave.” The last thing I need right now is Ras watching me puke my guts out.
He gives me a slightly wounded look.
“Goodbye, Ras.”
I slip into the bathroom and lock the door.
