Page 1 of The Forbidden Husband

Chapter One

Aria Bianchi

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The steady thrum of my rapidly-beating heart filled my ears before it happened.

Knowing what was coming should have made it easier, but it didn’t.

I stared down the corridor leading to the garage where my father often “worked.” My feet moved of their own accord, not stopping their steady pace even as my brain begged them to halt, turn around, or go anywhere but the garage.

I had lived this reality dozens of times through my dreams, and each time was worse than the last.

I had been livid at the time. I had worked myself up all day over missing the bar exam I had studied relentlessly for. Though my mind kept and compartmentalized everything I had ever learned, I still had to be sure. I had to pass, and then I would have all the tools to provide for myself and my sisters.

I could get us all out.

But Dad didn’t let me sit for the bar.

He had forbidden it, and he had waited until I was walking out the door to break the news to me.

It had led me to this moment, and if I could turn back now, I would.

I would go back if I could unsee everything and remain oblivious to my father’s darkest secret.

Please, God. It’s me again. Let me go back and redo this. Let me redo this whole damn night.

The pleas did nothing as my feet continued marching forward at a relentless, pissed-off pace. I felt the same rage and dedication as I had that night, but now it was overpowered by the knowing regret and all-consuming fear.

I begged my dream self, who approached the garage, all too certain of what she would say, to wait until tomorrow morning to talk to him.

She would not listen.

She never did.

It wasn’t necessarily a dream… more like a vivid memory that presented itself while I slept.

A memory of the night everything changed.

As I neared, I heard the distinct sound of a woman’s voice. Now, I could hear the fear and pleading behind her tone, and I could make out the barely detectable scream muffled by my father’s rough palm. At the moment, I hadn’t noticed.

I placed my palm on the cool metal of the garage door handle and swung the door open roughly, ensuring it announced my presence to the room. That was my intention, at least. I foolishly wanted him to know I was pissed.

I shrank back and tried disassociating from what I knew I would see.

It was an out-of-body experience as I took in a familiar woman’s body sprawled across the garage floor. The partial nudity of her body barely registered as I noticed the red pool of liquid spilling from her. The paleness that could only mean death.

She was the new wife to one of my father’s capos. Two years younger than me.

She had been at a family dinner a couple of weeks ago to congratulate her and her new husband. I remembered her talking about her job as a nail technician, and she had loved showing off her nails to the table and offering her services.

My sister had gone two days later and came home with a stunning set of acrylics.

My eyes drifted to the woman’s crooked fingers, half the nails missing. One of them sat beside her limp body on the floor.

It was as if I was witnessing a mass catastrophe. I wanted to look away so badly. I pleaded with my past self to leave before my father looked my way, but I couldn’t even blink.

New dimensions to the grotesque scene unfolded.

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