Page 192 of Bride By Initiation

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31

Sean

"Get dressed, then go through that door," Byrne directs.

I glance at the black suit.

He warns, "Remember, don't step out there unless you're willing to make a sacrifice."

My gut drops. I hate not knowing what's in front of me, but there's no other option. Zara and I have come too far not to take our seats at the table.

Byrne pats me on the back and states, "Good luck, lad." He disappears through the door we entered.

I grab the suit off the hanger, put it on, then step in front of the mirror. I stare at my reflection, trying to calm my nerves, muttering, "Don't be a pussy." Then I turn, open the other door, and the sound of chanting hits my ears.

"Om," the men boom.

"Ahhhh," the women follow.

The room reminds me of two college classrooms puttogether. Two women, dressed in gold lingerie, lead me down an aisle to the center of the room. They disappear, and I gaze around.

Hundreds of men and women fill seats, circling a center stage. Every row is higher, so everyone can see. A huge table, surrounded by seven women and seven men, is the only thing on the stage. There's plenty of room around it, so I wonder what else might get brought out once the ceremony starts.

The women in the audience wear long, black satin spaghetti-strapped dresses. And the men wear suits like mine. Unlike at initiation, no one wears a mask, and every nationality seems to be represented.

Zara appears, wearing the same black dress as the other women. She's guided toward me from across the room by two men wearing nothing but gold thongs.

I clench my fists at my side.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Touch her beyond escorting her to me, and I'll kill you.

They stop when they reach me. She unloops her arms from theirs, and they disappear around the side of the stage.

I take a deep breath and slide my arm around her waist.

She points her blues at me, full of anxiety and excitement.

I squeeze her waist and pin her closer to me, still unsure what the Omni will require of us, not trusting anyone in this room other than her.

A tall man rises from his seat at the table, and the room goes silent. His face has a diagonal scar from his right temple to the left side of his jaw. A familiar Russian accent fills the air, declaring, "Your consistent effort to earn a spot at the table has not gone unnoticed. Tonight will be the final test to prove you are worthy of the sacred role."

It's Kirill.

How did he get that scar?

He turns toward a man, stating, "Salvatore Abruzzo, you have won the honor of choosing the ceremony. What have you decided?"

The air in my lungs escapes in awhoosh. I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

He orchestrated my father's death.

My fist curls at my side, and I scowl at my father's murderer.

Salvatore, a short Italian man, rises. He scans Zara with a lewd gaze.

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