Page 45 of Bride By Initiation

Emotions fill me, but I don't have time to think about my father and what I lost when he was murdered. I'm in a life-or-death situation. I'm not stupid. I understand what this fight is meant to be.

The man states, "I'm Byrne." He holds a bottle of water to my mouth. "Drink it. You're going to need it."

I don't question him, and guzzle the entire bottle.

A woman in electric-blue lingerie screams in the center of the ring, "Bets! Bets! Place your bets! You have one minute."

The crowd turns more chaotic. Then, a bell rings.

"Up," Byrne instructs.

I rise.

He steps forward, puts his hands on my cheeks, and tugs my head down. His green gaze bores into mine. He sternly orders, "Go step onthe line. And, lad, forget the rules. There are none here. It's fight or flight. Understand?"

I nod, stepping up to the line.

The man who just killed the last guy steps forward. His swollen face is covered in blood. One eye is completely swollen shut. He's still breathing hard, and the look he gives from his one partially good eye tells me two things.

He wants to kill me, and he'll do anything he can to make sure it happens.

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8

Zara

Work kept me busy the last few weeks. I've resisted texting or calling Sean. I want to make things right between us, but I don't know how. He wants answers I can't give him, and he won't let it go.

My parents texted me this morning that they were flying in and wanted me to come for dinner. It was a welcome invite, and I'm excited to see them. They bought a condo in Chicago when I took a job here, and they only stay away for a short time without visits.

My last appointment ran late, so I rush to get ready. Mom's making her veal osso buco, and it's my favorite. I pick up my hair dryer, and my phone rings. The caller ID says it's the reception desk.

I answer, "Hello?"

"There's a delivery for you, Ms. Marino. Should I bring it up?" the receptionist says.

"Sure. Thank you." I remove my towel, put on my robe, secure the belt, and go to the front door.

Richard arrives shortly after, and as soon as the doorbell rings, I open the door.

He holds out a yellow envelope. "This is for you."

"Thank you, Richard." I take it from him.

"You're welcome, Ms. Marino."

I shut the door and glance at the envelope. Nothing but my name is written on it.

My pulse quickens. I debate opening it as I return to the bathroom. I set it down, then turn on the hair dryer. Less than a minute passes before my curiosity gets the best of me. I turn off the dryer, pick up the envelope, tear it open, and pull out a stack of photos.

My gut churns so fast, I feel nauseous. I grab the counter to steady myself and then turn to lean against it.

Each photo is of my father when he was younger. He's with men and women I don't recognize. He looks happy in most of them. He's laughing, smoking cigars, drinking what I assume is scotch, and always dressed in his suit.

I thumb through the stack several times, staring at them and realizing the photos were taken over a fifteen-to-twenty-year span based on how my father looks in the photos. I turn them over and discover writing on the backs.

Names and dates are written neatly on the bottom corner of each one. Names like Jacopo Abruzzo, Biagio Abruzzo, Leo Abruzzo, and Uberto Abruzzo. And it only makes me feel sicker.

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