Page 3 of Stolen Vows

I can hear the buzz of the press downstairs, many of whom my father hand-picked for the occasion.

He wants to make sure that news of this wedding travels far and wide through the city, through the state, that the Leone family and the Manciottis have been joined together at last, stronger than ever.

I stand here, having never felt weaker.

A spray of pastel flowers is waiting for me on the bed; the pale yellows and blues complement my virginal-white gown, every detail considered and catered to. I know they will look beautiful in the wedding pictures that will be printed alongside the wedding announcement.

I’m just not sure I will ever want to look at the delicate flowers again... or at any part of this day.

Dad’s really doing it. Handing me off like I’m part of the estate. All the arguments, all the fighting, all the ways I tried to put my foot down, and none of it was enough to sway him.

The moment he heard that Mario was looking for a wife—not to mention thathewas looking for an excuse to join forces with Mario—my dad had served me up on a silver platter to the older man as though it was nothing.

I’m not saying that older men can’t be attractive. But this particular older man holds no allure at all for me.

Every time I lay eyes on him, I feel the shiver of revulsion. I can still remember the first time we met, his hand resting on my knee beneath the table at my father’s favorite Italian restaurant, that shark-like smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"I’ve heard a lot about the women your father works with," Mario had murmured to me, his face creasing as he ran his other hand through his thinning gray hair. "But I have to admit, you outshine them all..."

The way my stomach twisted at those words I’ll never forget. He managed to keep his hands off me for the rest of the night, but that was little comfort since I knew he’d have free rein to do whatever he wanted to me when we were married.

I heard him and my father in conversation when I slipped out of my room as I had when I was a child, hovering outside Dad’s office door. I had thanked God for the absence of guards, and hoped against hope that nobody would rat me out for eavesdropping. There had to besomeonein this house who cared about me here, right? Someone who didn’t want me to get married to this creepy man twice my age who was alreadylooking at me more like a product to be used for his pleasure rather than a wife to cherish.

"And you’re sure she’s never been with anyone before?” Mario had asked. I heard the creak of the leather seat as he leaned forward to emphasize the importance of the question.

"Certain," my father replied smoothly. "I’ve been keeping a close eye on her since she came of age. Nobody comes or goes in this house without my knowledge, and I can assure you that no man has been alone with her long enough to... deflower her."

I could have thrown up at the sound of those words coming out of my father’s mouth. Not because he is wrong, of course, but because no father should ever be considering the status of his daughter’s... virginity.He’s never exactly been open with me when it comes to having adult conversations to my face, but it seems as though when I’m the subject, he’s happy to get into the details behind my back.

That’s all it took to seal the deal. Mario would take me as his wife. It’s been a few months since the choice was made, and I’ve been swept along with every bit of the planning process—picking out the dress, the cake, the champagne, the music. My father allowed me to choose the small details, perhaps to make me feel as though I had some kind of control over all of this, but he knows as well as I do that this has nothing to do with what I want, and everything to do with what he wants from me.

And this is it. Last chance, last gasp—last few minutes before I am a married woman, and as soon as my last name becomes Manciotti, everything will change. I know what Mario will want from me; he will expect children. I’m barely twenty-one, hardly old enough to drink, and soon, he will be using me as his broodmare. Another surge of nausea courses through me, andmy hand flies to my mouth before I vomit all over this beautiful dress.

It’s for the good of the family.

That’s what Dad had told me, the day before last, when he had attended a dress fitting. I got the feeling it was more to make sure I didn’t run out on the arrangement than anything else. I had managed to plaster on a smile in response, but he must have been able to tell that there was no truth to it, because he took me aside this morning.

"Think of everything I’ve done for you over the years, sweetheart," he told me softly, as I ignored the champagne breakfast laid out ahead of me to celebrate my upcoming nuptials. "This is a small price to ask in return, isn’t it? For keeping you safe in a world of violence, for keeping you secure? For all the luxuries you’ve enjoyed, all the trips you took, all the people you met?”

I wish I could have argued with him, but I know he’s right. In this family, in this line of work, there is only one way that I could truly make a difference, and that’s in marriage. It might not be how I pictured my wedding day, but very little in my life is how I would want it to be.

My desires don’t matter. I have to take responsibility, step up and do my part for the family. It’s not as though Mario won’t be able to provide me with a good life. He's wealthy enough, and he has connections all over the city. There are worse men I could end up married to.

I think.

A bang on the door makes me jump. The door swings open and I see Taylor, the wedding planner, standing there, her lips pressed together in a hard line, irritation flashing in her eyes.

"You were meant to be downstairs three minutes ago!” she scolds as she glances at her watch.

The entire morning she has been looking between her watch and her phone, coordinating times and trying to keep everything on track. I offer her a small smile of apology. This might be my wedding day, but the way she has been speaking, it’s clear that she views me as little more than an annoyance she has to perfectly present to the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle.

"I’m sorry, I’ll be right there?—"

But before I can even finish what I am saying, she has vanished again. I pick up the bouquet, the stems of the perfectly-pruned flowers digging into my clenched hand. My nails have been done in a delicate pink, my makeup light and fresh-faced, my skin pale and soft; everything down to the smallest detail has been accounted for.

All I have to do is meet him at the altar. Mario, soon to be master of my fate.

I muster up every bit of courage I have in me, and make my way to the door. String quartet music wafts through the door. I can hear the chatter of guests downstairs, all those people who are going to watch me accept this man as my husband. If I stall any longer, I know that my father is going to come up here to make certain I do my duty, and the thought of his irritation aimed at me is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

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