Page 10 of Unholy Union
So my bride has some fire after all. Someone might want to tell Rinaldo Corsini—he’s delusional about his daughter.
But if she thinks for a second she’ll dictate anything, then she’s the one who’s mistaken. She’s the one who’s going to be taught her place, even if I have to turn into her worst nightmare.
“It sounds like you’re confused, principessa,” I taunt, tilting my head to the side. “I don’t need you to love me, but youwillbe mine. You will obey me. You will be everything I want you to be, because you’re my wife and every part of you belongs to me.”
She doesn’t back down. Her gaze never wavers from mine. But her soft jaw does clench, like she’s so frustrated and irritated by me that she’d like to knee me in the groin.
It only drives my amusement. Adds an extra layer of cockiness to the grin on my face.
Several seconds of tense silence pass between us, to the point it seems she’ll say nothing. She’s retreated into stubborn silence. Then she finally speaks, her once soft and demure voice hardened by sheer determination.
“You killed my brother, and I will ensure you suffer for it,” she says. “My father may have looked the other way, but rest assured, I never will.”
“If you think I care whether you do, you’re in for quite the rude awakening. It doesn’t matter what you think, how you feel, or if you want revenge. You’re a Valente now.” Before she can react, I reach out and snatch her hand up in mine, sliding the engagement ring on her finger. “There’s no turning back. Get with the program or prepare for a miserable existence.”
I leave her stunned and speechless on the terrace, jamming both hands back into my pockets. Yet even as I turn and walk away, I can’t help wondering if the blood pact made the other night was less a peace treaty and more a declaration of war.
It seems my little bride is not so obedient and submissive after all, not like I was led to believe. She has some bite that just may be a problem…
Chapter 4
Sabrina
Mad Woman - Taylor Swift
Over the next week, the wedding preparations are kicked into high gear. St. Patrick’s Cathedral is booked as the venue, which is a miracle considering it’s the most coveted Catholic cathedral in the city. Papi makes it happen with some choice words and averygenerous donation.
Gothic architecture, vaulted ceilings, gold accents, the illusion of sanctity.
It seems like the perfect setting for a high-profile arranged marriage between two wealthy Italian families.
The “arranged” aspect unbeknownst to the public, of course.
As far as Manhattan and the rest of New York City knows, the marriage between Augusto Valente’s eldest son and Rinaldo Corsini’s only daughter is the culmination of a whirlwind romance.
The press has run nonstop pieces about the upcoming nuptials. Not only did Papi arrange for theTimesto publish ourofficial wedding announcement, but the tabloids have become particularly interested in the story.
Considering Cato Valente is one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, and I’m known as Rinaldo Corsini’s prized angel who once had a debutante ball among high society, our marriage is sort of a big deal.
It’s the perfect fodder for the gossip rags and online spaces that thrive off the scandalous lives of the rich and famous upper-crust.
The reception is planned with meticulous detail, a multi-course plated dinner with traditional Italian fare. Invitations go out to more than fifteen hundred guests, half of whom I’ve never really met. White roses are imported specially from Bulgaria while Nico Lucari, a famous Italian singer, is flown in from Milan.
The security will be airtight, provided by both the Corsini and Valente families.
All week long I’m dragged to things like cake tastings and dress fittings. I’m chaperoned by the wedding planner Papi and Don Valente hired to oversee the event.
On the morning of my final dress fitting, Papi calls me down to his office. He’s in the middle of a business call when I enter, speaking Italian to whatever partner is on the line. At the sight of me hovering by the door, crouching to pet an eager Bruno, he mutters something about returning the man’s call later, then hangs up.
“Princess, come here. I have something for you.”
The cynic in me wants to retort by asking if it’ll be as good as his arranged marriage surprise. I’d roll my eyes if I didn’t think he’d immediately scold me.
Stepping toward his desk, he rises from his chair to meet me. He takes me by the hand and steers me toward the oversized leather armchairs by the bookshelves.
“Sit,” he says in his gruff tone. As I do, he pats me on the knee and draws something from inside his pocket. Opening his palm up, he reveals a delicate silver hair comb with tiny pearls that’s aged over time. I recognize it at once. “For your something old. Your mother wore this on our wedding day. It looked beautiful pinned in her dark curls. It’ll look just as beautiful on you.”
“Papi…” I croak, a sudden tightness in my throat. I swallow against it, thrown by the sudden sentimental moment. “Are you sure you want me to have it? Mami’s things are so special to you.”
