Page 16 of Unholy Union
The bridesmaids enter next.
Sabrina’s best friend, a mouthy brunette by the name of Tessa Lucchesi starts strutting down the aisle alongside her other friend Jasmine Wu. Some girl with sleek jet-black hair she went to university with.
They take their places opposite me, Cassian, and Lazaro at the altar.
This farce of a ceremony’s only just begun, and I’m already sick of having to suffer through it. If it were up to me, I’d toss Sabrina Corsini over my shoulder and take her down to the fucking courthouse. We’d have the marriage done in thirty minutes or less.
The last notes of “Ave Maria” fade into the song that makes everyone in the room fall silent. All the murmurs and sidebar conversations cease to exist. Everyone obediently rises as the trilling notes of “Con te Partirò” play.
I take in a steady breath and stare down the far end of the aisle in wait for her to appear.
My bride.
Though they say it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding day, I did get a glimpse at what dress Papà chose for Sabrina. It was some frumpy, old-school gown that would probably swallow her up.
But he insisted on it, claiming it fit the traditional Italian wedding we were having.
The moment of truth arrives. Sabrina steps into view at the end of the aisle, her father by her side. I’m hardly looking at him. I’m like everybody else in the room.
Stunned speechless.
Heads twist and necks crane. The organ reaches its most dramatic note yet, signifying the arrival of the bride.
The woman I’m marrying looks like sin wrapped in lace and silk. She’s the kind of trouble I’ve suspected she is.
The dress she’s wearing couldn’t be further from the monstrosity my father picked out. This gown clings to her like it’s been sculpted to every dimension of her body. The sleeves are loose and off-the-shoulder, hanging low on her arms. The bodice is made up of some kind of semi-sheer beaded fabric that teases the illusion of skin, paired with a plunging neckline that makes her breasts look phenomenal.
Andbigger than I’ve imagined them to be.
The skirt portion of the gown is more lace mixed with tulle, and the slit—the fucking slit—is cut high up her thigh.
She’s showing as much skin as possible within the dress code of St. Patrick’s. She’s doing it intentionally.
Her skin glows bronze beneath the cathedral light, kissed warm and golden. Her hazel eyes gleam with flecks of the same shade of gold. I see the spark in them again, that fire burning away as she stands proudly as the center of attention.
She’s kept her dark curls loose, spilling down her back. A tiara is perched on top of her head, the sheer veil attached to it doing little to hide her face.
This time, she stares at me and me alone. No one else in the room as Don Corsini takes a step forward and she walks by his side.
My jaw sets, my gaze narrowing.
She knows exactly what the fuck she’s doing. She knows exactly how she’s pissing me and my family off, essentially disrespecting us.
We gifted her a dress and she’s refused to wear it.
I briefly glance over at Papà to find his features clenched. He’s so livid he can’t pretend otherwise.
The walk down the aisle lasts almost an eternity. Every step taken feels like a form of gloating from my little bride. She soaks it up, the corner of her lips subtly quirked.
My glare hardens. Blood pounds in my ears, the sudden rush of adrenaline difficult to tamp down on.
I want nothing more than to show my little bride what happens when she acts out. I want to make her understand I have no problem taking her over my fucking knee and spanking her bare ass in front of everyone.
…’til she’s in tears, burning with embarrassment.
Rinaldo finally delivers her to the altar, giving her a brief kiss on the cheek before taking his seat in the front pew.
Sabrina takes her place next to me and the priest in his long white robe. He smiles wholesomely at us both, then starts his speech with his arms lifted in the air.
