Page 18 of Unholy Union
Jasmine’s face lights up at the sight of me, her long and sleek black hair swinging past her shoulders. “There you are! We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Your beloved husband is in the entrance hall,” Tessa says, her bitter tone the opposite of Jasmine’s. “I suggested he take a long walk off the Chrysler Building, but he’s insisted on waiting for you instead.”
I sigh, setting the bottle down. “I guess it’s time to get it over with.”
“At least you look beautiful!” Jasmine says. “You should’ve seen how everyone looked at you. I bet your wedding photos will be gorgeous.”
Tessa rolls her eyes from behind Jasmine’s back. She and Jasmine have never exactly been close, though they tolerate each other for my sake.
“Thanks,” I mumble. Standing from the vanity stool, I push my shoulders back and take in a deep breath. “Let’s hope I make it to the end of the night without drowning myself in one of the marble fountains.”
“Sab, fuck that! I’m right here by your side. If you’re going swimming in fountains, so am I,” Tessa says.
I take comfort in her loyalty—and Jasmine’s—and let them help me out of my wedding gown into my reception dress. Tessa’s friend Viola designed it to match the gown with the same sexy sheer lace and beading, but with more room for movement.
Once I’m changed, they escort me from the antechamber.
The halls of the Gotham Club are sparsely lit and lined with massive oil paintings. We pass by the private rooms where politicians and billionaires alike often meet for drinks and head toward the lobby bathed in lush black marble.
Cato’s gaze lands on me as soon as I’m within view.
He’s waiting by the entrance to the ballroom. The dark lacquered doors tower over even a tall man like Cato, gold lion heads protruding where the handles should be.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my little bride is walking to her execution, not her wedding reception,” he says coolly. “You can at least pretend you’re honored.”
“Gee, Valente. You really know how to make a girl swoon,” Tessa mutters, rolling her eyes.
“It’s okay, Tessa. Go enjoy the reception.”
Both of my bridesmaids hesitate to leave the two of us alone, then walk off with more parting looks over their shoulders.
I round on Cato, arms folded across my chest like a shield. “You’ll get your performance. But don’t mistake acting for submission. That’s all it is—pretend.”
He offers his arm, a crooked grin canting his mouth. “It doesn’t make a difference to me, principessa. What you want and how you feel couldn’t matter less.”
“How could I forget? You got what you and your family wanted. I guess it’s time to show me off?”
My voices shakes ever so slightly from emotion I’ve spent all evening squashing down. But effects of the prosecco have started washing over me, making it harder to censor myself. Heat creeps up my neck and fans out across my cheeks as I turn to face the giant ballroom doors and begrudgingly take his arm.
The doors swing open in the next second as if mechanically controlled. The festive chatter and music dials down as heads swivel and people divert their attention to the front of the room.
It’s official now—the bride and groom have made their entrance.
Cato and I move in unison, arm in arm, though it feels more like I’m on a leash than guided by a partner who sees me as his equal.
To say the ballroom at the Gotham Club is massive would be putting it lightly. The coffered ceiling feels like an obsidian sky, the crystal chandeliers the twinkling stars. The air smells like a sweet and tart mix of roses and lilies pitted against Italian liqueurs like Amaretto and Limoncello. Everyone has a drink in their hand, dispersed around the room in small groups.
They stare like we’re a movie playing for them in real time.
I lift my chin, remaining as dignified and elegant as I’ve always been taught by Papi and, before she passed, Mami. My lips mimic a gracious smile. Just enough to pacify the vultures.
We move down the middle of the room toward the dance floor as Italian singer Nico Lucari and his live band play a cover rendition of “Luna”.
Cato’s large hand wraps around mine and he pulls me close. His other hand settles at my waist, and I find myself peering up into his handsome face and the hard, chiseled features that come together to create a masculine symmetry.
One thing remains true about my husband—he’s devastatingly attractive. The kind of man that has both the looks and confidence to have anyone woman he wants.
His jaw is broad and might as well be carved of steel. His eyes a dark mystery that draws you in deeper, no matter how hard you fight the pull. He has a classic Italian nose, the bridge distinguished and his profile prominent. All framed by his neat, trimmed dark hair and beard.
