Page 19 of Unholy Union
It’s dangerous how good Cato Valente looks, and how dancing this close to him, sends a wave of heat rolling over me.
He leads as we glide to the first few seconds of the song. The opening bars rise slowly, legato strings sweeping in, building upon each other. The orchestration is rich and smooth as Lucari’s deep, vibrato-laced tenor booms through the room. It’s a melody that’s operatic and haunting, full of longing and romanticism.
It’s befitting of the situation in an ironic sort of way.
Two enemies waltzing across the ballroom, held captive by our watchful audience. We despise each other yet we’ve promised to be soulmates, married for the rest of our lives.
’Til death parts us.
We communicate every bit of vitriol through our connected gaze, the glare I give him, and the clenching grip Cato has on my waist and hand. We’re locked into a silent battle of wills as the dramatic music swells and we sweep through the room.
But to our spectators, it’s a happy ending. It’s nothing but a fairytale where a girl married her prince.
Nobody cares about what comes after.
The horrors that may arise when the girl discovers the prince is really the villain after all.
My stomach roils thinking about the future that lies ahead being married to Cato Valente. The same man whose family murdered my brother.
I don’t care what Papi says. I’ll never love him, and I’ll never be happy in this union.
I’ll do whatever I can to find a way out. By any means possible.
“Luna” transitions into a less intense and brooding song, signaling the end of the bride and groom’s first dance. Gradually, others start trickling onto the dance floor.
Cato lets go of me immediately, and I spin on my heel and seek the furthest corner away from him.
Papi intercepts me, scooping up my hand for our father/daughter dance. We move slower than the music dictates, more of a sway as he says, “You looked beautiful out there, princess.”
“Thanks, Papi,” I mumble glumly. I find I can’t meet his eyes. More effects from the prosecco.
He’s the man who literally gave me away. He signed me up for a lifetime of marital servitude to our family’s worst enemy. Deep down I know he loves me, but how do I begin to reconcile what he’s done? How am I supposed to believe he had my best interests in mind when his actions show differently?
Nothing makes sense and it just makes me crave more prosecco to drown my sorrows in.
“I hope you understand your role, Sabrina,” he goes on. “Marriage isn’t about love or happiness. Sometimes, I fear you saw how I was with your mother and thought that’s what all marriages were like. It’s true I loved your mother dearly, Sabrina. From the moment I saw her as children, growing up in Brooklyn, it was love at first sight. But that was because I got lucky. So did she. We were a love match allowed to flourish. That’s not the case with most marriages for those in our world.
“Marriage is about loyalty and alignment. Its purpose is to serve legacies and solidify power. My wish is that you go into this aware of the reality. If you are realistic and grounded, you’ll live a wonderful life full of luxury and wealth. You’ll find your ownsense of happiness from these things. And maybe, in time, you and Cato might even come to an understanding.”
As this song ends and the next one starts up, he lets go of me with a final fatherly kiss to the brow.
“Benedizioni per la mia principessa. So che vivrà bene.”
With that, my father sidles away, returning to the small group of men he’s brought with him to the reception.
I wander toward one of the tables on the sidelines and snag a bottle of prosecco, pouring a generous amount in a glass.
It remains a running theme through the rest of the reception.
We eventually sit down for dinner, indulging in an extravagantly prepared five-course meal of traditional Italian dishes like lobster tagliolini in champagne cream and filetto di manzo. Cato and I cut the cake, which is six-tiers high, wrapped in ivory fondant and edible gold leaf.
Once again Cato’s hand is warm and firm clasped over mine as we grip the knife as one and slice through the first piece of cake.
“Good girl,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re behaving yourself well. Keep it up.”
My teeth grind together, more heat flushing my skin.
Cato’s brother, Cassian, pulls him into a conversation. I’m gracious and quiet excusing myself, reaching for a bottle of prosecco to take with me. My fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle before pausing as I notice the floral knife laying by an arrangement of white lilies. I set down the bottle and snatch up the slim little knife instead, discreetly keeping it pinned to my side.
