Page 20 of Unholy Union
No one notices or stops me as I slip away, out of the ballroom. Everyone is either indulging in cake, busy socializing, or too tipsy to care.
I sneak into the first bathroom I come across on the ground floor, carefully snicking the door shut.
The mirror reveals the unhappy bride I am when finally alone. Just a done-up woman in lace and curls with dull eyes and a glum twist of her mouth.
But I’m still not going to let Cato and his family win. My rebellion over the dress wasn’t enough. They believe they can force me into submission, and that’s not happening no matter what. I’ll die before I ever give into the same people responsible for Leo’s death.
My gaze falls to the small floral knife in my grasp and I make a snap decision.
If this forced marriage is what Papi and the Valentes want, then I’ll make them sorry for the day they ever struck the deal. I’ll make my husband wish he never married me.
I slide the small retractable knife down the bust portion of my gown, tucking it securely inside my bra. For every beat my heart gives, I can feel it pressed up against my breast bone.
But in the mirror you could never tell. After admiring myself from multiple angles, I conclude I’m good to go.
Back in the ballroom, the reception has started to wind down. Some guests break off to a private cigar room for more drinks and chatter. Others gradually trickle out, leaving for the night. Papi and his men are part of the latter, heading out as a pack of men in sleek dark suits, ready to move on to more important business.
Cato finds me as I’m considering the same—getting the hell out of here and running off for good.
Tessa’s Antarctica escape plan is starting to sound way more appealing when faced with leaving with my husband tonight.
“There she is,” he says, offering his hand. “The reception is all but over. I figured it’s time for me and my little bride to make our exit.”
“Your little bride doesn’t seem to have much of a choice.”
“That would be correct. We have a suite at the Aman waiting for us, principessa.”
I take his hand and force a small smile, the knife digging into my breastbone. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 7
Cato
Church - Chase Atlantic
The Aman New York sits in the historic Crown Building on Fifth Avenue. Sabrina and I arrive to some fanfare from nosy photographers camped out at the front. They caught wind that this is where we’ll be spending the night and have followed us from St. Patrick’s and the Gotham Club.
Bright, blinding cameras flash from every direction. I grab Sabrina’s hand as our security forms a wall around us. We quickly make our way from the limo, disappearing through the glassy revolving doors of the five-star hotel.
Inside it’s quieter and dimmer.
The hush of luxury falls over us.
The lobby is sleek and modern with gold and deep wine coloring. We cross the polished floors where our reflection shines back up at us.
A concierge murmurs his congratulations with a dutiful bow, clearly aware of who we are. The staff have been expecting us.
We’re led to a private elevator by a second staff member in a trim black and gray uniform, though I hardly notice him. I’m more focused on my bride.
Sabrina looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Her normally sun-kissed complexion has paled considerably. Dare I say my little wife actually looks…nervous.
Her hand rests in mine, slightly sweaty. Her hazel eyes are wider than usual. Her slender throat works for every swallow, as if she’s pushing down her shock. She’s squashing down those nerves threatening to take over.
And with every swallow comes a deep breath. Her chest rises and falls—her breasts heave in that distractingly low-cut lacy white gown of hers.
My gaze dips as it happens, tracing over her delectable curves.
