Page 10 of Unworthy Ties
“No.” It was technically the truth. Giuseppe was buried in a box somewhere in Rocco’s house.
She raised her eyebrow at me but didn’t argue.
For once, she was wearing a color that wasn’t black. She was my maid of honor and was wearing the color I had picked out for the bridesmaids—a soft, dusky pink that matched the roses outside. It was odd, to say the least. I almost wanted to tell her to take the dress off and go put on one of her weird gothic ones.
Fiorella raised my pillow in triumph, expecting Giuseppe to be hidden underneath. She frowned when she found nothing, her hands meeting the crisp, cool sheets of my bed.
I scoffed at her, crossing my arms. “I told you I don’t talk to my stuffed animal.”
“Where is that infernal ragdoll? Did you lose him?”
“The only infernal thing in this house is your wardrobe,” I scowled at my sister, who simply smirked in response and brushed off my comment like a piece of lint on her dress.
“I don’t have time to argue about your cat. Dad is freaking out that you’re not downstairs.”
“Of course he is.”
“Well, you do walk down the aisle in,” Fiorella looked at an imaginary clock on her wrist. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?!” My heart lurched in my chest, and I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach.
“So it’s time to go,” Fiorella said.
She grabbed me by the arm and all but dragged me down the hallway. As we descended the grand marble staircase, I could hear the orchestral strains echoing through the mansion, its familiar notes weaving around me like a haunting lullaby. My heels clicked against the stone, my heart keeping pace with my steps.
My dad gave me a stern face as I approached him and the wedding party. The look told me he would be yelling right now if we didn’t have an audience. I shot him a sheepish smile before taking his arm, his tense grip silently displaying his frustration. He started leading me down the grand hallway that connected to the outdoor pavilion where the ceremony was being held.
One by one, the wedding party walked down the aisle in pairs, their movements precise and graceful. Fiorella gave me a sad smile, a rare moment of empathy from my younger sister. Then, she linked arms with Felix, who was Rocco’s best man, and they made their way down the aisle, leaving only me and my father.
As I watched them turn through the hedges, I didn’t know what to feel anymore. The angst of not getting to marry Felix had passed, and had been taken over by an odd, hollow feeling.
As the music shifted to Canon in D, my father squared his shoulders, a tight smile stretched on his face. “Ready, Gabriella?”
I nodded, my voice trapped behind a lump in my throat.
Time was moving simultaneously both too fast and in slow motion as my father and I started walking down the aisle. The scent of roses wafted through the warm air, and all around me guests stood and turned to watch as we made our passage. Their faces were a blur, a sea of pastel dresses and light suits.
At the end of the aisle, as clear as day, stood Rocco. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair combed back and his eyes fixed on me. There was something about his gaze that held my attention. It was a look filled with such fierce intensity that my breath hitched in my chest.
His lips were set in a firm line, making it impossible to decipher his emotions. I could only make out the solemnity mirrored in his eyes as they met mine. I swallowed hard and continued my march toward him.
The orchestra fell silent as we reached the end of the aisle, its strings echoing a last mournful note that hung heavy in the air. My father’s grip on my arm loosened, and he gave me away to Rocco.
Gave me away. Like I was some sort of chip to be dealt in his business dealings. The mirthless smile my father offered, along with a nod to Rocco, felt like the closing of a deal.
The pastor’s words barely registered as he recited the customary vows. And before I knew it, he reached the final two questions. Those two little questions that would bind us together for the rest of our lives.
“Do you, Rocco Marchioni, take Gabriella Coscia to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” Rocco’s response was curt, his voice steady. His tone was that of agreeing where to eat for lunch rather than accepting me as his wife.
“And do you, Gabriella Coscia, take Rocco Marchioni to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The words seemed to ring in my ears, echoing as if shouted into a cavernous void. I felt my heart pound against my ribcage like a caged bird desperate for freedom.
I was looking at Rocco, but I still saw Felix behind him in my peripherals, his face a painful reminder of the ten years I had spent pining over him.
My lips were dry, my throat constricted, but I managed to utter my part in the ceremony. “I do,” I responded.
