Page 21 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
"No, you chose to betray your family instead." His eyes are hard as they look at me through the mirror. As if he’s trying to will me to understand. But I’ll never understand.
“This marriage is for your protection,” he finishes.
"This isn't protection. It’s imprisonment.”
Father sighs in defeat. "I suggest you finish preparing yourself to become Mrs. Ginetti."
When he leaves, I turn my attention back to the woman in the mirror in the pure white dress. A rush of nerves cascades through me.
My mother had the birds and bees talk with me before she passed.
At twenty-five, I’m probably the oldest virgin in the world. To be honest, I don’t really care. What’s all the hubbub about, anyway?
But now, I find myself more nervous about what Roman expects from me in bed than worried he’s going to kill me.
Ten minutes later, I’m downstairs on my father’s arm as he leads me up the makeshift aisle set up in our grand room.
My mother wanted a big Catholic wedding for me. Admittedly, this is better. There’s no sense in pretending this is anything other than an arrangement.
Each step down the aisle feels like walking toward my execution. I focus on anything but the man waiting at the altar.
When I finally look at Roman, his expression is unreadable.
No joy, no triumph, just calm assessment as I approach.
I notice his daughter isn’t there, but why would she be? This isn’t a real wedding.
Father places my hand in Roman's. His grip is firm but not painful. Like a warning rather than a threat.
"Dearly beloved," the priest begins.
I retreat into my mind as the ceremony proceeds. I think of the life I wanted to have and the dream that is now gone.
My little design studio is filled with fabrics waiting to be transformed into beautiful garments. All I’ve ever wanted to do was to design clothes.
My mother even convinced my father to let me go to design school, but for him, it was a way to keep me occupied until he could marry me off.
I suspect it was the same for my mother, although I believe she wanted me to have something that brought me joy in this difficult confined world as a Mafia daughter and wife.
"I do," Roman says, his voice deep and certain.
The priest turns to me. Everyone waits.
"I do," I manage, the words scraping my throat raw.
Roman slides a ring onto my finger, a plain platinum band. I place his band on with surprisingly steady hands. I like to think of it as a victory, but more likely, I’m just resolved.
I’m the epitome of learned helplessness.
"You may now kiss the bride."
I freeze at the priest's words. Somehow, in all my dread about this forced marriage, I hadn't prepared myself for this moment.
The public claiming.
The performance of affection where none exists.
My first kiss.
