Page 78 of Rosetti Family New York
“We went way over budget, so she better,” Eleanor says, pinning an orchid in my hair.
She’s the sister-in-law. She was forced to marry the Rosettis too, so perhaps I’ll find an ally in her, although she seems like one of them from what I can see.
This is supposed to be the biggest day of my life, and I feel like I’m standing outside it, watching someone else. The wedding will be in a cathedral. Dom is the heir, the oldest. That’s where the oldest son is married, they say, like I should be thrilled. Or flattered. Their excitement bounces off me.
When they stop for breath, I find my voice. Distant, cool. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
They grin at me, and I smile back, serene as ever.
The walls press in around me, crowded with strangers, suffocating. I can’t catch my breath.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Carmela, again, reaching to brush my cheek.
“Of course,” I say, steady this time. No cracks. “Just getting used to all of this.” All of you, I want to add, but that sounds too desperate.
“Don’t worry,” Eleanor says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “I was in your shoes once, and it all worked out just fine. You’ll get used to us in no time.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to get used to them.
“We have to go,” Eleanor says, glancing at her watch. She gives me a quick smile. “No late brides, especially not in our family.”
I hear the Our. It’s bigger than the room.
They slip me into heels like stilts and bundle me into a coat of white fur. Besiana Dushku, no more. In this dress, in this family, I’m someone else entirely. They walk me down the stairs to a waiting car. The driver opens the door with a nod.
“You’ll be fine,” Eleanor says, helping me in.
“You’ll be amazing,” Carmela adds.
The car pulls away. It’s silent, a space free of Rosettis, and I lean back against the seat and let out a breath.
Lights blur past the windows, smearing the streets like paint. It’s late October, but it feels colder than that. This is New York, but it might as well be the moon.
Does Domenico want this marriage? Did he demand it? Demand me? He is another Baba. Unforgiving, cold, dangerous. I imagine him with his arms crossed. I imagine him and wish I wouldn’t.
I run my tongue over my lips and taste fear, but I’m getting used to it. I let the steady hum of the road sink into my bones.
I will be strong. There are worse things than being owned. The Rosettis may soon own my body, but they will never own my soul. I will bide my time and strike when I can.
The car slows and turns, comes to a gentle stop. The door opens, and a hand reaches for mine. I swallow, hard.
“Are you ready?” a voice asks, and I nod. The driver gives me a reassuring look, but I don’t buy it.
I step out, back straight. Dushkus don’t hunch. The cathedral rises in front of me like a challenge. I accept it, reluctantly. It’s not like I have a choice.
Gold leaf and candlelight fill the cathedral, but there’s no warmth. No joy. Just an endless line of petals down the aisle and a bride who walks like she’s going to war. My father knows the meaning of power. This place screams it with every inch of frescoed ceiling. Domenico understands power, too. It showsin his stance and his expression. It shows in the Rosetti men, armed and unmoving, lining the edges like sentinels.
We’re in the tallest cathedral I’ve ever seen. Domenico is the heir. The oldest son. He gets the wedding beneath the hundred-foot ceiling. His family is in every pew, as far as I can see. Like it’s a contest of who can love him more. Cousins, aunts, uncles, friends. Their faces are too bright. Too warm. It’s blinding.
It’s not like that on my side. Well, I don’t have a side, really. Just associates, as many as Baba sent me. The Dushku cartel isn’t family, just a collection of colleagues. They fill the pews like we’re seating a small army, wearing suits instead of smiles. I recognize a few faces, but none of them are friends.
Baba isn’t here because of course he isn’t. He explained that he didn’t want to risk it, being the head of our cartel, but it feels like he’s making a point: I’m not worth it.
I glance at Domenico at the altar. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me with those sharp, unforgiving eyes. He’s clean and smooth and perfect as a polished diamond. If he’s excited about gaining a bride, it doesn’t show.
A Rosetti infant gurgles, the loudest sound in the world. My breath catches, and I stumble. Dushkus don’t stumble. The weight of the dress pulls me down, but I will myself not to fall. I will myself not to cry. Not here. Not now.
The organ is a drumbeat, a dirge disguised as wedding music. Some Dushku associate grips my arm, too tight, like he’s worried I’ll bolt. The bouquet is cold under my fingers, and I have to deliberately loosen my grip so I don’t snap the stems.
