3. Gia

The day of my wedding is as impossibly beautiful as I could have hoped.

There are no clouds, no rain, nothing to suggest the impending doom that my godfather seems so sure is coming for me. He's been cold and quiet over the past week, speaking only to me when necessary, immersed in work and managing my late father's affairs. When we have spoken, it's only to briefly discuss the wedding, to go over protocol, to finalize last-minute details. Even the formal meal times have fallen by the wayside, with Salvatore keeping to himself, spending long hours and late nights in his office. I can feel the tension in him, the dread, and I don't understand. It's as if he's living in a different world, with a different view of the Bratva than I have—or that I suspect my father had, given that he arranged this marriage.

I'm sitting on the edge of the bed when Rosaria knocks on the door, followed by my two other close friends—Angelica and Cristina. They're already dressed, wearing the rose-pink bridesmaid gowns that I picked out months ago. Most of the planning was handled by a hired wedding planner—my father having no intention of dealing with any of it—and she would come to me with anything that required my opinion. The only thing that my father did insist on was that I be involved as much as possible. So, while Angelica didn't have the slightest say in her wedding two months ago, I actually got to pick out parts of mine. Flowers, cake flavors, things like that—and, of course, what my bridal party and I would wear.

One of the maids comes in behind them, with a tray of breakfast pastries, fruit, and mimosas. Rosaria immediately hands me one, and Cristina takes a small, floral china plate and starts to put a piece of raspberry danish and a scoop of sliced fruit onto it.

"Here, you need to eat something." She hands it to me. "Before you start drinking," she adds, glancing reprovingly at Rosaria.

"She's marrying the Bratva heir today." Rosaria glances at me nervously. "I think she needs the champagne."

"Why would I?" I take a sip, following it with a bite of strawberry to pacify Cristina, even though my stomach is so full of anticipatory butterflies that I'm not sure how I'm going to manage to eat. "Pyotr is wonderful. He's been romantic, and kind, and?—"

"You just don't know him." Rosaria bites her lip. "Not really. Or what his family will be like?—"

"I spent time with him twice a month for the first half of our courtship. And then every few weeks after that. It's more than most girls like us get." I take another tiny bite of the danish. "I'm excited to marry him."

"It's okay to be nervous, too." Angelica is getting my makeup bag out, setting out items to help me with it. "I was terrified on my wedding day."

"You were married to a Sicilian man you'd never met," I point out. "I know Pyotr. We've gotten to know each other. There's no reason for me to be anything other than excited." I hear a tinge of frustration in my voice—I don't want anything to mar this. I don't want to be anything other than happy. Salvatore has been a dark cloud over the topic of my marriage for months, and all I want from my friends today, is excitement.

Caterina seems to pick up on my mood. "We just want to reassure you if you need it," she says quickly. "But it doesn't seem like you do! And I'm glad you're happy."

"I am." I get up, taking the small plate of food and my mimosa glass with me as I go to sit at my vanity, so that Angelica can help me with my makeup and hair. "Can you bring me my bouquet?"

I reach into my jewelry box as Caterina goes to get my bouquet—a gorgeous spray of huge peonies in various shades of pink, mixed with white roses and greenery. I have a locket that my father gave me years ago, with a picture of him and my mother in either side of it. I wrap the chain around the ribbon holding the stems of the bouquet, tucking it into place. I want my father here with me today, in some small way, and this was the best way that I could think of to manage it. And I want my mother here, too, though I never knew her well enough to feel the same attachment that I do to my father, or have the same deep pangs of grief that she can't be here today. I was only five years old when she died—not enough to remember her well. I grieved the loss of the relationship we could have had, when I was older, more than my mother herself.

Angelica plugs in the curling iron, handing me a tube of makeup primer as she waits for it to heat up. Caterina is sitting on the edge of the bed, alternating bites of danish with sips of her mimosa. Rosaria goes to the closet to get my wedding dress. It was delivered two days ago, zipped into a pink garment bag, and the butterflies in my stomach take off in a cloud of excitement as she hangs the bag on the front door of my closet.

"You're going to look like a princess," Rosaria says as she unzips the bag. "Absolutely beautiful. The most stunning bride there ever was."

I'm enjoying every moment of my transformation. Angelica curls my long, dark hair, leaving it thick and heavy around my shoulders as she sprays it with product, then starts to twist and pin it up into an elegant updo studded with pearl-tipped gold pins. She keeps my makeup light, leaving me looking almost bare-faced to the untrained eye, with a hint of blush and an expert dusting of champagne and rose-colored shadow across my lids. A rosy lip stain is swept over my lips, and I look like the picture of a blushing bride—innocent, sweet, and virginal.

The thoughts running through my head, as I picture Pyotr getting ready at this exact moment miles away, are decidedly not virginal.

"What was your wedding night like?" I ask Angelica, glancing at her as she tucks the makeup bag away. "Was it good?"

Angelica makes a face. "No." She looks up at me quickly, wincing. "I mean—I don't want you to think yours won't be. Or to scare you. But he was—it was fast. It didn't feel particularly good. And it hasn't really, since. He doesn't really seem to be very—good at it, I guess? Or he's enjoying it, so he doesn't care if I do. I don't know. I think he's mostly worried about getting me pregnant. It's been two months, and he seems concerned that nothing's happened yet."

"That doesn't mean it's always like that," Rosaria adds quickly, but I see her and Caterina share a worried look. "One of our maids started sleeping with one of the bodyguards—they think they're being sneaky about it, but they're not. I'm always catching them in corners, kissing, touching, looking at each other when they think no one sees. So it must be good sometimes, for anyone to get that obsessed with it. They could get in trouble, but they don't seem to care."

"You haven't told your father?" Caterina looks at her curiously, reaching for another mimosa, and Rosaria shakes her head.

"It's entertaining. I'm always so bored at home. If one of them got fired, or sent away, where would be the fun in that?"

Angelica rolls her eyes, going to my dresser to get the tissue-wrapped lingerie that we bought on a shopping trip a few weeks ago. "I'm sure it will be fine," she says soothingly. "My husband was never going to be an exciting match for me. But you've talked before about how Pyotr makes you feel, and it seems to be mutual, from what you've said. So your wedding night will be different, I'm sure."

"Does it hurt?" I bite my lip, toying with the belt on my robe. All of the romance novels I've read with virgin heroines suggest that it hurts. But all those heroines also end up wildly ecstatic with pleasure by the end of the night, and Angelica's account of things is very different.

"A little," she says, although the hitch in her voice makes me think that, for her at least, it hurt much more than that. "But again—my husband wasn't exactly slow or gentle. It sounds like Pyotr cares about you, enough to take his time."

I think of the last afternoon I spent with Pyotr in the garden, of the way it felt with his arm around my waist, the way I wanted him to kiss me so badly, the desire that I saw clearly in his expression as he looked down at me. Just holding his hand made my skin tingle and my heart race. I can't imagine how tonight could be anything other than good for us both—better than good.

He makes me feel all the things that I've read about, all of that breathless, shaky, passionate longing. He's straight out of my fantasies, and tonight, he'll be mine.

And I'll be his.Just the thought makes my skin heat. He might be a brutal man with others. He might be Bratva, through and through. Maybe that's true. But he'll be gentle with me. He'll make it good, because he cares about me. I have no reason to think otherwise.

I take the lingerie from Angelica and go into the adjoining bathroom to change. Part of it is a white satin corset that goes under my wedding dress, with silver rose embroidery along the sides. I hold it up to my breasts as I go back out to the bedroom so that one of the girls can help me lace it up. Rosaria helps me, deftly tightening the ribbon at the back of it. It's a fashion corset, meant for aesthetics and not much else, but I still can't help but think that I look like a princess as I glance in the full-length mirror in front of me. My hair is perfectly done with a few small tendrils around my face, the smooth white embroidered satin of the corset outlining my figure and pushing up my breasts, the matching panties clinging to my hips and emphasizing my long legs. Another flutter of excitement ripples through me as I think of Pyotr taking off my wedding dress tonight, and finding this beneath it. Of him looking at me with that desire on his face that I always see during our ‘dates,' and knowing this time that we don't have to stop.

That I can finally find out what it will feel like to be kissed. For him to kiss me.

Rosaria brings me my wedding gown, holding it as I step into the cloud of satin and tulle. It's stunning—a fitted satin bodice and a full tulle skirt spangled with tiny diamonds, the bodice fitted perfectly just above the corset with delicate tulle straps that hang just off my shoulders. Angelica helps with my chapel-length veil, slipping the sapphire-and-silver comb that holds it into my updo. The fragile tulle of the veil floats around me like a cloud, edged in delicate lace, and I reach up gingerly to touch where it's fastened to my hair.

The sapphire comb—my something blue—was my mother's. She wore it on her wedding day, as well as the pearls that are sitting on my dresser—a matched set of drop earrings and a strand necklace. I touch the pearls gently as Caterina clasps them at the back of my neck, remembering what my father told me about their wedding day.

His marriage to my mother was a love match. Unusual for mafia—but he fell for her, and luckily, she was an advantageous marriage for him as well as one they both wanted. It's why he never remarried, and why he tried to arrange the same for me—a husband that would both benefit us and also make me happy.

He succeeded. And today, I have them both with me in spirit, as I walk down the aisle and fulfill his final wish. That I be happy.

"Are you ready?" Rosaria hands me my bouquet as I step into my white satin heels, taking a deep breath. My pulse is fluttering in my throat like a trapped bird, and I feel giddy with excitement. "The driver is downstairs with the car." She checks the time, biting her lip. "We should probably go, so there's no chance of traffic making us late on the way to St. Patrick's."

There's a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice waiting for us in the limousine, and Angelica pops it open as we all pile into the back of it. I know I should be careful how much I drink—I don't want to be a tipsy bride going down the aisle, and I've very rarely been allowed to drink at home, other than a glass of wine with dinner. But I take the flute from her, the fizz of the bubbles exploding on my tongue, matching the buzz of excitement in my veins. With each mile, as the driver heads towards St. Patrick's, I feel my heart beat faster in my chest, the distance closing between me and my future husband.

Between Pyotr and I.

The girls are excitedly chattering, the back of the limousine a cloud of pink satin and white tulle, the floral scent of my bouquet mingling with the flower and vanilla perfumes we're wearing, and the bright, sharp tang of the champagne. I look eagerly out of the window as we enter the city proper, fussing nervously with the ribbon of my bouquet and the locket attached to it, as the cathedral comes into view.

"We're almost there." Angelica touches my hand, smiling at me. "You're the most beautiful bride, Gia. Everything is going to be perfect."

The limousine pulls up in front of the church steps, and the driver comes around to open the door, helping each of us out. I'm the last one to slide out of the car, my skirts puffing out around me as Rosaria and Caterina arrange them and my veil, Angelica helping me with the blusher. As we walk into the church, I'm immediately struck by the warmth of it, the dry scent of incense filling the air, and I see Salvatore standing in the nave waiting for us.

He's wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, elegantly fitted, his dark hair swept back from his face, smoothly clean-shaven. He's the one who will be walking me down the aisle today in the absence of my father, and I can feel the tension in him as I take his arm.

"Are you ready?" He glances down at me, and I can't help but think that he's hoping I'll say no. That I'll balk at the last minute, asking for him to postpone the marriage after all. "If you've come to your senses about marrying into the Bratva, all you need to do is say the word." His dark eyes are filled with worry as he says it, confirming exactly what I thought. "You won't need to take any of the responsibility, Gia. I'll handle all of it."

I shake my head, quickly. "No. I'm sure. This is what my father wanted." And what I want. I shift impatiently, looking at the double doors in front of me. I don't want to talk about this any longer. I want to say my vows and leave the church with my husband. I want to be alone with him. My skin heats at the thought of everything to come, of being able to finally make good on our desire.

Salvatore lets out a sharp breath, but he says nothing else. I can hear the music change, and a moment later, the wide doors that lead into the church open, the three members of my bridal party leading the way as we begin the slow walk down the aisle.

With every step, my heart beats faster, fluttering in my chest. It leaps when I see Pyotr waiting for me at the altar, his dark blue gaze fixed on me as I glide down the aisle, and I imagine I can see the barely-concealed desire in his face. My cheeks heat a little, thinking of the first time he'll kiss me at the conclusion of our vows, and I'm glad for the veil's blusher to hide my face.

I almost wish that we could skip the reception, as beautiful and fun as it will be, so Pyotr and I could be alone together sooner.

Salvatore leads me up to the altar, placing my hand in Pyotr's. I see him glance at me out of the corner of his eye, but he gives my hand to Pyotr without hesitation, as if he's finally accepted that there's no going back from this. That now, at this moment, it's too late to change what my father set in motion.

Relief washes over me as I feel Pyotr's fingers close around mine. He's an arm's length from me, and my pulse flutters, seeing how handsome he is. He's wearing a dark blue suit that is only a few shades darker than his eyes, and the errant piece of dark blond hair that so often falls into his eyes looks as if it's on the verge of slipping free. I have to fight the urge to reach up and push it back, to touch his handsome face.

Soon, I'll be able to. Whenever I want.

I smile at him, biting my lip and tasting lipstick. His hand is warm around mine, and I barely hear anything the priest says as he begins to speak. I want the ceremony to go by as quickly as possible, to move past all the formalities so that Pyotr and I can be husband and wife. I feel like I've been waiting so long for this, and it's finally here.

The guests are all seated, watching us. The music has gone silent; the only sound is the priest's droning voice as he begins to speak about the sanctity of marriage. A moment later, he asks if anyone has any objection to Pyotr and me being wed.

I tense impatiently. The time for objections is past—and who would dare, anyway? Here, at the altar, with the ceremony already having begun—no one would speak up now. I swallow hard, waiting for the moment to pass so that the priest can continue.

But instead, there's a soft gasp from the congregation, just as a sharp, clear voice cuts through the air. A voice that I know.

"I have an objection."

Salvatore's voice.