5. Gia

My head is spinning. It feels impossible to sort out everything I'm feeling—shock, anger, heartbreak—as Salvatore turns me back towards the altar and stands opposite me. He has both of my hands in his now, and I look dizzily between him and Father McCallum, waiting for the priest to put a stop to this. To say that this is impossible, that I've already been promised to Pyotr, that Salvatore can't simply step up and take his place.

"Father." Salvatore nods to the priest. "There's been a change of plans. Gia D'Amelio will marry me here, today. Please continue."

My knees nearly buckle, nausea sweeping through me. Only Salvatore's grip on me keeps me upright—the last person in the world that I want supporting me in this moment.

What I want is for him to stop touching me. For time to rewind, and go back to the way things were. The way everything was supposed to be.

"Don Morelli—" Father McCallum hesitates, just long enough to give me a moment's hope. But Salvatore gives him an even look, and I see the priest's gaze flick from Salvatore, to the back of the church where the Bratva are being forced back out to the street by Salvatore's men. "Very well," he says, after a moment. "A change in groom doesn't mean that we can't celebrate the blessed union that was intended to be held here today."

"What?" I stare at him, at Salvatore, and back again. "No! I haven't agreed to this. I didn't agree to marry him!"

"Gia." Salvatore looks down at me, his face calm, though I can see the angry tension in his jaw, feel it radiating from where his hands are gripping mine. "Don't cause a scene. It will do no good."

"A scene? Where is Pyotr? Where—" I twist around, looking to see if he's still in the church. I catch a glimpse of him as the broad doors leading out to the nave open, his face furious and his hair mussed as he and his men are forced back. "No! I'm supposed to marry Pyotr. I want this wedding to go ahead as planned! I don't accept another groom, I don't?—"

Salvatore's hands tighten, and I swallow hard, feeling hot, angry tears filling my eyes. Father McCallum has already returned to behind the lectern, preparing to begin the ceremony again, and everything feels as if it's spinning out of control. It's all moving too fast.

"I'm not doing this." I set my jaw stubbornly, narrowing my eyes at Salvatore. With every bit of strength I have, I yank my hand free, shoving my blusher back so that he can see my face fully. I don't care about propriety any longer, or how this is supposed to go—I barely cared about that in the first place, and only because I was marrying the man I wanted. Now, I don't give a shit about any of it. "I'm not marrying you."

Salvatore lets out a sharp breath. "I'll explain later, Gia." He glances up, over my head, to where I can hear the guests becoming restless. There's no requirement for an audience for the marriage to continue; only two witnesses to confirm it. However, it would reflect poorly on Salvatore for the guests to run from the wedding he arranged. To my right, I can see that Rosaria and Caterina are still standing there, pale-faced and nervous; Caterina's bouquet has fallen on the stairs at her feet. But Angelica has retreated—either back to the pews, or pulled away by her husband.

"There's no explanation!" I stamp my foot, shaking my head. "You can't make me marry you?—"

A muscle jumps at the side of Salvatore's jaw, impatience in his expression. "I know you're used to getting your way," he says in a low voice, his dark gaze fixed evenly on mine. "Your father spoiled you, I understand that. You've been told that what you want always matters, more than anything else?—"

"You're betraying my father!" I raise my voice, not caring who hears, ignoring the dark look that passes over Salvatore's face at that. "You're going against his wishes, breaking the agreement you both made. He didn't want violence—what the hell do you think will come of this?"

"Watch your mouth," Salvatore snaps, reaching for my other hand and catching it in his. I can tell from the way his lips press together that what I've said landed a sharp blow. But he presses forward, and my heart trips unsteadily in my chest as I begin to realize that there might be no way out of this.

Salvatore is my guardian now. Short of Father McCallum refusing to perform the ceremony, there is no one to speak against it. No one who outranks him who can put a stop to this. And even if Father McCallum were to try, there are other priests. Other ways of making sure that the marriage is both legal and sanctified by the Church, the two requirements for a marriage to be recognized according to our traditions.

Aside from the third—the wedding night.

My knees nearly buckle at that. "I'm meant to be in Pyotr's bed tonight, not yours," I hiss, the pakhan's accusations that he flung at my godfather a moment ago still ringing in my ears. "I don't want you!"

"It's not about wanting," Salvatore says tightly. "You were given into my care after your father's death, Gia. I intend to do what's best for you whether you like it or not."

"I don't like it!" I shake my head, feeling my cheeks blaze hot, my face flushed with anger. "I'd rather die than marry you!"

I hear Caterina gasp. I hear Rosaria let out a small, frightened squeak. And a moment later, I hear the click of a gun's safety, and see a dark shadow out of the corner of my eye as I hear Josef, Salvatore's second-in-command, speak.

"That can be arranged, Miss D'Amelio, if you refuse to listen to the don."

Salvatore flinches, his eyes narrowing. "Stand down, Josef," he says sharply. "I didn't ask you to threaten her. But it's not necessary, in any case. Gia will obey." He looks at me evenly. "Good mafia wives are obedient. And now is as good a time as any for her to begin to learn that."

I feel hot tears brimming at the edge of my lashes, my heart racing almost painfully with fear, the loss of Pyotr, and the shock of all of it, feeling as if a fist has reached in and crushed my ribs. I glance back towards the doors—the Bratva are gone. Pyotr is gone. The guests sit stiff and silent in the pews, all of them seemingly uncertain as to what to do. There are no more Russians in the room—the congregation is half-empty, only the mafia guests remain. And they all answer to Salvatore.

I hear Caterina whimper. I look at Rosaria, and see the wide-eyed, frightened expression on her face. And I realize, my stomach plummeting, that there is no way out of this.

Father McCallum clears his throat, confirming my fears. "May I continue?"

"You may," Salvatore says through gritted teeth, and for the first time since he stood up and objected, I say nothing.

There's nothing for me to say. Nothing that will change what is happening, as everything I envisioned for my future is wrecked in front of me.

It's over. Everything that my father and I planned, everything that I wanted.

And I have no choice in what lies in front of me.

If I could, I would run. I would try to find shelter with the Bratva, with Pyotr, as I'd threatened to when Salvatore and I argued a week ago. I almost wish he'd refused me then, gone ahead and forced a postponement, so I could have tried to evade his security and run then. Now it's too late. The doors are blocked by his men, his grip on my hands is iron-hard, tight as chains. There's no escaping. And I have no idea what will happen if I stand my ground, if I stubbornly refuse to say my vows. They can't be pried out of me; the marriage can't go on if I refuse to say I do, but this is new territory for me. I look at Salvatore, and I no longer recognize him.

I resent being called spoiled, but my father would never have hurt me. He would never have forced anything out of me, never coerced my agreement to any arrangement. He would certainly have never held me at fucking gunpoint. Even if that was Josef acting out of turn, it doesn't change the fact that I'm just now realizing, as I look up at Salvatore's hard, angry expression, that I don't actually know what he might do.

He's always been a brutal and commanding man; I know that. My father's right hand, willing to enforce what my gentler father could not. I've heard stories about who Salvatore was as a younger man, things that he did for my father before others took up those roles, and Salvatore filled a more diplomatic position at my father's side.

I never thought of Salvatore as a threat to me. And even now, he claims he wants to protect me. That he's doing this for my own good.

But he's taking everything from me. And at this moment, I hate him for it.

I feel tears drip from my lashes as Father McCallum begins to read the vows. Salvatore's hands are warm and broad around mine, his long fingers holding me firmly in place, and I feel myself tremble at the thought of what's ahead. Of what he will be to me—once my godfather, and soon my husband.

Salvatore speaks his vows clearly, firmly, his deep voice resonating in the absolute quiet of the cathedral, silent as the grave except for his voice. ‘Til death do us part. I've never wished for that to come true as much as I do at this moment, as I numbly repeat my own vows, feeling sick.

Everything has changed too quickly. The panic recedes to a blissful nothing as I look up at Salvatore, repeating what I'm told to say, his words and mine a low hum in my ears as I struggle to keep my composure. My fingers shake as he takes my hand and slides a thin gold band onto my left ring finger, and I nearly drop the thicker match to it as I start to put it on Salvatore's hand. It's too small, sticking at his knuckle, and Salvatore closes his hand into a fist to hold it there until Father McCallum can finish the rite.

"That ring wasn't meant for you," I whisper under my breath. "That was Pyotr's."

If he hears me, he says nothing. And then Father McCallum's voice cuts through the fog, as he announces us man and wife.

You may kiss the bride.

I stare up at Salvatore, feeling my heart crash into my ribs. He won't. He won't.He can't. Resentment boils up in my chest as he steps towards me, my hands still clasped in his, as he leans down to steal yet another thing that was meant to belong to Pyotr.

My first kiss.

The shock of his mouth against mine reverberates through me. It's the barest brush of lips, the ghost of his mouth against mine, so light that I barely even feel the warmth of it. But it stuns me all the same, as much as if he'd crushed me to him and slid his tongue into my mouth.

Or, at least, it feels that way.

My eyes close without thinking, as his lips touch mine. I feel that hint of warmth, briefly, that momentary caress, and something sparks over my skin. A recognition of touch, of intimacy, that my body recognizes even as my mind and heart cry out that this is wrong. That all of this—my vows, my kisses, my emotions—were meant to be for someone else. That I was meant to be feeling excitement, pleasure, anticipation…instead of fear and dread.

The guests are on their feet, Salvatore turning me with him as we walk down the aisle, man and wife. Dizziness washes over me again, making it an effort for me to walk without my knees buckling, shock rippling over me in waves that hit me again and again, the realization of what just happened freshly painful each time. But I don't want to trip. I don't want him to have an excuse to catch me, to touch me.

He'll be touching you far more, in a few hours.

My stomach twists, fear snaking down my spine. Angelica's warning comes back to me, her disappointment with her wedding night. Only pain, and no pleasure. And in a way, now, that almost seems better. I don't want pleasure from anyone other than Pyotr.

From the man I was supposed to marry.

The car is waiting outside. I blink in the bright sunlight, feeling as if I've walked out into a dream. None of this can be real. It can't be happening.

But it is.

Salvatore opens the door for me as if nothing is wrong, helping me with my skirt and veil as I slide numbly into one side of the car. "Given the upheaval," he says calmly as he joins me on the other side of the car, as if nothing were wrong, "I think the wedding reception will be canceled."

"Where are you taking me?" I hear the thread of fright in my voice, feel my pulse beating hard in the hollow of my throat, anger and fear and numbness all taking over by turns. The volley of emotions is dizzying, and I clutch my hands together in my lap, digging my nails into my palms to try to ground myself.

"To a hotel." Salvatore glances at me, his dark gaze sweeping over me as if to assess my mental state. "I've arranged for a suite at the Plaza."

"For what? To take advantage of your new bride?" I snap at him, narrowing my eyes. "I hope you have enough security there for what you've brought down on yourself, Salvatore. Pyotr will come for me?—"

"The Bratva may make a move, yes." Salvatore sounds almost tired as he says it, as if the gravity of what's happened is finally settling on him. "But it won't be because Pyotr cares for you, Gia. I need you to understand that?—"

"You're lying. All to get what you want." I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the stiff satin bodice of my dress as I look out the car window. We're moving slowly through the afternoon traffic—too slowly for my liking. The large interior of the limousine feels cramped and small, this close to Salvatore, after what he's done.

Salvatore lets out a slow breath. "I'm sorry for the lack of a wedding reception, Gia," he says slowly. "I know you did a great deal of planning. I'm sorry that you'll miss it."

"You think I'm angry over a party?" I sneer at him. "You think I'm that much of a spoiled brat?"

"It would be understandable for you to be disappointed?—"

"I'm not disappointed," I hiss. "I'm fucking furious. You stole everything my father and I planned. You've ruined my marriage, taken away my chances for happiness?—"

"I know these changes are a lot to take in, Gia." It's clear from Salvatore's tone that he's struggling to stay calm, and keep his voice even. A part of me almost wishes he'd lose his temper and lash out—I could be even angrier with him then, even more justified in my fury. "We'll go to the Plaza, and you can rest. We'll talk later, after you've had a chance to calm down?—"

"I won't calm down." I tilt my chin up, looking at him defiantly. "You think you know what's best for me, but I was looking forward to being Pyotr's wife. I wasn't dreading any of it. I wasn't afraid. I was looking forward to tonight." I lean forward, seizing on a possible opportunity to hurt him, to drive a knife in and twist it. "Do you know how many times I've imagined what Pyotr might do to me tonight? How he might kiss me, and touch me, the things I could do to him? If he would want me on my knees, or be so eager to fuck his new bride that he?—"

"Enough!" Salvatore's voice thunders in the small space, making me jump backward, and I see a vein pulse in his temple. "Enough." His face is taut, angry, but he laughs darkly as he shakes his head. "You have no idea what you were marrying into, Gia. No fucking concept of what the Bratva are like. Your father knew, but he was blinded by his desire to please you. Convinced that perhaps the young heir would be better. He's not, Gia. Pyotr was not the romantic hero of your dreams. And when you are finished being a silly, petty child about all of this, we can discuss the future."

I sit back, narrowing my eyes at him, arms still crossed over my chest. "Don't patronize me," I hiss. "If I'm a ‘silly, petty child,' then I'm the one that you married."

Salvatore gives me a dark look, one that suggests he might have begun to regret it. Good, I think, turning away so that I don't have to look at him, my chest tight. The atmosphere in the car is so icy, I can almost feel the chill.

"You're my wife now," Salvatore says calmly as the car pulls up in front of the Plaza, though I can hear the edge in his voice. "There's no changing that, Gia."

"Of course not." I smile at him sweetly. "But you might come to regret it."

Salvatore lets out a slow breath, waiting for the driver to open the car door. He steps out and comes around to open mine, holding out his hand to help me, but I ignore it. I gather up my skirts, stepping out of the car with my train and veil rumpled around me. I felt like a princess earlier, like a beautiful, stunning bride, but now I can't wait to get the dress off.

Except—my pulse flutters in my throat again with anxiety, thinking of what taking the dress off will mean.

"I sent a message to one of the staff at the mansion, to have some things sent here for you," Salvatore says as we walk to the doors. "They'll be here before this evening."

He holds open the door for me, and I walk in. The hotel's interior is gorgeous—marble pillars surrounded by frothing green plants, a high patterned glass ceiling, the entire place smelling faintly of citrus and vanilla. Salvatore walks to the check-in desk, all business, and I follow just behind him, my anxiety growing by the moment. I watch as he's handed a slim keycard, and he looks back at me, nodding towards the elevator.

I have no choice but to follow him. I can't dig my heels in, refuse, or make a scene. It would do me no good—who would defy him? Who would come to help me? Anyone with the authority is in Salvatore's pocket already, and my future has been decided for me.

I never realized just how quickly everything could change.

The room itself is equally as beautiful as the hotel's interior—cream-colored carpets, glass French doors leading out onto a balcony framed by layered drapes of gauze and velvet, a Baroque-style couch on one side of the room in cream and gold with a sleek wooden desk on the other side. There's a matching wardrobe, and I see a door to the left that undoubtedly leads to a similarly gorgeous bathroom. The bed?—

I can't quite bring myself to look at the bed. My heart is beating hard in my chest as I turn to look at Salvatore, who is setting his wallet and phone down on the nightstand next to it. "I'm going to order room service for you," he says calmly. "Some food will be good for you, to help settle your nerves. Try to relax. I have some business to attend to, and then I'll return. Stay here," he adds, his voice firm. "You might think of trying to run, but I assure you, I have security posted everywhere. You won't get far, and you will only make things worse."

"So you're my jailor now." I press my lips together, willing them not to tremble.

"No, Gia." Salvatore lets out a slow breath, as if willing himself to remember to be patient. "It's my duty to keep you safe. You're making this more difficult than it needs to be. But I understand you're in shock and need some time to understand. I'm going to give you that space, while I go and handle what needs to be taken care of. And then I'll return, and we can talk."

"Talk?" I narrow my eyes at him, my gaze flicking briefly toward the bed, and I see Salvatore tense ever so slightly.

"Get comfortable, Gia. Take a bath. Eat. You'll feel better soon." He looks at the door, as if he's already eager to be out of the room and dealing with matters he feels more equipped to handle. If he doesn't want to deal with me, then he shouldn't have married me, I think bitterly.

"I can't get comfortable. I can't get out of this stupid dress on my own." I know I sound petulant, but it's my only recourse right now. It's that, or anger, and I can feel the anger slowly beginning to drain out of me, replaced with exhaustion.

Being so furious is tiring, I'm beginning to realize.

"I'll help you with it." Salvatore takes a step towards me, and I reflexively move away. "I'm your husband, Gia." There's a note of exasperation in his voice. "I'm not going to ravish you on the bed like an untamed beast. I'll help you with your buttons, and then I'll go."

Something flickers deep in my belly, a mingled heat and resentment tangling together. I'd imagined Pyotr doing just that, after all—filled my head with imagined visions of our wedding night, where he was so overcome with finally being allowed to touch me that he all but devoured me, before we enjoyed a gentler second round. Now I have no idea how my wedding night will go.

Igor accused him of lust, of taking me for his own selfish desires, but he doesn't look like a man overcome with lust. He looks, if anything, tense as he steps towards me once more, this time circling around behind me to reach for the buttons at the back of my dress.

His fingers brush against the back of my neck, at the very top of my dress, and I stiffen. The touch, feather-light, sends a tingling sensation across my skin, making me catch my breath. For a brief moment, I can imagine that touch skimming down my spine as the dress opens, slowly building that flickering heat that I'd hoped for.

But Salvatore only tugs at the buttons, undoing them one after another, quietly cursing under his breath when he realizes how many more there are to go. "Who made this blasted dress?" he murmurs, irritation lacing his tone.

"Dior." I stay facing forward, trying not to think about what's beneath the dress. About what he'll see, in just a moment, when he?—

His fingers go still at the top of my corset. I hear him breathe in slowly, unsteadily, for a brief second. And then, as quickly as the moment came, it passes.

He keeps going, undoing one button after another until the dress is laid open down to my hips. I feel his hand linger again, once more, at the bottom of the opening. I feel his fingertips graze, lightly, against the very base of my spine, the thin strip of flesh between the edge of my corset and the white silk of my panties. I reach up, reflexively, to hold the sagging wedding gown against my breasts, not wanting it to fall, and let him see me in my lingerie.

"Do you need help with this, too?" He touches the corset, his hand brushing beneath my dress just against the curve of my waist, and I hear a hoarseness that wasn't there before. His fingers press, just barely, against the stiff embroidered satin, and I feel myself go very still.

The tension in the air is so thick I could cut it with a knife. I feel my pulse beating, hard and heavy, against the side of my throat. The man I wanted isn't the one standing behind me, and I don't want the one who is—but something about his touch sends that flicker of heat spiraling through me, my skin warming.

With embarrassment,I tell myself. Because my godfather is undressing me.

But he isn't that, any longer. He's my husband. And tonight?—

I shake my head quickly. "I can manage it." My voice sounds strange, too, higher than usual, catching in my throat. "I'll be fine."

Fineisn't the word I would use, not really. But it might be what gets Salvatore out of the room, and gives me a moment alone.

He withdraws his hand, stepping back. "Alright, Gia. I'll return when I'm finished with business. Food will be sent up to you shortly."

I don't move. I don't speak. I stand there, clutching my wedding dress to my chest, until I hear Salvatore's footsteps heading towards the door, and the click of it opening and shutting again.

And then, I let my hands drop. My dress falls to my waist, the tulle sleeves sliding down my arms, the weight of the skirt pulling it down over my hips until it becomes a pool of silk and lace and tulle at my feet. I stand there in my bridal lingerie, shivering, my arms wrapped around myself as I try to think about what to do next.

I can't run, at least not yet—unless I want to try to make a break for it in nothing but a Plaza Hotel robe. Numbly, I reach behind me for the ribbons of my corset, tugging them loose and pulling them apart so I can take it off. It, and the rest of my lingerie, lands in a pile with my dress as I walk to the bathroom. I leave it all there—someone else can deal with picking it up.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven't eaten since the little bit of danish and fruit that I had this morning—although I'd happily take another glass of champagne right now. I go to the closet, finding one of the soft, fluffy robes, and wrap myself in it as I sink down on the edge of the couch and wait for the room service that Salvatore promised.

It arrives after only a few minutes—a grilled chicken sandwich with avocado and lemon aioli, and a pile of thin, crispy fries salted and tossed with parmesan. Disappointingly, there's no additional champagne with it, but even as anxious and exhausted as I am, I devour all of it. I haven't had a full meal since last night, and I'm starving. It doesn't hurt that, as much as I don't want to enjoy anything about this entire situation, the food is delicious.

I also don't want to follow any of Salvatore's suggestions, but either a hot bath or a nap is all I want, and I don't want to be in the bed when he returns. So instead, I opt for the bath, leaving the room service tray and wandering into the bathroom.

It's every bit as elegant as I would have imagined—all white and gold, with a huge soaking tub. I go straight for that, turning on the water as hot as I can stand, and looking through the toiletries arranged on a pretty golden tray until I find vanilla-scented bath oil.

I pour it in, breathing in the sweet-scented steam and feeling myself relax just a little. I close the bathroom door and lock it, and sink into the tub, pulling the pins out of my hair one at a time until it drapes long and loose over the back of the tub, and I sink down into the hot water.

Despite myself, I can feel my muscles starting to loosen. I close my eyes, imagining myself anywhere else—somewhere far away from Salvatore and his machinations, from what's going to happen later tonight, from the rioting emotions still tangled up in my chest.

I imagine that my father is still alive, and that I'll still have everything I wanted. That my wedding day hasn't fallen apart spectacularly, and that I'm not trapped now, in a marriage I don't want, to a man who seems to be an entirely different person than the one I believed him to be.

And for just a little while, I can almost believe it's true.