one
Note on Content:
This book is not intended for readers with triggers. If you have hard limits, my books will cross them. For your safety, please return this book if you have ANY triggers.
If you like to listen to playlists while you read, there is a short playlist for this book here:https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3HhbYK86gZZ1GPrK4n7BVN?si=a76b7b861e2a4654
Eliza Pomponio
“Do you know who he is?” Bianca asks excitedly over brunch.
“No,” I admit, misery weighing down every word I speak. “Just a name. I’m supposed to meet him this afternoon. I’ve never even heard of him.”
That’s not surprising. I don’t know anyone in the Valenti family because they’re all self-serving assholes who don’t do anything without evil motives. I know all I need to know—stay away.
And now I know that one of them is about to become my husband because my father decided to sacrifice me as a peace offering with the most ruthless Italian crime family in New York.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Bianca says with a sly smile. “Maybe he’ll be cute. I mean, I’d fuck Al Valenti.”
“Well, it’s not Al. Who, let me remind you, is three times our age.”
“And hot as fuck,” she says decisively. “He’s got that Al Pacino thing going on, y’know? Not to mention he’d know what he was doing. We’re virgins, E. I don’t need no high school boy who’s only out to get his. I need a man with some experience who knows how to keep his wife happy, spoil her right.”
“I don’t need a man at all,” I say, draining my mimosa and tipping the glass toward our live-in cook, who also serves the meals when it’s just family or a few friends. “Why do we have to get married so young, anyway? I like my life how it is. I don’t need a change.”
“Because they’re afraid you’ll let some guyfloat the love canalbefore tying the knot. We’re lucky they wait until we’re eighteen now. In the old days…” Bianca wiggles her eyebrows.
I push my plate away and slump back. “At least I wasn’t engaged from birth. That shit still happens, even if they wait until we’re eighteen to marry us off.”
“You knew this day was coming,” Bianca points out, munching away on a piece of cantaloupe with a glimmer of smugness in her eyes. Fucking frenemies. She’s probably laughing on the inside, hoping I’m miserable for the rest of my life.
“It’s coming for you, too,” I remind her, accepting my third mimosa of the morning with a nod of gratitude. “You’re seventeen.”
“I just pray I don’t get some creepy old dude who can’t get it up,” she says, wrinkling her pretty nose. “There’s a sweet spot in the middle between too young and too old.”
“Dear god, I’d pay to get some creepy old dude who can’t get it up.”
“You’re crazy,” Bianca says with a wild laugh. “Don’t you want to have sex? Besides, they only give you to someone like that if you’re done for, and they want you out of the way.”
“Fine by me,” I say. “Out of sight, out of mind. I could live my own life, and he’d die in a few years, and I’d have the rest of my life to do whatever I want.”
“Not me,” Bianca says. “I want to be right in the middle of things, not shipped off to some old guy’s mansion in Montauk where nothing ever happens. I’d die of boredom.”
“Want to trade places?” I ask. “You can have my engagement.”
“No way,” she squeals. For all her big talk, she wouldn’t trade with me even if she could. Men may have brainwashed women into thinking marriage is something they want for the past few centuries, butoureyes are open. Marriage is the end for women. Not the end goal, but the end of any other goals.
*
“Are you ready?” Sylvia asks, peeking her head into my room.
“What, am I supposed to put on a ballgown and descend the stairs in slow motion so my future owner can get a look at the goods he’s getting in this transaction?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
Sylvia tuts and comes into the room, tugging at the hem of my sundress. It’s the same one I wore to church and then brunch. I’m not about to change even an outfit for this guy. It’s bad enough that I have to marry him. I don’t have to change who I am for him.
“Never hurts to make a first impression,” she says, standing back and looking me over.
“I’ll make a first impression either way,” I say. “I’m not looking to make a good one.”