“To not caring,” I yell, kicking at the little waves washing up at the edge of the water.
“Hell, yeah,” Bianca squeals, thrusting a fist at the sky. “Fuck caring!”
The other girls link arms, and we kick at the waves together like some kind of drunken chorus line, our laughter carrying up the beach to the house and over the water to the houseboat bobbing expectantly before us. I’ve avoided looking at it all night, the place I’m supposed to spend my wedding night with a stranger. Sylvia and some of the other women in the family spent hours setting it up, so the groom and I would have privacy and not have to stay in my father’s beachfront mansion with the rest of the family. The thought makes me nauseous—or maybe it’s all the champagne and tequila churning in my belly.
When I finally look up, I see a figure standing alone at the railing Sylvia twined with twinkling fairy lights. He’s watching us from across the water.
My heart flips, and I swallow hard. I don’t know when he went over to the boat, but then, it’s three o’clock in the morning and most of the guests are long gone. Maybe if I stay long enough, if I put it off until it’s no longer tonight, he’ll fall asleep on the deck, and I can crawl into bed alone at dawn, as is the norm on party nights. And this isn’t just a regular party night. It’s the biggest party of my life. It’s supposed to be the best day of my life. I tried to make that happen, even though the dread of tonight sat heavy in my stomach like a threat. I could still revel in the attention, feel beautiful, and have fun being young and dancing with my friends.
That’s all I want.
But I know that’s not all I’ll get. King will want me to pay for the sins of my family, and he’ll extract the debt he thinks we owe one punishment at a time. He’s already threatened. If he’s unhappy with my performance today, there will be consequences.
It doesn’t matter how gorgeous the guy is. His eyes are casual but terrifyingly cruel, making my blood shrink away instead of longing for his touch. Mafia men are violent by nature. Sometimes it carries over into their marriages and sometimes it doesn’t. Not two minutes after saying “I do,” I had my answer to which one of those categories King falls into.
I can feel his watchful eyes on me from across the water, and I know I’ll be in trouble when I get there. That doesn’t make me want to rush over and apologize. It makes me want to stay out longer, to milk every drop from this night, the last night that’s mine. Yes, we’re married now. I’m his, as he so bluntly pointed out. But everyone knows a wedding is for the bride. It’s my party, and fuck crying if I want to. I’m going topartyif I want to. I don’t care that the salt is ruining my dress, that the edges are already stained and bedraggled from the water and sand. I just don’t want it to end. When tonight ends, reality sets in. When tonight ends, so does my freedom.
So I stay a little longer, drinking in the night, running in the foamy salt spray of the waves, dancing at the bonfire, throwing down more shots. At last, light creeps into the sky, and I’m too tired and worn out to go on. I collapse onto the sand next to the embers in the firepit and lay back against Tommy Fatone, who passed out hours ago. A couple fresh bodyguards sit off toward the house, drinking coffee and not speaking in the silence of the morning. Vince, my bodyguard and human chastity belt, is not among them. My chastity is no longer in danger.
I rest my head on my ex’s belly and close my eyes. This is a victory. One more night until I’ll be tortured by a sadistic Valenti. I sigh and fold my hands on the bodice of my ruined dress. My stomach is sour and churning, the world is spinning, and my head is already pounding, but I made it to sunrise without giving in to the enemy. I smile to myself. He must have fallen asleep hours ago, waiting for me. The thought of him lying there waiting fills me with smug satisfaction. I know there will be countless nights ahead when the roles are reversed, when I wait for him to come home from doing a job or visiting a woman who isn’t me, when I wait in terror for the sound of the door opening and my husband returning to brutalize me.
For this one night, I got to make him wait. It’s not much, only one night out of the thousands to come, but I take what I can get, as tiny as it is. I’m lulled by the morning, the alcohol and exhaustion, the rise and fall of Tommy’s belly under my head. The only sounds are the rush of the water at the edge of the beach and the sighs of a handful of people sleeping on the sand around the dead fire.
Suddenly, strong hands grip my wrists, pulling me up in one swift motion.
“Who the fuck is that?” King asks, glaring down at me.
For a second, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Then I realize he’s talking about Tommy. “No one,” I say, trying to wrest my hands from his punishing grasp.
“That’s right,” he says slowly. “That’s no one. And I’m your husband.”
He releases one of my hands and drags me to a little rowboat rimmed with roses, the one in which Sylvia thought my groom would romantically row me out to the houseboat. I stumble along after him, tugging at my arm. He stops after a few steps, scoops me into his arms, and carries me to the boat like a conqueror capturing his unwilling bride. That’s what carrying a woman across the threshold represents, after all.
King unceremoniously dumps me into the rowboat, gets in, and starts rowing us across the water.
This is it. I’m about to become his wife in the last way I want to. I grip the side of the boat, considering if I should jump. I might just drown in my drunken state, dragged down by the weight of my own dress in some poetic metaphor I can’t quite form with my liquor clouded brain. Maybe that would be better. Anything would be better than what’s about to happen.
A wave bumps against the little boat, and the rocking motion is the last straw. Between the alcohol and the abject terror of the impending events about to unfold, my stomach rebels, and I lean over and vomit out the side of the vessel.
We reach the houseboat, and King ties up the little rowboat and drags me onto the deck. I steel myself, ready for his words, his violence, his touch. Instead, he just looks at me. He doesn’t even look angry. He looks tired and a little disgusted.
“Are you done?” he asks, his voice icy.
I nod, feeling suddenly vulnerable standing in front of him. We’re alone. No one to save me. No bodyguards, no scary father. I’m on my own. It doesn’t feel good or freeing. I feel like a scolded child. He’s blurry to my vision, as if I’m seeing him through water, a bad girl being punished at the bottom of the tub when she didn’t obey.
His lips tighten into a line, and he takes my hand and pulls me down a small set of steps. We turn and enter the bedroom, all decorated with flowers and candles, with a bucket of ice beside the bed where a bottle of champagne sits untouched. Red rose petals are strewn across the white bedspread like drops of blood. My heart lurches into my chest, and I’m so lightheaded I barely keep my feet. I wish I hadn’t been sick already. I want to puke again, but my stomach is empty.
“You should get some sleep,” King says, turning away.
“Aren’t you going to collect your prize?” I ask, cringing at how childish and scared I sound even as I try for a taunting edge to my voice.
King lets out a quiet scoff. “Believe it or not, the last thing I’m interested in right now is your cunt.”
I wince at his harsh tone and crude words, even as a swell of euphoric relief rises inside me. “You’re not going to punish me?”
King doesn’t speak for a minute. He loosens his tie and slowly pulls it free of his collar. “You think sex is a punishment?” he asks at last, not bothering to watch my response as he folds his tie in thirds.
“For a girl,” I answer honestly.