I smirk down at her, slowly releasing my grip on her hair. “Too late,” I say. “I’m your husband, and you’ll show me the respect that title deserves.”
“You don’t deserve respect until you earn it,” she shoots back.
“I just did,” I say. “Behind closed doors, do whatever the fuck you want. In public, you’re my wife, and you obey me.”
She stares at me, her nostrils flared and her breathing coming quicker. I notice her lip trembling, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or fear. That funny little tug starts behind my sternum again, but I crush it before it can get a good hold. It doesn’t matter if she’s pissed at me or terrified of me. Her feelings are as irrelevant as mine. For a second, we don’t move. Something shifts in her eyes, though, and when the priest steps forward, she turns to face the crowd with me.
“It is my honor to present you Mr. and Mrs. King Dolce,” he says.
I grip her hand in mine, and she doesn’t struggle. Her fingers are soft and delicate against mine, and I feel the slight tremor in them, too. Ignoring it, I step forward, and Eliza follows my lead as we descend the step to walk back up the aisle.
I smile at my Dolce family, my parents and all my uncles, aunts, cousins in the first rows. My parents have been getting along this week, and even though things have shifted with my brothers, they’re still my brothers. They were my groomsmen, up at the altar with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even though they’re all here, I can’t help the instinctive sweep of my eyes as they search for the last member of my flock, like I’m a fucking sheep dog.
I turn away, pressing my lips together and pulling Eliza toward the door of the church faster. I don’t want to think about who’s not here. My sister should have been up there with Eliza’s bridesmaids. But she’s not. She’s not here. She’s not anywhere. We didn’t even get to bury her. And it’s my fucking fault. If I had seen how bad she had it, that disease called love, I might have saved her. If I’d seen what it would cost her, what it would cost all of us, I would have found a way to put a stop to it. Even if I had to kill the asshole she fell for, I would have. He ended up dead anyway—and he took her with him.
I won’t make the same mistakes.
As we make our way to the back of the church, I squeeze Eliza’s hand, trying to calm whatever storm is brewing inside her. She leans into me like she’s any bride excited to be starting a new life with a man she loves. With her free hand, she waves and blows kisses, suddenly all smiles, her performance worthy of a fucking Oscar. You’d never know she was spitting and hissing up there on the altar.
We pass the photographer, and then we’re out of the church, blinking into the blazing July sun, trying to see. Light doesn’t just help you see. It blinds you. It seems a fitting metaphor for the day, for love and weddings and all this shit. Suddenly, the charade feels exhausting beyond what I can bear.
And it’s only getting started.
As soon as we step out the door, Eliza rips her hands from mine, grabs up handfuls of her skirts, and charges behind some shrubbery.
“Eliza,” I say, a warning in my tone. This is too public a place for our first fight.
She doesn’t come out, though I can see half her skirt still trailing from behind the hedge, so I know she’s not doing the whole runaway bride thing on me. I sigh, rake a hand through my hair, and glance back at the church. People are going to come spilling out at any second.
I step behind the hedge and face my wife.
The moment she sees me, Eliza rears back a hand and slaps me. I balk, too stunned to react for a second. Only a second, though. That’s the last time she’ll catch me by surprise.
I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers together until her nostrils flare and her eyes go wide. She doesn’t whimper, though. I can see her gritting her teeth together to keep from crying out as she glares at me.
“That was for kissing me like you own me,” she snaps. “Now let me go.”
“I do own you,” I snap back. “I’m your husband. You may have gotten away with this shit with your parents, but not with me. Understand this, little wife. I’ll let you go, but youwillcome back.”
She snorts, but I release her hand anyway. If she tries anything, she’ll find out how seriously I take those words. I wasn’t making a smug prediction. I’m not arrogant enough to think she wants to come back to me. My words are a threat.
She rubs her fingers and stares up at me, her expression calculating as she weighs her next move. I can already tell I’ve underestimated her. She’s probably used to that, and she’s figuring out how to use it to her advantage. But I’m onto her now. She’s not the spoiled, drunk party girl I read about in the gossip columns when I did a little research over the past month. Or rather, she’s more than that. It’ll take something beyond a curfew to rein her in.
Behind me, the church doors open, and I hear the first guests spilling out, talking about the beautiful ceremony, the kiss, Eliza’s dress. I don’t turn. I stare down my bride, resisting the urge to drop my gaze to her plump, pink lips.
Her eyes dart to the crowd, then back to me. “Did you mean what you said in there?” she says, her words coming out in an urgent rush. “That you won’t control what I do behind closed doors if I’ll be your wife in public?”
I have only a second to decide. In a moment, we’ll be noticed. She’ll scream I was hurting her and get me executed. Just because it’s a wedding, that doesn’t mean anyone’s unarmed. You can bet your ass every guy in here is carrying, plus half the women, not to mention the number of nondescript guys hanging around the bosses, guys I know must be bodyguards. This wedding is probably the FBI’s wet dream—if they could pin anything on anyone. All the families are here. They could take down New York’s entire Italian mafia. They could try, anyway. They’d probably only succeed in getting a lot of their own men killed.
Just as I know better than to refuse Eliza outright, I know better than to agree to anything binding. I can already tell she’s sneaky as fuck.
“Show me what a good wife looks like to you today, and I’ll decide tonight.”
“Not good enough,” she says, lifting her chin and giving me a warning look.
“Eliza,” calls the woman I thought was her young stepmother until Little Al corrected me and told me she was Mr. Pomponio’scumare.She comes tottering our way on the paving stones, her heels making her wobble.
I grit my teeth and resist the urge to tell the woman to get lost as she waves and calls out again.