Chapter1
Weddings and funerals
Vittoria
There were onlytwo ways to get made men to stop fighting for a day.
Invite them to a wedding, or force them to attend a funeral.
“Five-minute warning,” came from the doorway. A middle-aged woman I didn’t know popped her head into the room, taking care to block me from view of any nosey passersby.
My nod was subtle but my stomach clenched viciously in protest. The woman looked to me, then over to my sister, who sat draped haphazardly over a chair, scrolling away on her phone. I noticed a subtle look of disapproval sweep over her face as she took in Vincenza. The slight lowering of her brow told me she didn’t like the cool, casual manner in which my sister was taking this whole debacle.
Sadly, she didn’t know the half of it.
The woman offered me a thin smile that reeked of pity. Her sympathy was kind, but I didn’t have it in me to return that smile. Not today.
The door closed quietly and the snick of the latch closing in place felt awfully final. I think it was then that I realized that this was actually happening. My eyes closed in silent prayer, hoping some higher being would hear me, beseeching a deity who mightn’t have existed to intervene.
Please, God. Gods. Goddesses. Idols. Spirits. Anyone. Please.
I exhaled long and slow as I stare into the floor length mirror, shaking my hands out as anxiety fingered my spine, settling like a noose around my neck, tightening deliberately until I struggled to breathe and fanned my face, believing I might pass out.
I don’t want to do this.
My numb feet led me to the window and when I peered down at the street, I blanched. Cars were double and triple parked. The church he’d chosen wasn’t very big and I wondered where everyone would fit.
It seemed this tragedy – this catastrophe – would have a live audience.
Oh, God. I can’t do this.
My tongue swelled as I put a flat hand to the area under my breasts and choked out, “Enza, I don’t think I can do this.”
Vincenza, without a care for my disposition, still scrolling on her phone, scoffed, “Of course, you can.”
“No,” I started quietly, shaking my head. “No.” As I began to hyperventilate, my protest became rattled. Louder. “No. No.No. I can’t.”
Predicting a panic attack wasn’t far off, Vincenza finally put down her phone and rose up out of her seat. I was pacing when she took hold of my trembling shoulders, held me still, peered into my eyes and said, “We talked about this.”
I know we did, but that was yesterday, and that was just talk. Today was a whole different story.
Today made it real.
Her firm, detached demeanor spoke volumes. She had no intention of freeing me from this burden.
A mixture of emotions flooded me all at once. Resentment. Dread. Anger. But mostly, fear.
At twenty-one, I was far too old to begin crying because I wasn’t getting my way, but here we were. My lips quivered and I blinked back tears as I begged her, “I don’t want to do this, Enza. Please don’t make me do this.”
“Aw, Vicky, don’t cry,” she cooed, pulling me into her warm embrace. She held me close, cupping the back of my head gently and my arms gripped at her back, my fingers tightening in the material of her suit jacket. I sniffled into her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of her dark, golden-brown hair. She gave me a minute of reprieve before she pulled back, looked me dead in the eye and said, “I know you don’t want to do this. I don’t want this for you either.” She regarded me carefully as she lifted a hand to brush away my tears and then, her pretty sable eyes turned frosty enough to give me chills. “But sacrifices need to be made.”
Easy to say when you weren’t the sacrifice.
My mouth opened but before I even got the chance to protest, a solid knock on the door sounded. Both my sister and I turned as it opened, and when he walked into the room, he glanced over what Vincenza was wearing and his lip curled in disgust.
“Really, Enza? A suit? Ablacksuit?” our uncle, Como Vero, drawled, utterly unimpressed with her antics. “What the hell is the matter with you? It’s your sister’s wedding.”
Vincenza shrugged carelessly. “Precisely why I chose an outfit fit for mourning.”