The wine bottle is empty and the fire at my back is making the room feel cramped, suffocating and not in the good way. The food sits untouched as we wait for the rest of our party to arrive and all I’m focused on is how I can get out of this.
The aunts are prattling on about lace and tulle and what pearls I’ll wear. About what colors will match best with my hair. About the seating arrangements and how Zio Tony cannot sit next to Zio Marco—whoever the hell those people are.
It makes my head absolutely ache to know this is for my wedding. Mine.
“Pearls in her hair,” the oldest woman says, gesturing to her own locks. “They would sparkle.”
My hand clenches, stifling the need for more booze. This buzz isn’t enough to get rid of the melancholy over this wedding, over my choice being taken away from me. I’m actively fighting against the tide that wants to bring me under.
I can’t let it. I have to get out of this.
“No, a veil is best,” another comments. Collins makes an approved sound, the perfect daughter agreeing with whoever to look like she’s better. She doesn’t even know she does it.
They can talk until they’re blue in the face. I have no opinions on the matter. I won’t be getting married, so this conversation isn’t necessary.
The pocket doors slide open with a loud screech, hinges dull and unused, squealing under the effort. I immediately turn to see my sister’s marble white face, to the smaller man at her side. Behind them, a face I’d recognize in the dark smiles at me almost predatorily.
Same full lips. Same coppery eyes flecked with bits of black. Windswept hair that falls over his head in soft, graceful curls.
Gloved hands at his side.
Yep. Same asshole from the bar. He’s got to be very close to be invited to a family dinner like this. I glance past him, but don’t see another face.
Hope flutters in my chest. Did Alessio not show up?
The smaller man leads Maeve to the head of the table, to my right, his cane thumping into the wooden floors. He pulls out her chair, like a real gentleman, waiting until she sits before departing to his end. The mystery man stands by the vacate chair next to the matron in orange, talking among themselves.
When he pulls back, she taps his cheek affectionately.
I shift, uncomfortable with the display. It’s something I’m not used to seeing in this home.
The wine rises violently as I avoid their adoration. Otherwise, this white tablecloth will be painted with my stomach contents and although the idea of causing that kind of chaos is promising, it’s not the right kind of chaos.
As he sits, I make a display of looking around, leaning back in my high back chair.
“What? Groom got cold feet?”
My oldest sister lifts her wineglass to her nude glossed lips. She doesn’t wear much makeup, usually wearing those drab business suits or rock shirts she was always fond of. But right now, I have to admit the Versace is elegant and fit to her form.
“What do you mean, Sloane?”
I don’t have to look to know the Mystery Man is smiling. It’s a searing on my skin, a flame against flesh, the way his enjoyment laps at me. Why, I’m not sure.
“Where is he, Maeve?” I glance around, refusing to lock eyes on him. “Did he get cold feet? I’m not complaining, marriage isn’t for everyone.”
It certainly isn’t for me. He and I can agree at least on one thing.
Maeve sips delicately, eyes raking over me like the cold fingers of death. “Sloane, meet Alessio De Luca. Your future husband.”
I scan the occupants, my mind figuring out the situation quicker than I can keep up.
Things click into place like solid pops of a jimmied lock. Click, click, clang.
He must read my face as the pieces fit together because that fucking smile grows wide and taunting. He looks pleased that I know who he is.
My blood boils over.
The man who sat next to me at the bar. Who gave me shit for how I was acting.
The man who tried to talk up my fiancé, tried to make me feel like this marriage would benefit me.
I snort even as everything silences, anger thrashing in my head. Of course, he would think this marriage would benefit me. Because it benefits him.
He is my future husband.
He’s Alessio De Luca.
“You?” I seethe incredulously.
That gorgeous mouth is a full out grin, with bright white teeth shining back at me. He swirls the red wine slowly, gloved hand cupping the bottom. He’s daring me to react, to do something to fight him.
“Hello, little menace.”
My blood reaches a fever pitch. Forget that numbness, that sorrow, that grief at the loss of control.
All I can see is that damning smile that begs for me to do something to wipe it off.
Lifting the wine glass, I hurl it at his head.
