Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“Oh, I don’t. It’s not about that at all. It’s about bringing your brother to his knees before I put a bullet between his eyes.”
I flinch at the violence of his words. At their casual delivery.
“Your father’s will is to be read in a few days. I suppose we’ll all know more then.”
“How do you know about my father’s will?”
“I have made it my business to know everything I can about anything having to do with the Russo family. Are you ready?”
“You won’t hurt Emma if I do this.”
“I won’t hurt a child.”
“Or me. You won’t hurt me.”
“I would have no reason to. Come.” He turns me toward the altar, but I pull back.
“Let us go,” I say. He faces me. Watches me. I’m begging after I swore I wouldn’t. It’s beneath me, but I am desperate. “After. After you get what it is you want. Let us go.”
A long silence settles between us, the air heavy and so very still.
“Come, Vittoria.”
I pull on his arm, remembering the way he’d looked at me when he’d kissed me. Remembering the kiss. It has to have meant something. “Please, Amadeo. I will do what you say, and I will only ask for this one thing.”
He studies me, his face unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes. That intensity of earlier. A flicker of it. And it gives me hope. Because without that flicker, I would be sure there is no human soul beneath the surface. There is only beast.
A door opens loudly, breaking into the moment. Disrupting it wholly. I glance over Amadeo’s shoulder to see Father Paolo being escorted out into the church, looking disheveled. Like he dressed in a hurry.
Amadeo follows my gaze, then turns back to take my hand in his, his fingers closing around mine, swallowing mine up. And when I meet his eyes again, the moment is gone. My heart falls when he turns me toward the altar, and we take the final steps toward our doomed destiny.
23
Amadeo
I can’t get the fucking kiss out of my fucking head. There’s an intimacy to a kiss. It’s more than sex. Or maybe that’s her. Kissing her is like having my breath stolen. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but I can’t resist, and I do know better. Because when I kiss her, I do forget. I let myself forget. Bastian is right. And like an omen, a foretelling of our future as we stand here on the edge of destiny, that kiss sparked a fire, and I’m not sure it will leave anything but ash in its path.
There is no music for our wedding. No organist to start the ceremony. I don’t wait for my bride at the altar, anticipating the first glimpse of her. No guests to stand when the cathedral doors are opened, and she appears veiled in white on the threshold. The disheveled priest adjusts his collar as he takes his place at the altar, the soldier at his back his companion. Bruno and his wife, Donatella, stand as our witnesses. They turn to watch me march Vittoria down the aisle. Her father will never have the honor.
Vittoria steps are heavy. The nape of her neck feels small in my hand. Delicate. Vulnerable. She’s wearing dark leggings and a simple top. Her long, wavy hair is uncombed, her face free of makeup. She’s stunning all the same, although I must admit, this isn’t the wedding I ever thought I’d have. Not that I’d ever planned one. But like I told her days ago, it’s not a love match I seek.
When we get to the kneelers, I urge Vittoria down to hers and settle into the one beside her. Out of habit, she puts her hands together in prayer. I do the same and turn my gaze up to Father Paolo, who clears his throat.
I don’t like this man. This foolish coward. A few hundred euros and he’ll willingly marry a woman who very clearly is not here of her own free will. Although, to be honest, if he’d put up a fight, he’d have been easily replaced. And this was going to happen. He, like everyone else, knows it. So why not line his own pockets?
The priest opens his book. A page marker falls out of it, and he looks down over his robes, unsure what to do.
“Leave it. Let’s go,” I tell him.
He grants Vittoria one quick glance before beginning, keeping his eyes on his Bible as he reads words I’m sure he’s said a thousand times. When he starts a prayer, I clear my throat and shake my head.
“The vows,” I say.
“We need—”
“The vows.”
“Of course.”
He closes the book and holds it to his chest with both hands. He’s sweating. I guess he remembers the last time we were here. He mutters a few words to God before his eyes settle on Vittoria. I look at her profile. Watch her throat work as she swallows. Her gaze is impassive. She’s a perfect stone statue at my side.