Chapter Two: A Stranger In The Mirror

The powder room was blessedly empty.

She locked the door and braced herself against the sink. Staring at her reflection.

The woman looking back was a stranger.

Professionally applied makeup highlighting features she’d inherited from her Sicilian grandmother. Dark eyes that usually sparkled with defiance, now dull with resignation. Full lips painted the color of dried blood.

A bride. A commodity. A means to an end.

Her phone buzzed in the small clutch she’d left on the counter.

Lena. Her best friend since childhood. The only person in her life who understood what it meant to be born into this world without choosing it.

Ten minutes until processional. Are you ready?

Ready.

What a ridiculous question.

Was she ready to marry a man who didn’t want her? Who saw her as nothing more than a strategic acquisition? Who planned to do his duty and nothing more?

She typed back with shaking fingers. Need five more minutes.

The truth was, she needed a lifetime.

She needed to be anywhere but here. Wearing anything but this dress. About to pledge her life to a man who had just shattered whatever fragile hope she’d been clinging to.

A sharp knock on the door made her jump.

“Geneva.” Her father’s voice, gruff with impatience. “What are you doing in there? The ceremony starts in five minutes.”

She smoothed her dress, checked her makeup, and unlocked the door.

Vittorio Moretti filled the doorway. His barrel chest straining against his tuxedo. His face ruddy from years of good wine and bad decisions.

“You look pale. Are you sick?”

“Just nervous.”

Because telling him she’d overheard her future husband’s contempt would accomplish nothing.

Her father didn’t care about her feelings. He cared about the alliance. The power. The expansion of territory that this marriage would bring.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.” He offered his arm.

She took it because she had no choice.

“Elio Vieira is a powerful man. You’re lucky to be marrying him.”

Lucky.

The word tasted like ash in her mouth.

As they walked toward the private chapel where two hundred guests waited, Geneva caught glimpses of the life she was entering.

Armed guards at every corner. Their eyes constantly scanning for threats.

Waiters serving champagne worth more than most people’s monthly salary.

Women dripping in diamonds. Their smiles as fake as their compliments.

Men conducting business deals between toasts. Their hands stained with blood no amount of money could wash clean.

This was her future.

This was her life.

The chapel doors opened. The string quartet began playing Pachelbel’s Canon.

Every head turned to watch her walk down the aisle on her father’s arm.

She kept her spine straight. Her chin high. Her expression serene.

Years of training in how to be the perfect mafia wife were paying off. Even if everything inside her was screaming to run.

And there at the altar stood Elio Vieira.

Six-foot-two of controlled power.

His black tuxedo fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean waist. His dark hair immaculate. His face expressionless as he watched her approach.

Those cold gray eyes met hers.

She searched desperately for some warmth. Some sign that what she’d overheard was just wedding day nerves talking.

She found nothing.

The ceremony passed in a blur.

She heard herself repeating vows she didn’t mean. Felt Elio’s fingers cold against hers as he slipped on the wedding band. Tasted champagne when he kissed her with all the passion of a business transaction being finalized.

The guests applauded.

Someone made a toast about new beginnings and powerful alliances.

The quartet played something upbeat and celebratory.

And through it all, Geneva felt nothing but a growing numbness spreading through her chest.

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