“I guess we have slightly different tastes,” I offer.
My sister studies me carefully. “You don’t want him.”
A wave of frustration rolls through me. “Just don’t, Cleo. You think I haven’t heard enough of this from Vale?”
“You keep hearing it because it’s true. You don’t want to marry Rafaele. It’s obvious.”
“You’re all missing the point. What I want doesn’t matter.”
Cleo’s lips thin with pity. “When did you internalize that, Gem? It’s really sad you think that way.”
My hands curl into fists on my lap. God, I’m so sick of these conversations. “No, you know what’s sad? The way you don’t seem to see the big picture. My marriage will strengthen our family. You know, that silly thing you and Vale seem to scoff at. Have you forgotten what we just lived through? Tito’s gone. Our uncles…gone. If I have to make a sacrifice to prevent that from happening again, I’ll do it.”
“God, Gemma. You sound just like Mamma. Always helping clean up Papà’s messes for him.”
My anger rises to a boil. “This has nothing to do with Papà.”
“If he wants to get in bed with Rafaele that badly, maybe he should marry him,” Cleo snaps. “Instead, he’s getting you to bail him out.”
“It’s not. About. Him,” I growl. “I am not doing this for him. I’m doing this for Nona, who has to worry about her grandsons bleeding out in the street. I’m doing this for Aunt Lia and Aunt Daniela, who’ve got four sons between them as made men. Don’t you care about anyone but yourself?”
Cleo’s face turns red. “How noble of you, Gemma. Did it ever occur to you that all those men chose to be made? They knew what they were getting themselves into.”
I laugh. “Honestly, Cleo, it’s time you stop living in fantasy land. We were all born into this life. We can’t do anything about it, so why don’t you try to accept it?”
“Vale didn’t.”
“Look where she ended up.” I gesture at the restaurant. “She’s married to a fucking don. She may have left New York, but she never left our world. Few ever do. So enough, all right?”
Cleo’s eyes are shining by the time I’m done. She shoots out of her seat, throws her napkin on the table, and storms away in the direction of the bathroom.
I look at the calm waters of the Mediterranean and let out a long breath. My stomach groans. I think that fish is definitely not sitting well with me.
When Cleo returns, we don’t speak. Over the next two hours, there are dozens of courses and as many toasts from Damiano’s capos. Their fast-paced Italian quickly becomes background noise since I’m not fluent in the language. I pick at my food but don’t get very far with any of it. There’s a steady ache inside my belly. The air should have cooled by now, but I’m still feeling too hot.
From time to time, I get the same feeling I had at the church. Like someone’s watching me. I don’t need to look in Ras’s direction to know it’s him. For the life of me, I don’t know why he keeps staring at me. It makes me feel exposed.
My abdomen is as hard as a rock. I pop a pill from my purse and put on a brave face, because that’s the only option I have. This wedding is what we came here for. Mamma would never allow me to leave the dinner early.
I’m sipping on some water when I feel a presence at my back.
“Will you join me for a dance?”
A cold shiver runs down my back at the sound of Rafaele’s voice. I force a smile and take his offered hand. “Of course.”
My head is aching as we make it to the dance floor where a few couples are already dancing.
Rafaele keeps our right hands linked and places one clinical palm over my waist. Even his touch is cold. Uninterested.
It dawns on me then that I’ve never really asked why he’s marrying me.
Rafaele has something Papà wants, but their agreement has to provide some benefit to both of them, right? What is Rafaele getting out of this?
“May I ask you something?”
My fiancé’s heavy gaze brushes over my skin. “Of course.”
“Why marry me?”
The rhythm of the song picks up speed, but Rafaele’s movements stay slow and steady. This is a man who does everything at his own pace, I realize. Everything and everyone else be damned.
“I need a wife.”
“I understand. But why me? Surely, you had plenty of other candidates to choose from.”
A single line appears between his brows. Since I can’t read my future husband, my first instinct is to assume it’s anger, but then his eyes flicker with what can only be confusion.
“Didn’t your papa tell you?” he asks, his voice dropping low.
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Tell me what?”
For whatever reason, Rafaele’s gaze flicks over to Vince, who’s sitting at a table a few feet away. Something dark seeps into his expression. Something that sends a pang of worry through my heart.
“You should ask your father. It’s not my place to say.”
I blink. My thoughts begin to race, galloping down various paths inside my head. What did Papà promise him? It sounds like something big. “O-Okay.”
We turn, and the room spins for what feels like too long. I tighten my grip on Rafaele’s hand, using it as an anchor against my dizziness, but he must misread the action for something else. The line between his brows deepens.
“I’ll talk to your father. This marriage is a business arrangement, and since you’re a part of it, you should know the terms.”
I can tell he’s attempting to reassure me, but his words have the exact opposite effect. Panic rises inside of me. What did Papà sign me up for?
“May I?” A hard voice slashes through my thoughts.
Rafaele’s attention moves to someone behind me. After a moment, he lets go of me without any warning.
I sway, only to feel a new pair of hands settle on me. They’re warm and big, and there’s nothing clinical in how they wrap around the hollow of my waist.
My eyes lift.
Ras shoots Rafaele a tight smile before moving his darkened gaze to me.
I wait until Rafaele leaves before I glare at Ras. “What are you doing?”
He’s removed his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt are now undone. Dark hair peeks out from within the white triangle of fabric. “I wanted to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“What if I said I want to apologize?”
I slide my hands over his shoulders, trying not to note how hard and muscular they are. It’s just to steady myself. My legs feel halfway to jelly.
“I’d assume you were lying since you haven’t demonstrated any sign of a conscience,” I retort.
His expression hardens. “You know, you’re extremely difficult to talk to.”
“Which begs the question why you insist on trying.”
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I keep wondering the same thing.”
I suck in a lungful of air, fighting against the nausea. Jesus, something is wrong with me. “Any hypothesis?”
Ras lowers his voice. “I’m sorry for kissing you.”