If I hadn’t bitten off all my nails while being locked alone in this bedroom, I would have raked them over her face, but in their absence, I have to settle on just glowering at her. “My sister—”
“If you want to know so badly about your stupid sister, you can ask the don at the rehearsal dinner,” she snaps.
Red bleeds into my vision. She can call me any name she wants—I’ve heard the same and worse from my own parents for years—but if she says another word about Gemma…
I count to three in my head so that I don’t fly off the rails. Until I know Gem’s safe, I have to play this carefully. It’s why I’ve sat quietly in this room for two whole days, not causing any trouble, waiting and hoping the man I’m supposed to marry in my sister’s place kept his word and let her go.
When I can’t stand to look at the old woman’s hateful face any longer, I whip around and grab the bag she threw on the bed.
Inside the bathroom, I lock the door behind me and look in the mirror.
I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me.
I’ve barely slept, I haven’t showered, and there are dark bags under my eyes. My worry is a churning mass inside the pit of my belly.
Gem, where are you? Did you make it? Did you manage to escape?
When Rafaele brought me here, I didn’t expect him to keep me cut off from the world until our wedding. He took my cell phone. He also must have instructed the maid who’s been bringing me food not to answer any of my questions.
Well, that bitch in my bedroom is not going to tell me anything either, so I guess I have no choice but to hope I can find out more at this rehearsal dinner.
I shrug off my old dress and step into the shower.
The wedding is tomorrow. It still doesn’t feel real.
This is like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
At least I can sort of imagine what the celebration will be like, given I sat in on a few of the meetings Gemma had with the wedding planner.
But what happens after tomorrow?
That’s where I draw a blank.
Me. A married woman.
My vision grows fuzzy, so I brace my palms against the shower wall. If I knew Gem made it to Ras, I wouldn’t give a fuck if I fell and snapped my neck, but I’ve got to stay alive until I’m sure she’s safe.
It’s about the only reason I’ve got left to live.
I can hear an echo of Gem’s voice inside my ear. Stop being so dramatic, Cleo.
How can I not be dramatic when my life is a fucking tragedy?
I dry myself off and peel open the zipper on the garment bag. Inside is a dress.
It’s pretty. Cream-colored, smooth satin fabric with capped lace sleeves, and a V-cut neckline. I stare at it while I pat my hair dry by the bathroom sink. It looks vaguely familiar.
Hold on. Is this the dress Gem was going to wear tonight?
I put it on. It’s short on me and tight around the chest, just like all the clothes I’ve ever borrowed from my sister.
Nostalgia wraps around me.
I grasp the neckline and pull it up to my nose, searching for a hint of her scent, but it doesn’t smell like Gem. My heart clenches. She has to be okay, or I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.
When I come out, the woman is scowling by the dressing table. “Sit down. I need to do your face and hair.”
“I can do it myself.”
She holds up a hairbrush like she’s about to smack me with it. “Sit.”
I heave out a sigh and slump in the chair. Again, none of this treatment is new to me. Mamma never let me get ready for events she dragged me to, and I always had to wear the itchy, frilly dresses she picked out for me. I hated how I looked in them—just like an obedient mafia wife.
Good thing I learned a long time ago I could ruin that perception as soon as I opened my mouth.
The woman sweeps on my makeup in a precise and efficient way, and then she prods and pulls on my curly, copper hair. I accept her rough treatment without a single complaint, but I remember every time she pulls on me harder than she needs to.
“Cleo,” she says, testing my name on her tongue with a scowl. “What kind of a name is that? It’s not even Italian.”
Oh, she’ll love this story.
“My mamma was carrying me when she walked in on Papà fucking another woman in his office. She gave me a non-Italian name out of spite.”
The brushing stops abruptly. I meet the woman’s appalled gaze in the mirror and raise a brow. “She preferred he kept his whores far from our home.”
What’s sad is that my name was my mother’s only act of rebellion against her husband during their twenty-plus years of marriage. Sometimes, when I made Mamma really angry, she’d say I was her punishment for that rebellion. I put that rotten streak in you with your name.