Page 6 of The Mafioso’s Bride

Giada fixes on the second button of my shirt when she says, “I do.”

The priest pronounces us husband and wife.

Dante steps beside me. “Get her out of here. Mattia and Dario will handle security. I’ve radioed in extra guards for your home. I’ll call when we have a route on Lombardi or Rafinelli.”

I offer Giada my hand. “We’re leaving through the main doors. There are armed men outside. They’re mine.”

She stares at my palm, refuses it, and walks ahead through the wreckage of her wedding day. I can’t blame her.

An armored sedan waits at the curb with its rear door open. My driver checks the street while I help Giada gather her skirt into the car. She takes the far seat and arranges the folds of silk over her knees.

I sit across from her. The locks engage, and the church recedes behind smoked glass.

And here we are, the underboss of the Corsini crime family and his new bride.

I’m married. Fuck.

I never considered marriage off the table. I rarely considered it at all. I assumed that one day, I’d choose a suitable woman from the scores of mafia daughters eager to become a Corsini wife. I’d provide a respected name and a protected home, and she’d attend dinners, manage the social duties expected of her, and remain loyal in public. We’d do our duty, and produce heirs. Beyond that, I’d give her every material comfort, and our private lives would stay separate where possible. Not unlike a business arrangement.

That’s marriage in the mafia.

Love has no place in the agreement. It makes people careless.

The fact that my marriage happened today. That it’s been thrust upon me with no forewarning is…well…fine. I suppose.

I’m sure Giada meets the requirements as well as any mafia daughter. The Rafinellis would have prepared her for the role.

I’m not sure how she feels about all this.

I look over to see her pressing herself into the corner. A horn blasts beside us, and she bunches the silk of her dress in her palm.

I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve spent most of those thirty-nine years learning what armed men can make people agree to.

“We’re going to my home,” I say, to make conversation. “It’ll take about twenty minutes. Security will meet us at the gate, armed guards.”

Her attention remains on the fabric.

“This morning didn’t go as planned.”

She says nothing.

I imagine a sudden groom-swap is odd. Maybe even frightening.”

Still nothing, but her eyes have moved to my shoulder. “But just because this was unexpected—for both of us—doesn’t mean we can’t build a productive marriage. I’ll provide everything you need, and I’ll treat you well. I won’t permit anyone in my home or outside it to disrespect my wife. We will make the best of the situation.”

Silence.

Her fingertips resume their pattern against her thumb. I’ve given her the plainest promise I can. She may not believe it yet.

“Can you just say something? Anything?”

She meets my eyes at last. Hers are dark brown. “Tardigrades can survive for years without food or water when they enter cryptobiosis.”

“Is that right?” I don’t know how else to respond. I’m not sure if she’s making a joke or if she’s just nervous. I know nothing about this woman—my wife.

“Yes. They reduce their metabolic activity to almost nothing. They aren’t dead, although people used to argue about whether they were.”

“I see.”