Page 13 of Vows of Blood
“Papa,” I say, “I don’t know this woman. More importantly, I’m not interested in marriage?—”
“That is irrelevant. Son, this is a business arrangement. We are uniting with the Pecora family, something that will undoubtedly benefit us in the long run. They have been formidable rivals for years. You do realize they are the biggest family in New York State.”
I hear what he’s saying. It makes sense. But…marriage?“There has to be another way to unite with them. We can discuss a truce or a treaty?—”
“It’s already being discussed, Alexei. Your marriage will be a show of good faith on both our parts. It will let them knowthat we can be trusted as their allies. This marriage is the most important thing you will ever do for the Bratva.”
I just stare at him. Everything within me is conflicted. “I’ve dedicated my life to the brotherhood,” I say. “I will follow any order you give me in the name of it. But this…? You can’t possibly expect?—”
“I expect you to do as you are told,” he said firmly. “You will marry Analisa Pecora and you will be her husband in every sense to solidify trust between these families. This is not up for debate. It has been decided.”
My jaw clenches to stop myself from speaking out against him. This is bullshit.
“Now,” he says, “if there’s nothing else, I am quite busy.”
He put his reading glasses back on and returns to the papers he’s reading. All I can do is turn and leave. I might not like any of this, but he’s right. I don’t have a choice. He’s spoken and I have to follow.
But I don’t have to like it.
5
ISABELLA
“Cheer up, Ms. Pecora. This is your wedding and you look like you’re getting ready for a funeral!”
That’s exactly what she looks like, too. The wedding dress designer is standing next to my sister as she stands in front of the mirror. The dress she’s wearing is breathtakingly beautiful. It’s a form-fitting mermaid style dress that’s embroidered with lace flowers over every inch of the fabric. The designer just put the veil on her head. It’s a fine lace netting with a crown of white flowers. The whole thing cascades over her like a shaft of sunlight.
She looks amazing, except for the sullen look in her eyes. The sparkle’s almost completely gone from them and it’s almost like there’s a dark cloud hanging over all of us.
“She’s just tired,” I say to the designer. “You know, Bachelorette party last night and everything. I think we went a little too hard.”
The designer’s a rotund older woman with bottle blonde hair and big chipmunk cheeks. She laughs brightly. “Oh, I can understand that. Me and my girlfriends went to Vegas for mybachelorette party. All I can say is that I found out why they say what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
She looks back over at my sister, who isn’t even responsive, really. She’s picking at the little lace flowers in her dress.
“You know what would really be nice?” I tell the designer. “Some cold water. I know I’m parched and I bet my sister is dying for a drink.”
“Oh, no problem. I’ll be right back, Ladies.”
She leaves and I walk over to my sister. “Hey,” I say as I touch her shoulder. She flinches from me instinctively, dropping the part of her dress she was so fascinated with. “I know today sucks and everything, but you’ve got to at least fake a smile every now and then.”
Annie looks up at herself in the mirror, her eyes surveying every detail of the image before her. She scoffs and says, “I always thought I’d look beautiful in a wedding dress. Looks like I was right.”
I don’t really know how to help her. I can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now. The loss of control over her own life must be crippling. “You know, I was reading about arranged marriages in other countries like India and places in the Middle East. And apparently, the divorce rate is way lower than in America, if you can believe that.”
“That’s probably because it’s harder to get divorced in those places.” Annie says that in a flat tone. Like an automated response. “Kinda makes you wonder what the death rate is among the husbands in those marriages.”
Any other day, we might be laughing. Outside of the context of this fucked up situation, it’s a pretty witty response. “Hope you’re not thinking of finding out,” I say, hoping to elicit even the smallest of smiles. It doesn’t work. She just continues to stare at herself in the mirror.
The designer returns with two bottles of water in hand. “Here you go,” she says brightly. She hands us each a bottle, then looks at my sister in her dress and says, “So, what do we think? Is this the one?”
“It’s a little loose in the hips,” Annie says, “but it’s fine. I think we’ll take it.”
The designer looks at me, then back at her. “Are you sure? This is only the first dress you’ve tried on.”
“I’m sure,” Annie says. She steps back and away from the mirror.
“W–Well, if you want, we can take it in a little at the hips.”
