Page 57 of Conceal

My family.

The Bratva.

Me.

I can barely hear my father as the priest asks him who is giving me away. I stand where I’m supposed to stand, dressed in this sham of a dress.

Giovanni looks seconds from throwing up. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and I’m sure he was out partying last night and is fighting one hell of a hangover. My mother arranged the wedding with someone from his family, so I have no idea why they thought doing it this early would be a good idea.

The numbness that helped me survive the last month has been replaced by fear. A shiver works up my spine and settles into my belly.

I look down the aisle where Roman, Mik, and Lev stand against the back wall. Lev and Roman have their arms crossed across their chests like they’re on duty, while Mik’s eyes are visibly red.

Surely, they’ll stop this.

How can they watch me marry another man?

A man who might touch me tonight?

A man who might take what isn’t his to give?

When they get to the part where the priest asks if anyone objects, surely one of them will speak up.

They love me. I love them. I can’t marry another man.

This can’t be happening.

Right?

But the priest never asks. He drones on about love and sacrifice and loyalty while my groom sways. I give him a good once over. He’s sweaty, and his hair is greasy.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest says.

“What?” I ask.

We didn’t exchange vows. We didn’t exchange rings. Nothing about this wedding is right.

Giovanni pulls a flask from his back pocket and takes a swig. This can’t be legal, right? I haven’t signed anything. But do mafiosos really care about legality?

What’s tying me to him except for my father’s word and the expectation that I belong to Giovanni now?

He turns and walks the few steps down the platform, and an older woman with salt and pepper hair appears next to me, taking my bouquet and ushering me to a table at the side of the room where placemats for the bride and groom sit.

Someone put a lot of effort into the decorations, but it sure as hell wasn’t us. It’s all over the top, ornate, decorated. It looks like a real wedding. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. It’s a real wedding dress, a real wedding ceremony. The man sitting next to me is a real groom, even if he reeks of sweat and alcohol and too much cologne.

But none of it feels real. There’s no excitement, or relief, or love. My brain can’t quite stitch together the fact that this is real. I’m married. I have a husband. Who I don’t know at all. And who might try to kill me later.

My groom already has a glass of amber liquid in his hand, and it’s not even ten AM. I fold my dress beneath me and sit where I’m supposed to. Hours drag on, plate after plate of food is placed in front of me, only to be removed again untouched.

Mik’s disappeared. Roman and Lev circle the room, glaring at everyone and keeping an eye out for threats, when we all know the biggest threat to any of us is the man sitting next to me.

The carefully coordinated dining service gives way to loud laughter and ruckus conversations. The DJ starts, and tables are moved to the sides as they clear.

My husband stands, and I flinch, not expecting the sudden movement. He sways for a beat before staggering across the room, grabbing the arm of a woman in a tight red dress and dragging her into the hallway.

The guests are drunk.

It’s time to make my exit.