Sneak Peek of the Prologue for my Mafia Romance!
I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. I haven’t in a long time now. Her eyes scream in ways a voice never could never match. It doesn’t surprise me that no one notices.
They never do.
My reflection is less a mirror image and more a fucked up two-way mirror with someone else on the other side.
“Giana, you are a vision, my darling.”
My mother’s voice sounds as if it’s a million miles away as my eyes trail down this body that’s never felt like my own. But how could it when I’ve never been allowed to be anything other than his?
This is a beautiful dress, I remind myself.
My pulse quickens as the voices around me turn into nothing but droning echoes and I use everything inside of me to calm my racing heart before I’m too far gone.
I scan the intricate lace pattern that fits me like a second skin. My hands roam over the silky part of the fabric slowly—but something is wrong. So, so wrong.
My hands move slowly, but…it’s too slow. My entire body suddenly shifts, almost as if the world has tilted, and now everything is moving fast, everything around me, that is. From my mother chirping to the sweet seamstress nodding her head…it’s all suddenly in fast motion while every move I make seems like it taken an eternity. As if I’m here but I’m not. I’m an outsider looking in.
Like I’m watching myself trying on this dress but I’m not really in my body.
My body. This is my body.
I am my own, I am my own, I am my own.
I repeat the mantra, the broken record on repeat.
I am my own.
The little voice between my ears scolds me, curses my feeble attempt at positivity and reminds me that I’m not.
I am not my own.
And no amount of self-help audiobooks will help me feel more mine.
Nearly ten thousand crystals adorn the bright white fabric that’s snug on my skin. The plunging neckline shows more than I know my father will be comfortable with. My mother chose it. She wanted the world to see what she used to look like. Now that she’s middle-aged and has to visit a stylist monthly to cover her gray hairs and a cosmetic surgeon to pump her face full of filler and get rid of her wrinkles, the only thing she can do is show off her daughter’s body and live vicariously through it.
I inhale a shaky breath as the world around me continues to buzz by, but my thoughts slow, and I do my best to let go of every single dream I once had about marriage.
A love story that would rival all the movies I was forbidden to watch.
Choosing the man I’d spend my forever with.
Falling in love on my own terms…
I have to let go of every single one of those dreams I once pinned on my secret vision board when I was a young girl. Pictures I printed off from Google (on my best friend’s computer because my father would kill me for having such unattainable dreams) of a happy life, one I thought I could manifest into reality, despite the cards I always knew were laid out in front of me.
Cards that were dealt the moment I was conceived.
I knew this would be my reality despite the dreams I hoped would come true.
And maybe that’s the saddest part of it all.
“I think we could take it in at the waist a bit more, don’t you?”
There’s my mother again. Her voice slightly closer as she comes up to me and gathers some fabric to show the seamstress.
“She’s lost a bit of weight. Wedding nerves, I’m sure.”
I’m sure.
I wait for her to ask me what I think, although I know I’m once again just being that naive little girl who thinks her mother wants or values her opinion.
My eyes move to the seamstress with her neatly placed gray hair and apron embellished with pins. She smiles at me in the mirror as she pulls measuring tape from her apron, and I force my red stained lips to tilt up at the corners enough to pass for a smile.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m glad you like it!” she says as she moves behind me to place more pins into the fabric.
I suppose most brides with watery eyes are holding back tears of pure happiness.
Not this bride, though.
The fuzziness grows even louder, loud enough that my ears pulsate with pain. A hand grips my waist, triggering the moment his palm made contact with my skin, and suddenly I’m no longer here at all.
“You’ll take it and you’ll fucking love every second of it, you fucking bitch.” His voice makes every single hair on my body stand on end. I shake my head, a scream ripples from my mouth and his palm clasps around my mouth. He squeezes and I wince from the forcefulness of his grasp. “Make another sound and I’ll take the one thing you can’t afford to fucking lose.” His hands are on my waist and he’s pushing me to the floor and I’m falling to my knees like the obedient girl I am. Like the obedient girl I have to be. “Open your fucking mouth, cunt.”
The sound of a door opening and closing pulls me from the memory, and suddenly everything is moving normally again. Gone is the slow motion. My mother’s voice chirping away to the seamstress is close now, no longer far away and fuzzy.
I am my own, I am my own, I am my own.
Heavy footsteps thud against the floor in an all too familiar pattern. The thumping grows closer and closer until my eyes meet those of my father’s in the mirror as I stand here waiting for him to pick me apart. I’m a sitting duck for him to shoot down, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll take aim. I’m already deep within his sights.
He clears his throat, knocking me out of my thoughts once again, and I quickly turn toward my father, accidently bumping into both my mother and the seamstress.
“Father.”
I don’t know why I didn’t expect this, but I curse myself for not seeing it coming.
He eyes me from top to bottom, silently assessing. His eyes squint with a look that I know all too well. Disapproval. I wait for the carefully constructed words I know will come as he places both hands on his hips and draws in a deep breath. His charcoal suit, one of his favorites, hangs against his tall frame without even one single crease, moving with his body as he takes a step forward, moving toward me. Still judging. Still disapproving.
I have to physically force myself to not squint my own eyes in retaliation. A habit of his I’ve picked up. I’ve picked up on a few of his traits, one of them being my smart mouth, but he’ll never see that side of me. He can’t. No matter how fucked up this life I lead is, I still want to survive.
My father’s salt and pepper hair has one small strand out of place, no doubt from the strong Chicago wind, and I want to pick him apart for it the way he’s picked me apart for the same exact thing.
But I don’t.
I would never.
I know my place.
Father clears his throat again before speaking, and my heart beats an out of control staccato that I feel pounding all the way up in the middle of my throat. Thump, thump-thump, thump, thump-thump-thump.Everything spins as I force the small bit of air left in the room down into my lungs.
“This body is for your husband, piccolo uccello.” He shakes his head and glances from me to my mother and back again. “Not for every man in the church.”
“Gabriel, she looks beautiful. Don’t you remember when we married? This reminds me of my gown.” My mother places her palm on my father’s chest with a smile but he moves away, and I step off the bridal platform and place my own hand on the mirror to steady myself.
Thump-thump, thump, thump, thump-thump, thump.
He scoffs before a harsh laugh escapes his lips.
“If you would’ve had that much of your skin on display I would have turned you away back to your father. It’s quite unfortunate that’s how you remember things, Elena.”
The poor seamstress has backed away into a corner and is doing her best to not watch this family shitfest unfold but there’s a reason reality television shows exist. Drama is hard to look away from. She casts her gaze onto the pins she’s still holding, rolling them between the pads of her fingers.
“Gabriel, please,” my mother whisper-shouts frantically but he cuts off anything else she planned on saying by holding his palm up and turning toward me.
“I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave this up to your mother. Thankfully I assumed as much and swung by on my way to my meeting. I can’t imagine what Roberto would think of seeing his new daughter-in-law walk down the aisle with her most intimate parts on full display,” he seethes, gesturing to the same neckline my mother was just admiring. He points to the slits on both sides of the fabric, showing off my legs. “Patetica.” He turns to the seamstress, and with a snarl, walks over to her, pointing his finger in her face. “No more changes to this outfit made for a fucking whore.” Spittle flies from his lips, his red cheeks burning with anger. “No more money spent on this. In fact, you can have it.” He looks back at me as I walk toward the two of them, wanting desperately to pull him away from this kind woman who has nothing to do with any of this, knowing I can’t.
“Take it off, Giana. Take it off and give it to her.” He points to the seamstress. “She can give it to a piece of trash for her wedding day. I’m sure she knows plenty.”
And with that, tears gather in my eyes for an entirely new reason.
My father leaves, slamming the door behind him, walking out into the cold winter that’s as bitter as his heart. I apologize to the seamstress as my mother tells me we have mere days to find another dress; she’s already on the phone with another boutique as I grab hold of the woman’s hands and tell her how sorry I am.
Two weeks.
The reminder is a slap in the face.
Just when I thought my life couldn’t be more fucked up…
I’m being married off to the heir of the Blood Syndicate Cartel.
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