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IX
Isabella
On the first day of Spring, I became Isabella Vigliano.
It was a beautiful day. Clear blue skies, buttery sunlight, a warm breeze. Flowers bloomed and birds sung from their nests.
I felt betrayed by the world. How dare it allow such beauty on the day of my destruction? How dare the world welcome new life when my life was about to be forfeit?
My anxiety was strong enough to grow its own head and arms, I thought as I leaned against the church walls. Cold marble pressed into my skin, the stony eyes of the saints looking down on me. The heavy train of my dress rooted me in place, paired with the long veil that shrouded my eyesight and a large bouquet of white roses.
The organ shuddered through the walls as the bridesmaids walked down the aisle.
I was up next.
I looked to my right. Uncle Angelo looked handsome in his tux, the only sign of his brutality was the scar down the side of his face. When he caught my eye, he softened his features and even attempted a smile.
“You look beautiful, fragolina.”
“You’ve already told me that.”
I didn’t look beautiful, I looked striking. The long-sleeve wedding dress was made of lace and silk, sliding down my figure, and pooling out at my waist. It was a wedding dress fit for a queen–and it was almost as heavy as a castle. I had to employ my maid of honor to help me whenever I needed to go to the bathroom.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“No.” I looked out the glass windows, anger spurring low in my gut at the su
“Neither am I.”
The organ grew louder, the familiar tune rising higher and higher.
“I’m scared,” I breathed.
Uncle Angelo offered me his arm. “I know, fragolina. I know.”
He didn’t tell me there was nothing to be scared of, or that my fear was unjustified. Uncle Angelo and I both knew the truth. He wouldn’t disrespect me by lying so obviously.
But we were divided when it came to the reason why I was scared. Uncle Angelo thought I was frightened of being Giova
Don’t say that, I warned myself. It’s ‘if’ he finds out, not ‘when’.
“He won’t hurt you,” my uncle tried to comfort me. “He knows this marriage assures the loyalty of the Lombardis.”
“Are there still Lombardis?” I asked. “Or does this marriage make us all Viglianos?”
A flicker of pride danced over my uncle’s face. It warped his scar in a way I had never seen before. “We are an old family, Isabella. We reigned in Sicily and when we migrated to America, we have reigned here as well. Your veins are filled with the blood of dons and capos. There isn’t a chapter of mafia history our family hasn’t helped write.”
“Our family won’t be involved in the future,” I said. “The territory your grandfather ruled belongs to Giova
“It would take a magnificent phoenix to defeat the bastard son of Lorenzo Vigliano,” my uncle said. He didn’t sound convinced.
Uncle Angelo had sold his loyalty to Giova
She had promised me love.
I could still feel the sensation of her touch on my skin, the feeling of love as she had embraced me. The child inside of me preened at the memory. If I defeated Giova
“Do you think Isabella would be better suited to marry Giova
My uncle snapped his head to me, nostrils flaring. Before he could say anything, the huge doors opened and the crescendo of the music washed over me, rendering me momentarily paralyzed.
Then Uncle Angelo hooked my arm through his, placing my hand over his. He gave me an affectionate squeeze.
Through the lace of my veil, I took in the thousands of guests, from my family to the other mobs of America. The Godless Don of Chicago and his Golden Regina sat in the first row, joined the four New York bosses and the three Irish Kings of Boston. It wasn’t our allies that made me nervous, however. It was my family.
Lombardis and Viglianos were separated by the white aisle. Their eyes tracked me like wolves, their thoughts written plain on their faces. Some kind, some cruel. Some terrifying.
There will be no peace.
She looks beautiful.
This is a disgrace.
She looks grown up.
This is the best option.
She looks honorable.
This is the begi Past the whispers and stares, past the elaborate hats and sharp tuxedos, my fiancé stood. Giova Seeing his dark figure amidst the holiness of the church felt wrong. He didn’t belong here, the blood on his hands was too ripe for the sanctuary of God. Hell, the blood in his veins should’ve excluded him from stepping inside the holy grounds. That would all be forgotten once he bound himself to me. He was giving me a surname and in return, I was giving him my bloodline. We stopped in front of the altar, our eyes finally meeting. I barely registered Uncle Angelo kissing my cheek and letting go of my hand, nor did I notice Marzia taking my bouquet and sitting in the front row. Giova A sudden thought occurred to me: I know why I can’t get the correct shade of blue when trying to recreate Giova The reason? I was putting too much emotion in them. The wedding reception took place in a luxurious hotel. I had been surprised that Giova Plus, all the security cameras were covered. My new husband and I came into the room holding hands, then spent the next hour receiving congratulations from the families. The compliments and well-wishes washed over me; the only thing I could focus on was Giova I had to physically stop myself from shrugging away. I didn’t like the way his touch made me feel. I didn’t like the racing heart and rapid thoughts and churning gut. I felt almost petulant in my dislike. It makes me feel excited, so I want it to stop, my reasoning sounded like. He was my husband so I would have to find a way to relax beneath his hands. “Alessandro, Sophia,” Giova The Rocchettis and Lombardis had never been close, but I knew the Rocchettis and Viglianos also had bad blood between them. There was a rumor that the late Don of Chicago had slaughtered all Lorenzo’s bastards in his city, wiping away dozens of i