Page 12 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

Despite my protestations, on the day of my wedding, I wear white.

I thought maroon might be good if my sisters wouldn’t consider black, or bright red even.

A red dress is traditional for some cultures, and I thought I had a good chance with this argument because Google told me that Russian brides traditionally were all about red.

Willa and Vanessa said that would be great if I were Russian, but since I’m Italian and this wedding is all about appearances, we’re sticking to white.

I managed a very red bouquet, at least. And these deep red heels which I like so much I might wear them to every formal occasion for the rest of my life.

They both cried at my dress fitting, pregnancy hormones making them a mess, and Mom cried too, but she always cries, she can’t help it. I thought I looked strange, but I’ve been in Willa’s costumes every week since this engagement was announced, so might as well go all the way for the wedding.

In my bright, luxurious bridal suite now, I step into the simple gown and pull the thin straps over my shoulders before letting my mom help with the zipper and the many, many buttons down the back of the dress.

The fabric is exquisite, smooth satin that feels too fine beneath my finger tips.

I am forced to stand taller as Mom pulls the bodice into place.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers. I look at her through the mirror, and her eyes are on mine. I smile softly at her.

“I know.”

“There’s still time,” she says, even as her fingers still deftly slide every little button into place. “I’d help you.”

Once she finishes the row of buttons, she turns me by the shoulders and looks so earnest, so genuine in her promise to help me be a runaway bride if I needed.

The nervous part of me craves to take her up on the offer, but that thought is quickly squashed when Angel waltzes into the room wearing her own white dress, hers knee-length with wide purple ribbons tied in bows at the tops of her shoulders.

She’s turning fourteen this year, the age I was when she was born, and my chest squeezes at the memory of her tiny head in my hands. She never wanted to be put down, a Velcro baby, and my tiny best friend.

I meet my mother’s tearful stare again and offer as honest a smile as I can. “Thank you, Mamma.”

She exhales, sets her shoulders, and accepts my decision. I’ve always appreciated this about our mom, ever-willing to let us make our own choices. She kisses both of my cheeks and squeezes my hands three times before wrapping Angel in her own hug.

“What are we crying about?” Angel asks.

Mom laughs, and gently pats under her eyes. “Your auntie just looks so pretty. I wish her papa could see her now.”

“Ma?” Vanessa calls from the door, obviously in transit somewhere else. She and Willa have been scurrying from one place to the next all morning. My job is easy in comparison; I just have to get married. “Can you help with the cake delivery?”

“Of course,” Mom says. She kisses Angel’s head and leaves me and my niece in the bridal suite. Willa has already done Angel’s hair into a sophisticated braid down her back, but I bend slightly and push some baby hairs behind her ears before I squeeze her cheeks.

“You’re going to mess up my makeup,” she protests.

“You’re the one eating mini donuts, Menace.”

“Blame Artie, he got them from Nate!”

“So we should be blaming Nate,” I conclude. “Well, chocolate fingers and all, you’re stunning.”

“You look weird in white,” she whispers, and we both break into a fit of giggles.

“That’s what I said!” I wrap her in a side hug and then tickle her. She laughs louder, drawing the attention of Willa in the hallway who has planned this wedding like a military operation despite the fact her water could break any day now.

My sister smiles at the scene from the doorway, but then puts on her stern face. “Who gave you those? You are both wearing white!”

I take a step to the left, bringing Angel with me so our bodies hide the offending chocolate donuts on the table behind us.

Angel is almost as tall as me these days.

She’ll be taller than me within the next few months.

I suppose that’s not difficult, since I’m somehow the smallest of the family by many inches.

Someone calls Willa’s name before she can chastise or direct us more and she points two fingers at her eyes and then us before stalking away to deal with whatever else could go wrong.

“Mary,” Angel starts. I can tell from her tone that she’s about to ask a difficult question. One of the ones with a messy answer.

I give her my attention and nod at her to go on.

“I asked Mom if you love Maxim and she said it’s complicated. But you do, right? Love him?”

I blink at the candor of the question. I can see my sister trying to be honest with her daughter without telling her the whole truth. Normal people don’t need arranged marriages. Complicated indeed.

“I am marrying for love.” I don’t mention that this is not love for him , but for her, for all our family. “Maxim will be a good uncle to you, you’ll see.”

“But are you in love with him? Like Mom and Dad?”

I open my mouth, then close it. I can’t lie to her, she’s too sharp. She’ll see straight through me; she already has, she just doesn’t want to believe it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone as much as your parents love each other. But that’s okay.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, takes a bite of a mini donut. “Do you think I’ll love who I marry?”

I nod too quickly, any other option too abhorrent to me.

I don’t want her to know how thoroughly that question just knocked me on my ass.

I think if she tried to marry someone she didn’t love, I’d drag her away to another country to hide out in a beach house.

Hell, I’d take her to Italy. We could start a business, fend for ourselves.

“You will,” I say, my voice firm. “You’ll find a love so big it’ll make you dizzy. And you’ll drive your kids crazy by kissing at the dinner table, and you’ll be so deliriously happy.”

She smiles, quiet delight so evident on her face. I pinch her cheek again and she bats me away.

I look in the mirror at us in our white dresses and smile. I will do this for her, so that she can live long enough to have that future.

A throat clears from behind us, and we both jump, turning to see none other than my husband-to-be standing in a crisp suit, all black, with a crimson rose boutonniere pinned to his lapel.

Angel shrieks. “You’re not supposed to see her!”

Maxim doesn’t respond at first, his gaze preternaturally still on me.

He probably agrees that I look as ridiculous as I feel. He snaps out of it and offers a smile to Angel.

“But if I can’t see her, how will I give her my gift?”

Angel’s eyes go wide—the girl, like any thirteen year old, loves gifts.

“Scram,” I whisper. She gives an excited giggle before walking off past him. Then it’s just us in the quiet bridal suite, sun casting through the tall windows on the floor between us. I don’t step toward him, and after a moment, his strides eat up the distance between us.

“Willa will scream if she sees you in here. She’s superstitious.”

“And you?” he asks, a smirk tugging up his lips. “Do you believe in bad luck?”

I shake my head.

His eyes flit down again before returning to my face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my fiancée was just checking me out.

“You are very beautiful,” he says. I note that he didn’t say I look beautiful, only that I am.

“And you are very. . .” handsome, striking, perplexing , all cross my mind, “tall.”

That rare smile breaks over his face, and I find a soft one on my lips as well. “You look very nice,” I amend. “Like a groom.”

“I brought you something.” Maxim reaches into his coat and retrieves a rectangular box. I take it tentatively from his hand and run my fingertips over the leather before sliding over the clasp and opening it.

It’s a necklace, a dainty gold chain and a golden pendant with three small diamonds embedded like stars. It’s simple and beautiful, and my finger traces over the oval pendant.

“I thought?—”

He cuts off like he’s at a loss for words when I look back up at him. After a moment, he tries again. “I wanted you to have something to remind you of your home.”

I look at the pendant again—three diamonds, one for me and each of my sisters, I realize.

“Will you help me put it on?” I ask, already pulling it from the box’s soft interior.

He closes the distance, and stands directly behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat against my bare back and smell his cologne. It’s not offensive to me like most colognes. His is softer and more citrusy.

I lift my hair off my neck. Willa tried to convince me to put it into some outrageous updo, but I drew the line at the wide skirt.

My head comes just above his chin in the heels I wear, and I watch in the mirror as he focuses intently on the task of clasping the chain around my neck. When it’s secure, his hands drop to his sides and his eyes meet mine in the mirror.

We aren’t often alone like this, usually surrounded by strangers, or at least his driver.

It’s for the best; I’m not sure we really have anything to talk about.

But even still, we have an agreement, a mutual understanding of what this is and why we are doing it, and I see that in his eyes reflected through the glass.

In the secret depths of mind, I hope he’ll be able to stand me.

He must know by now how unlikable I can be.

The pendant hangs in the center of my chest above the square neckline of the dress, and it really was the perfect thing to add to the outfit. Simple, but beautiful. The kind of delicate thing I would never purchase for myself, which makes me like it all the more.

The ring I wear is far from simple, vintage and gold and with the most massive diamond. Even if his babushka haunts it, I have grown to quite like it.

“Thank you, Maxim.”

The thank you is for more than just the necklace. He knows it.

“Of course.”

I set my shoulders back and exhale a big breath. “Shall we get married, then?”