Page 31 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)
ABELLA
“ E vviva gli sposi!”
“ Per Cent'anni !”
Angelo and I pass through the send-off line as our guests shower us with well-wishes for our departure.
The marking ceremony comes next, and it will be a private affair.
It’s an archaic but important tradition amongst Society members, and women often only hear the details from those who have been married before us.
I know what to expect, and I’m not nervous.
I trust that, as much as Angelo may resent me, he won’t hurt me.
I’ve heard stories of the few women who were given the brutal markings of a fire-branding, rather than ink.
I’ve seen the scars firsthand, along with the haunting emptiness in their eyes.
As much as Angelo may have changed in the past six years, there’s still one thing I can swear on. He would never choose that for me.
Angelo Vitale does not and would never brutalize women.
Sensing my attention on him, he turns to look at me as we reach the end of the line.
For a second, amid the shouts and cheers and confetti, I find myself caught up in the moment.
The warmth in his gaze melts my insides, while at the same time, the voice inside my head reminds me this is an illusion.
He confirms it when his knuckles graze my cheek and he nods to the crowd, as if to remind me we have an audience. Together, we turn to face them as cameras flash and sparklers dance in the night.
My girls blow me kisses while Angelo’s uncle Sal slaps him on the back. Then Nonna shoos us off to go “tend to the garden.”
With that, we say goodbye as Nicky opens the rear passenger door to a black Maserati. It’s one of many in a large convoy. All of Angelo’s men will leave with us tonight, ensuring we get to wherever we’re going.
Once we’re settled in, Nicky takes the driver’s seat and starts the engine. I don’t know when or where Angelo met him, but it’s clear that he trusts him.
As Pavarotti plays from the speakers, the entire procession rolls down the long, winding road leading out of the resort. Angelo focuses on the passing landscape as I referee a million thoughts bouncing around my head. There’s a lot I want to say, but I address the most pressing issue first.
“Where is Matteo?”
A flicker of tension passes over Angelo’s features as he keeps his gaze trained out the window. “He’s tied up at the moment.”
I swallow, suspecting he means that literally.
“But you won’t hurt him, right?”
I twist my hands together in my lap as he turns to look at me with a bored expression. In this light, his eyes are inky black.
“Of course not. He’s my brother.”
His tone is completely detached, and it sets me on edge. Matteo wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me, and I don’t want to be the reason that they hate each other—though I suppose it’s too late for that.
“It was all my fault,” I tell Angelo. “Please don’t take it out on him.”
His exhalation is sharp and steeped in derision. “Falling on your sword, Abella? How romantic.”
Nicky shoots me a glance in the mirror like I’m crazy for bringing this up now, and I suppose I am.
It’s our wedding night, and there’s a lot more to come.
I’m not under any illusion that this is a fairy tale, but I don’t want this dark cloud looming over our heads.
So for now, I keep my thoughts to myself as we make the short drive through the Tuscan countryside.
As we begin our ascent to what can only be one of the medieval hilltop towns nearby, I take in the olive groves, vineyards, and buildings covered with cascades of flowers. Even at night, it’s beautiful and sacred, and truthfully, I can’t imagine anywhere better suited for a marking ceremony.
Outside the ancient stone fortress surrounding the town, the first cars in the procession pull off to the side, creating a barricade that will remain behind us as we pass through.
Nicky navigates the car onto the gravel, parking us right next to one of the archways that opens into the town. Angelo shrugs out of his suit jacket and exits the car, walking around to open my door.
“You’ll want to take those off.” He glances down at my heels.
I do as he suggests, leaving them on the floorboard. I’m not about to try to navigate cobblestone in my spike-heeled crystal Jimmy Choos.
Before I can swing my bare foot out, Angelo leans down and sweeps me up into his arms in one smooth motion.
“I can walk,” I protest half-heartedly.
He hauls me through the stone archway without a response as Nicky trails behind us, carrying the bag I packed for tonight.
Angelo navigates the village’s narrow pathways, and after a steep climb, we reach the piazza.
It’s a beautiful square surrounded by shuttered buildings, worn stone, and centuries of history.
But I’m most impressed by the fact that Angelo doesn’t seem taxed in the slightest after hefting my ass up that hill.
We pass by a church and several other meandering pathways before we reach the castle at the highest point of the village.
Angelo carries me through the raised iron portcullis, leading us out onto a terrace perched on a cliff’s edge.
Glowing lanterns illuminate the space, and men in hooded robes stand in a semi-circle, ready to greet us.
Beyond the castle wall, this area provides privacy, along with a sweeping view of the open countryside.
As far as the eye can see, there’s nothing but rolling hills and starry Tuscan skies.
As the portcullis closes behind us, it becomes apparent that this is the setting for the marking ceremony. Angelo sets me upon my feet, and one of the robed representatives from IVI steps forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Vitale.” The man gestures to the long table overflowing with a bounty of bread, wine, cheese, and fruit. “The village offers you this gift for the most blessed of occasions.”
Angelo thanks him before his gaze drifts to the ornately carved wooden throne sat against the dramatic backdrop. A small table beside it already has the necessary equipment for the tattoo, while a fire pit burns nearby, the branding iron nestled within its glowing coals.
“A gift from the Tribunal,” the representative explains. “After tonight’s ceremony, we’ll have it shipped to the island for you to use at your leisure.”
At this, Angelo scrapes a hand over his jaw, his irritation palpable.
While impractical, the throne appears to be a symbolic gesture to honor Angelo’s position within the Cosa Nostra .
If I had to guess, this must be the Society’s olive branch for his wrongful conviction.
The Tribunal’s Councilors aren’t the type to grovel, but they also know the Cosa Nostra isn’t an organization they want to enter a bloody war with.
The Vitales straddle both worlds, but their loyalty is first and foremost to the family.
While The Society has its own rules of law and order, they overstepped when they took the unprecedented action of imprisoning a member of the Cosa Nostra .
It was only because he was accused of killing a Councilor’s son that the Tribunal made the call.
There’s always been a delicate balance between the two worlds.
The Society takes a willfully ignorant approach when it comes to members affiliated with the Mafia.
They don’t want to know about it, and they’ll deny such a connection exists down to their very marrow.
And yet, when they need something handled, they always know who to call.
Before the incident that led to Angelo’s imprisonment, the Vitales were negotiating a partnership with Adrian Lockwood.
He was a Society son looking to make a name for himself in the art world.
He wanted to be known as someone who could source the impossible for private sales.
The Cosa Nostra had access to those channels.
During a meeting with Angelo, Adrian’s gallery was ransacked by unidentified men, and he was killed in the process. Over a million dollars of art went missing, and only one man was left standing in the rubble.
Councilor Lockwood took the position that it had to have been a setup.
It didn’t make sense that his son would be shot, but Angelo wasn’t.
And given his ties to the Cosa Nostra , the Tribunal agreed.
They sentenced Angelo to decades behind bars in a Tribunal prison—with the condition that he would be released if the Vitales could prove his innocence.
For months, it was all anyone could talk about.
It very nearly started a war, and there was a time when I was certain Silvio might forsake it all and burn the whole organization to the ground.
It was only because of Angelo that he didn’t.
Silvio spared no expense and turned over every stone in search of who was responsible.
Battles erupted with smaller gangs, and tensions were so high between every faction in the city, I wasn’t sure any of us would make it out alive.
But in the end, Angelo must have proven his innocence because he wouldn’t be standing here today if he hadn’t.
Now, The Society offers him a table full of food and a throne as if that will smooth things over. Tension lingers in the air, and I imagine Angelo giving them a Spartan-style death as he hurtles each of them over the cliff. But instead, he dismisses them.
“You can all take your leave.”
A long, uncomfortable silence follows before the representative replies. “Mr. Vitale, it’s our job to witness?—”
“And you’ll take my word that it’s done,” Angelo replies bluntly. “Now, let my men bring me what I require. Then lower the portcullis and go.”
Unsurprisingly, the men do as he says. As they shuffle through the archway, Angelo unknots his tie and pulls it loose from his collar. When he lifts his gaze to mine, the heat smoldering behind those dark eyes leaves little doubt about his intentions tonight.
He will take me, and I will burn for it.