Page 53 of Bitter Poetry

The perfect mafia princess in virginal white is ready to be sacrificed.

Jessica watches on, her expression forlorn. She’s wearing a simple gown, and her long hair cascades down her back—a beauty who will one day soon become a stunning young woman.

Last night I shared a bed with her. We talked, all the while knowing that tonight she will be with Papa in their new brownstone on the other side of the city.

“You can change your mind,”she said. “Papa won’t be mad.”

I envy her innocence in thinking it a possibility. It was never a possibility, even at the start.

In the quieter moments of the night, I asked myself questions about consent—questions I had never considered before. Ettore is going to be my husband. While I’m sure there are couples who still wait until their wedding night, in the modern world many do not. What he did with me wasn’t unexpected, nor would it be considered unreasonable in many people’s eyes. On the surface, it was not very different from what happened with Dante.

Only it felt different.Ifelt different, both during and afterward. And therein lies the crux.

“Tell me he hasn’t touched you.”

My answer to that question would be different today.

“Your first kiss is mine. If I have my way, your first everything will be mine, too.”

Well, one thing has been taken off the table. In a matter of hours, so will the ultimate one.

“Lie for me.”

I did. Willingly, gladly, without reservation.

Only he liedtome. He didn’t take all my firsts.

He only took a few.

The door opens, and Helena sweeps in, bringing a cloud of my mother’s scent with her. Following behind is her ungodly offspring, who looks faintly satanic even in her sweet flower girl dress. The poor nanny I’ve heard Helena screaming at follows meekly behind.

Helena is my maid of honor. Not by my choice. Ettore asked me, sort of. It was a request with a heavy component of expectation. Had I been better prepared, I might have had an excuse to refuse, but he caught me off guard. I get a strong impression Helena doesn’t like me. Or maybe I’m merely projecting my feelings for her back at myself. It never crossed my mind that she might want to be my maid of honor.

Like Jessica and me, Helena’s dress is white. Only it really isn’t her color, and my uncharitable side takes savage satisfaction in this knowledge.

She casts her critical assessment over me and turns to the nearest stylist. “Do you think a little more color in the cheeks might help?”

“I’m happy with my makeup, thank you,” I say before she has any ideas about railroading me. My skin is naturally pale, and the last thing I want is to look like a clown.

The demon child makes a beeline for Jessica and grabs a handful of her gown, twisting it savagely in her small fist.

A stylist gasps.

“Ask your daughter to behave, please, Helena.” My tone is barely civil. I can see the tears pooling in Jessica’s eyes. Forsomeone more often resilient, my sister is unusually fragile today—we both are.

“Lillete,” Helena snaps.

The nanny hurries forward, using a soft, coaxing voice to encourage the child to let go.

The monster tugs, nearly pulling Jessica over.

Helena chuckles. “Darling, let Jessica’s gown go.”

I can see Jessica building up to saying something that will have ramifications for the day ahead.

“Peony, go to your nanny now,” I say more sharply than might be advisable. “Or you will have to stay behind for the wedding.”

“I don’t appreciate you taking that tone with my daughter.”