Page 11 of Enzo (Legacy of Heathens #3)

PENELOPE

A mara and I stared at the altered wedding dress hanging in the protective case. It was the same dress that my nonna wore when she married Nonno—and the one my mama wore when she wed Papà—but you’d never guess, considering the impeccable state it was in.

“I can’t believe you’re getting married next week,” my sister said from her position on the couch, her feet folded under her small frame. “It was only announced two weeks ago.”

Three, but who’s counting?

Flicking a glance Amara’s way, I noticed goose bumps on her arms and her pale expression that had nothing to do with my wedding and everything to do with the chemicals flowing through her.

She’d endured a round of chemo yesterday and would feel the effects for days, but despite her fatigue, she couldn’t contain her excitement for my wedding.

“I know,” I grumbled.

She practically buzzed with excitement; I felt like I was being dragged to a firing squad.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said, hesitating. “Will you be my maid of honor?”

She squealed, then suddenly sobered. “Wait… are you only asking me because it’s a family-only wedding?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “No. I’m asking you because you’re my sister and because there’s no one else I’d rather have by my side. Family only or not. Sham or not.”

Her eyes lit up again.

“Oh my gosh!” she squealed. “Yes! Of course, I will! I have no idea what I’m doing, but don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it the best fake wedding anyone’s ever seen!”

I reached for another throw blanket to lay over her, tsking as I tucked it tightly around her shoulders. “You seem more excited about that wedding than anyone else. Maybe you should marry Enzo Marchetti.”

She smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes. They seemed to have a lasting dullness these days, and I knew the change spoke of the pain she tried to hide. “If he’s willing to wait until I turn twenty-one, I’m game.”

“If I see him before the actual wedding day, I’ll be sure to ask him,” I remarked wryly. “The eager fiancé doesn’t even seem bothered to meet me.”

For someone so determined to make our marriage official, Enzo sure seems hell-bent on avoiding me. He had the engagement ring couriered. A half-million-dollar ring delivered, like it was some postcard sent from Disneyland.

So, naturally, I flushed it down the toilet.

Of course, the official story was that the prominent diamond had slipped off my finger and into the sink drain.

She tilted her chin at the wedding dress. “Do you like it?”

“I do.”

Although unbeknownst to my darling baby sister or anyone else, for that matter, I wouldn’t be wearing it.

There was no way I’d sully the memory of what it represented.

Instead, I planned on an entirely different outfit for my “big day.” Something that screamed “Fuck you” to my future husband and his entire family.

“If I live long enough to get married, I would love to wear it too,” she whispered dreamily, and my chest tightened.

I joined her on the couch and pulled her closer, sharing in my body heat, then rasped, “I’ll save the dress for you.”

Lana Del Rey’s Ultraviolence album had been playing on repeat while the two of us cuddled under the blankets in our living room.

With wedding plans in full swing and most of the arrangements being handled by the Marchettis and Mama, I took advantage of the quality time with my favorite person in the world.

Papà grumbled whenever the word “wedding” came up, which made Amara giggle uncontrollably.

I simply ignored it in favor of fantasizing about my masked man.

If only I knew how to find him, I would definitely request one more night.

Something to hold me over for the remainder of my days—or until I could be rid of Enzo Marchetti.

My phone buzzed, the text notification pulling my attention.

Arianna: Congratulations are in order, I hear. How do you feel?

Arianna and Hannah’s mother was Papà’s half sister, which made them my cousins. I loved our big family, but when shit happened that you didn’t want anyone to know… well, then it sucked.

Me: The same way you felt about Matteo’s engagement to Hannah.

Arianna:

Me: Exactly. Add in a throw-up emoji and that pretty much sums it up.

Arianna: I’m sorry. Can I do anything? Help you disappear?

I laughed at her suggestion—why did everyone in my family have a penchant for elaborate vanishing plans?

Me: No, it would only delay the inevitable.

Not to mention start a war, which would affect way too many people I loved.

Arianna: If it’s any consolation, I think you’ll sweep him off his feet. Make him your bitch, cuz.

Me: Huh?

Arianna: Gosh, you’re not going to make me spell it out, are you?

Me: Yes.

Arianna: Fine, just make sure our parents don’t see this message.

Me: Don’t worry, I’ll delete our chat.

Arianna: Fuck his brains out and then make. him. your. bitch.

A strangled laugh escaped me. I would expect this from her twin, Hannah, but not from sweet, innocent Arianna.

I typed back my reply, smiling.

Me: I see marriage suits you.

“What’s so funny?” Amara whined, shaking my arm until I gave her my full attention.

“Arianna’s giving me some questionable advice,” I explained, which only sparked her curiosity.

“What did she say?”

I winced. I couldn’t tell my eleven-year-old sister something so crude.

“She said to make Enzo fall in love with me so he’ll do my bidding,” I said, settling for a softer version of the truth, unable to keep my eyes from rolling.

“That’s good advice. Isn’t it?”

I shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Are they coming for the wedding?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. The Marchettis had given strict instructions to keep the wedding small and family only. Yes, Hannah and Arianna were family, but after everything that’d happened in the past few months, I didn’t think they’d be up for this wedding circus.

“Pen?” Amara propped her chin in her hand, a dreamy look overtaking her face. “Will you play the cello for me?”

My chest tightened. “Of course.” We both knew I’d never refuse her, so I went to fetch it.

The cello always sat in our family room, waiting to be played.

It’d been a while since I’d utilized the studio at D’Arc, but it was more than straightforward neglect; a part of me associated the cello with Amara’s illness.

Once the instrument was positioned between my thighs, I reached for the bow and drew it across the strings. The melody instantly filled my soul, and I poured the depth of my fears and desires into each note as I played for my sister, who smiled softly from her perch on the couch.

This was the reason I’d learned to play: for her. For that smile. For the joy it brought her.

I didn’t know how much time had passed when Amara patted the spot next to her and I abandoned the instrument. I was fussing over her blankets when the door swung open and my brothers appeared.

“Your good time is about to start,” Armani announced theatrically, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

Amara and I shared a glance, then giggled.

Much like always, the four of us ended up yapping for hours.

Our family’s living room was where we hung out the most. It was where Nonno had shared stories with us and regaled us with tales of his past. When we were in this room, you could almost feel him here, hear his laugh, and catch sight of his mischievous grin.

“You should let us kill Enzo,” Damiano stated confidently, his feet propped up on the coffee table while sipping Papà’s most expensive bottle of wine. If our parents knew what went on behind these doors, they’d strangle us.

“You’d have to kill the entire Marchetti bloodline,” I said quietly.

“It could be done,” Armani claimed, but it was evident in his expression that not even he believed it. He reached over and plucked the bottle from Damiano, then gulped its contents obnoxiously. “You’d be a widow before tying the knot.”

While my brothers were often mistaken for twins, Damiano was sixteen—a year older than Armani.

“She wouldn’t be a widow if she hadn’t married him,” Amara corrected him. “Besides, Pen’s too young to be a widow. And she has a plan.”

I knew the arrangement had already been delayed as long as possible. I’d been promised to him for a very long time—even before I was born, twenty-one years ago. My fiancé was thirty- three himself, and I wondered if that was the reason behind his rush to the altar.

I’d hoped the eldest Marchetti son would be far too busy running his criminal empire and micromanaging a dozen legitimate businesses to even think about marriage.

But no—apparently, world domination still leaves room for weddings and a family celebration.

The man was less “mob boss” and more “overachieving psychopath with a day planner.”

In a week, I would become Mrs. Enzo Marchetti, shackled for life with a wedding band on my finger that might as well be a noose.

I eyed my brothers, their dark brown hair and boyish features a gift from our father, while my sister and I had inherited our thick coal-black hair from our mother.

We not only shared her dark blue eyes and heart-shaped face, but also her elegant neck.

Mama always gifted us necklaces on special occasions, claiming that they complemented our delicate features.

I pondered which of the priceless heirlooms I would wear when I enacted my plan.

“I’m excited for the wedding, but I don’t like that he gets to take you away from us,” Amara said as she wedged herself deeper into the sofa, and I gave her a soft smile, glad to be pulled from my spiraling thoughts. “Why can’t you stay in Sicily?”

I wrapped an arm around her and she pressed into me with a tired sigh.

Her ebony hair was twisted in a sideways braid, and hours of coughing this morning had colored her cheeks. She wore fluffy yellow pajamas and matching slippers, which hid how thin she’d become in a matter of weeks.