Page 16 of Enzo (Legacy of Heathens #3)

PENELOPE

C hristmas came too soon.

A wedding should’ve been a time when two souls committed to loving each other for the rest of their lives. The day a man and a woman were joined in holy matrimony and bonded with vows spoken in front of God, family, and friends.

It was supposed to be the day your life began with your Prince Charming. Your knight in shining armor. It was the day that most girls fantasize about their whole lives.

I didn’t.

When I was seven, I accidentally overheard my nonno and Papà whispering behind closed doors about my arranged marriage to a complete stranger. The enemy.

And from that day forward, I dreaded it like it was my funeral.

My wedding, my whole life, was nothing short of a strategic move by the Marchetti family to secure their rule of Italy.

My papà had fought it, looking for any way out of the arrangement, but he failed. Nothing seemed to work when it came to getting me out of this predicament.

It was killing my poor papà, making him feel helpless. I could see it, and so could my mama. So I hid my disappointment and bitterness behind a mask of acceptance.

Hence why I stood here, ready to walk down the wide aisle of the most grandiose church in Sicily.

The church was filled with immediate family from both sides and the scent of flowers that made my stomach churn. My grandparents got married here, and so did my parents. It was the only win Papà was granted. Otherwise, we’d be in Rome, walking down one of the churches that the Marchettis funded.

When this farce of a wedding and reception was over, Enzo Marchetti—the devil bastard, as I liked to call him—had a honeymoon planned. We would have all the privacy we needed, according to the intel I’d snooped around for. No bride input needed, apparently.

We walked through the double wooden doors and into the chapel. The sight of it would have taken any girl’s breath away—the flowers, the decorations, the beautiful sunlight spilling through the stained-glass windows, the soft tunes of the church organs.

However, the only thing I managed to feel was dread. I tightened my grip on Papà’s hand, wishing I were anywhere but here while my stomach churned.

“I won’t let you fall,” he whispered softly.

I flicked him a glance, his form hardly visible through my red veil.

Did I mention my wedding dress and veil were bloodred? It was the only fitting wardrobe for the occasion, and I wanted the meaning behind it to be clear as day.

Of course, the dress was custom-made by Givenchy—I wasn’t a sadist who wanted to look terrible in front of her family.

It was beautiful, but definitely insinuated the opposite of the bride’s purity.

At least it did to me, knowing full well I’d given away my virginity to a complete stranger at Revelation a month ago.

Take that and shove it up your fucking ass, Marchetti fashion house .

Of course, Papà didn’t know that little piece of information.

I couldn’t help but grin, recalling my parents’ expressions when they first saw me put it on.

Mama lost her shit, but Papà quickly got himself together and supported my rebellious move.

He threatened and blackmailed all the staff today with torture, pain, and death to ensure that word of the dress didn’t reach the Marchettis.

I really did have the best father in the world.

The first note of my procession song rang out and we stepped into the full view of the guests. Gasps traveled over the church like the most beautiful symphony, drowning out the music, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“It worked,” I murmured under my breath.

“I wish the whole world were here to witness this moment,” Papà grumbled just as quietly, and we both snickered.

The great Enrico Marchetti wanted the wedding to be as small as possible, probably sensing disaster looming around the corner. Papà was barely hanging on to the thin thread of sanity that remained, and if he reached his tipping point during this wedding, Enrico wouldn’t want an audience for that.

Obviously, he didn’t count on me.

Still, the audience was bigger than the Marchettis would have liked because Papà had a slightly bigger family thanks to his father, Benito King, who liked to fuck anything that moved and had spread his seed widely.

Inhaling a deep breath, I wondered if my destiny would send me a man like my paternal grandfather. Cruel. Evil. Unfaithful.

The rumors in the underworld were well known.

Enzo and Amadeo Marchetti were playboys and had women lining up for miles to grab their attention. Although, our encounter at their family’s restaurant could have fooled me.

I honestly didn’t know what to think of that night—or him, for that matter.

He’d been mostly quiet, aside from his minor threat about the ring. And no, I hadn’t lost it. The damn rock weighed down my arm even now, making me feel guilty about skipping the gym lately to capitalize on my time with Amara.

“Are we walking?” Papà’s question made me realize I was standing still.

So I took a step, then another, and with each new one, the lump in my throat grew larger. I wished this journey would never end. I wouldn’t mind walking all the way to the end of the earth to avoid saying “I do.”

“Are the Marchettis shocked?” I breathed as we took the slowest steps in history toward the altar and the awaiting groom.

“Flabbergasted,” Papà said, grasping my hand in his. “I think Enrico’s jaw touched the church floor.”

I chuckled, the sound loud enough to echo through the Canon D wedding march.

The groom was little more than a blur through my veil, but the tension in his broad shoulders was unmistakable. He stood with his feet set apart, arms at his sides, hands deceptively calm. Still, there was something so towering, so commanding, about him that I feared one glance might crush me.

As we neared the altar of sacrifice, he finally turned around, and my instinct screamed for me to run. Fuck all of this shit and run, run, run. I could hide and never look back.

Right?

But it was then that I spotted my youngest sibling, taking the whole role of maid of honor seriously.

Her pale face and big eyes screamed of fatigue and hinted at the illness she was battling, and I knew there’d be no running.

For my family, I’d stay put and take anything Enzo Marchetti dished my way.

For Amara.

As if she could sense the direction of my thoughts, she flashed me a tired smile and waved her frail hand, the rosary hanging heavily around her dainty wrist. It was the rosary that my mama was given on her wedding day by Uncle Aiden.

Ever since her leukemia diagnosis, she refused to let go of it, and it terrified me. Mama and Papà were scared too, although they hid it behind layers of optimism.

My breath hitched. My heart accelerated and my palms grew sweaty as each step closed the distance. We were a mere ten feet away from him. Then nine. Eight. My feet came to a stop of their own will.

More gasps, but all I could hear was the pulsing in my ears. The screams in my head that I didn’t want to do this. My young adulthood rattled the bars that were about to shut.

“Penelope, just say the word and we can turn around,” Papà said softly. “You shouldn’t pay for my mistakes.”

It wasn’t as simple as that. I knew if we turned around, it would mean war. Death. It wouldn’t only impact me, but also my siblings, my aunts and uncles. It would hurt so many people. But most of all, sweet Amara.

So I would do the only thing left to do.

“You look beautiful, Pen,” my sister whispered when we reached her, and despite the doom I was facing, I smiled at her.

She turned her head to look at the waiting groom and I did the same. The man whose destiny had been intertwined with mine stood proud with his best man—Amadeo—by his side.

I couldn’t help noticing Enzo’s and Amadeo’s ties were the exact shade of my dress, almost as if they knew I’d wear red.

“I’ll take it from here.” His voice boomed through the church, and then to my shock, the groom stepped forward, instead of waiting for Papà to bring me to him, lifted my veil, and took my hand in his.

His teeth gritted. “Step away from my daughter.”

Enzo looked furious, the muscle in his left cheek threatening to pop with how hard he was clenching his jaw.

“I think not. She’s mine now.”

I hadn’t even said the words yet and this man was already claiming me. I could only imagine how our future would look. Was he planning to lock me in his towering castle—or penthouse—and throw away the key? Would years slowly wither away until I was nothing but a distant memory?

“Let’s go,” Enzo hissed, causing me to tilt my head up and up, until my eyes landed on his face.

“Just because I’m marrying you, Enzo Marchetti, it doesn’t make me yours, and it won’t stop me from being a DiMauro.”

Papà looked proud. Enzo not so much. Good .

My papà placed a soft kiss on my cheek before uttering in a serious tone, “I can still kill him, princess.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Enzo retorted dryly, taking my bouquet of roses, shoving them against his chest, and then clasping him on the shoulder. “And don’t worry, she’ll be screaming Marchetti soon enough.”

I gaped at him.

Jesus, the man was crazy, because if Papà had a gun on him, he would have surely pulled it out and shot him. Although, the way he clenched and unclenched his fist might suggest he wasn’t beyond strangling the man.

“It’s okay,” I assured, my voice barely a whisper. “Sit down and I’ll find you after.”

After my life sentence to this fucking devil was sealed. After I had an iron shackle around my finger.

I turned my head and narrowed my eyes on my soon-to-be husband.

“You’ll never own me.” I lifted on my toes and whispered, “And guess what? You’re not getting a virgin bride. I’ve given that to a better man.”

I couldn’t keep the victorious smile off my face as I met his bottomless eyes, but disappointment soon followed. My words didn’t have the impact I hoped for. Instead, his gaze held excitement and a flicker of admiration. Or was it desire?

“Really?” His voice was dangerously low.

“Y-yes.” Maybe bravery was for foolish people, but it was too late to backtrack now. Instead, I squared my shoulders and raised my chin, doing my best to appear nonchalant. “Besides, you’re not a virgin. So it’s only… fair.”

Dumb Ways to Die played on repeat in my mind while I held my breath, waiting for the backlash. None came.

“Let’s get this over with.” Enzo’s arm came around my waist and ushered me up the last few steps to the altar. “Start,” he barked at the priest.