Page 3 of Taken By the Enforcer
I finish the whiskey in one gulp, slamming the tumbler on the bar’s smooth mahogany surface. I nod.
“He will have them.”
CHAPTER 2
Paolina
“Oh,miacara, how beautiful you are! Aldo will be so pleased. What a perfect match your father made for you! Smile. You should be excited on your wedding day, Paolina.”
Mamma’s voice floats over the rustle of tulle as she fluffs the skirt yet again. She glances toward my open bedroom door, then turns back and whispers, “Unlike mine. Your father has always been a stern man. Thank God for his choice for you.” Her moss-green eyes—so like mine—soften as she makes the sign of the cross. Lips touch pinched fingers; a prayer seals behind them.
I follow her lead out of habit more than such devoted faith.
On paper, this arranged marriage looks faultless. Aldo Buratti is handsome, connected, and eager to climb. That’s whatPapàvalues—ambition that serves the Family. Me? I’m the dutiful daughter of a made-man, so I nod when I’m told and smile when I should.
The smile doesn’t reach my chest today. Something there feels tight and splintered.
Two months ago, Aldo proposed at our dining room table over cannoli Mamma made special. Powdered sugar dusted his lips, and I remember thinking the sweetness didn’t belong to him. My yes fell out anyway because Papà’s gaze pinned me to my chair. Ever since, he’s controlled every detail, even the dress—a froth of tulle with puffed sleeves and a high neckline that turns me into a porcelain doll someone forgot to love. Even my stockings and shoes shout child-bride more than woman, despite my being twenty.
Mamma fastens the last pearl button at my nape. “Perfect,” she sighs, stepping back to admire the version of me she helped create. “Cara will bring your bouquet when we arrive.”
Cara. My best friend since primary school. My maid of honor. The girl who knows the truest version of me—curvy, stubborn, soft in secret places, eyes full of stories I never quite say aloud. She’ll stand beside me and whisper jokes when my hands shake. The thought warms me, if only for a moment.
Papà’s tread sounds in the hall. The air changes the way rooms do when iron enters. He fills the doorway inhis tailored suit, graying hair slicked back, jaw set like a verdict. “È l’ora,” he says. It’s time. The words leave no room for anything but obedience.
I lower my gaze and gather my skirts. “Sì, Papà.”
The chauffeured car waits at the base of our steps, polished to a mirror so crisp I could touch the reflection of this girl in white and ask her to run. Instead, I slide inside, veil spilling over my lap like a small, captured cloud. Catania passes in soft gray stone and sun-faded walls, saints tucked into niches, balconies sagging with geraniums. People step aside when we sweep through. Everyone knows the Corsetti name; everyone smiles with the appropriate amount of teeth.
Santa Maria del Carmelo rises white and solemn from its square, bells tolling in measured beats that thud against my ribs. The scent of beeswax and citrus blossoms greets us at the doors. A few of Papà’s men bracket the entrance in black suits, expressions smooth as slate. I step between them, Mamma on my arm, nods and murmurs pressing in from both sides as the church swallows us.
The bridal room is small and cool, with a crucifix centered on the wall as if to supervise. Mamma adjusts my veil again because she needs to do something. “Cara will be right back,tesoro. She went to find the florist about the ribbon on your bouquet.”
I nod. No words, or too many will pour out.
The murmured conversation of guests drifts through the door—clinks, footsteps, the velvet hush of ritualmoving into position. I stare at my reflection. Raven-dark hair coils in a heavy twist at my crown, anchored with pins that bite. The heart-shaped face looking back shows pink cheeks and perfectly painted lips. I look like a bride in a magazine. I feel like a girl beneath a wave.
“Just a minute to pray,” I say, and Mamma’s eyes mist. She squeezes my hands, grateful that piety still clings to me like lace.
“Of course.” She kisses my cheek. “I’ll check that the musicians are ready. Don’t be long.”
The hall beyond is hushed, carpet muffling my steps as I slip away. The confessional sits at the side of the nave, carved wood dark with age, a small red candle winking its one-eyed blessing. Kneel, speak, be absolved—simple steps I’ve known since childhood. Today I want quiet more than permission.
My fingers brush the curtain on the penitent’s side, but something halts me. A low sound leaks from within. Not murmured prayer. A breath. A sigh. Another sound follows—soft at first, then unmistakable, paced and damp with need.
Blood drains to my feet.
Carefully, I ease my veil back and test the priest’s door instead. It yields under my hand. The tiny chamber opens around me with its faint incense ghost and the rustle of fabric. I don’t mean to look. I don’t mean to see anything but shadow.
The shadows are full of bodies.
Aldo’s broad back fills the narrow space, tuxedojacket rucked to his hips, trousers shoved low. His hands bracket bare thighs wrapped in cream ribbon garters I recognize because we picked them together. Cara’s head tips back, a waterfall of chestnut hair catching on the wood as she bites her lip around a swallowed moan. One of her shoes dangles from a toe, bouncing in a rhythm that matches his thrusts.
I don’t make a sound, not even a gasp. That’s the most shocking part—this silence that grips my throat like a hand. Aldo’s profile flashes when he turns to mutter something filthy, and I memorize the curve of his grin because I will need it later when I don’t believe any of this was real.
Heat rises in my face. Not the heat that makes me dizzy when a man looks at my lush body like I’m a feast. This is scalding, chemical, a burn that strips skin bare.
Cara’s fingers slide down her own belly, over the lace of her panties wedged embarrassingly high. She laughs—breathy, triumphant. “Hurry. We have to go back.”