Page 4 of Taken By the Enforcer

“After,” Aldo pants, voice low and rough. “After I remind you who you belong to.”

Belong. The word hits like a slap. For months I’ve been trying to sew that word onto myself like a patch—belong to Papà’s plans, belong to Aldo’s ambition, belong to a future that doesn’t care if I fit. My stomach lurches.

I reverse one slow step, then another, palms slick against the doorframe. The old wood complains with a whisper. Aldo stiffens. Cara’s eyes open, head turning toward the sound.

The door eases shut before her gaze finds mine.

For a second I lean into the wood, cheek pressed to splinters as if the confessional can confess for me. Knees want to give. Breath rasps in and out, too loud in this sanctuary where God watches everything and does nothing.

Get out. Now.

Veil gathered, skirts lifted just enough to keep from tripping, I slip along the side aisle toward the sacristy. A statue of the Madonna watches with a sorrow I finally understand. The world tilts. My feet keep moving because movement is the only thing that makes sense.

The sacristy door opens onto a surprised altar boy balancing a silver tray of cruets. He startles. I force my mouth to work. “Bathroom?” The single word scrapes my throat raw.

He points down a small corridor. “Second door, signorina.”

I nod and keep going, but I don’t stop at the bathroom. A side exit stands ajar, light knifing in, the smell of diesel and oranges riding the breeze. Beyond it, the courtyard bakes in the Sicilian sun. Doves hop along the wall. A cat sleeps in a rectangle of shade, tail twitching like a metronome.

The first sob tears loose then, loud in the quiet. I slap a hand over my mouth and taste salt and lipstick. Another sob shakes free. Then the flood comes, and my eyes burn, and I’m suddenly so tired of being an obedient daughter, a perfect fiancée, a proper anything.

Cara’s laugh echoes in my head. Aldo’s grunt follows, ugly and smug. The sound turns me hollow.

There’s a bench under a lemon tree, and I sink onto it because my legs refuse to hold me. Perfumed shade drapes over my shoulders. A bee fusses with a blossom. Life goes on even when yours splits down the middle.

A shadow falls across the stones. “Signorina?” The sacristan—round, white-haired, kind—stands in the doorway, concern knitting his brows. “Are you unwell? Should I fetch your mother?”

A lie jumps to my tongue. A truth claws from underneath.

“I—” The word shreds. I swallow hard, smooth the front of the dress with shaking palms. “I needed air.Per favore, no one yet. Just a minute.”

He studies my face, sees more than I want, and nods with grave delicacy. “Un minuto,” he agrees, and slips away, closing the door enough to make me feel hidden.

Birdsong fills the courtyard. I focus on the lemon’s skin, pores catching light, that faint oily gleam of zest. One breath. Then another. The sharp scent clears a little space in my head where thoughts can line up.

What do I do?

Aldo will be at the altar pretending he didn’t just—My throat closes around the verb. Cara will smooth her hair and paint on the same glossy loyalty she swore to me last night. Papà will make deals with his eyes while the priest talks about vows. Mamma will cry for a future that no longer exists.

The word future doesn’t sit right; it teeters and collapses. Everything inside me scrambles to fill the hole.

Running isn’t brave. Running is survival.

I stand. Lemon petals stick to my veil; I pluck them free and watch them drift down like tiny white confetti. My hand finds the hidden zipper sewn into the side of the skirt for quick changes—something the seamstress suggested when Papà insisted on the layers. I tug, tug again, then breathe easier when the bodice slackens and air returns to my lungs.

A knock taps on the sacristy door. “Paolina?” Mamma’s voice, careful and bright, the way she speaks to stray kittens. “Tesoro, the procession is forming.”

My heart slams once. Twice. “Coming,” I call, and marvel that the word comes steady. My legs carry me back through the small corridor, veil gathered close as armor. The bathroom door gapes. I duck inside and lock it.

In the mirror, a stranger stares back—cheeks blotched, eyes rimmed, lips trembling. I press cold water against my face with cupped hands, flinching at the shock, then pat dry with a towel too white for what I want to do with it. My palm trembles over the tiny pearl buttons. No time. No courage for that fight with a row of mother-of-pearl.

From the small window above the sink, I see the lane that runs along the church toward the piazza. A bar anchors the corner—La Sirena—blue awning fluttering, men clustered at high tables with espresso cups andlittle glasses of grappa. Life. Noise. An option that isn’t this.

Another knock. Papà this time, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Figlia. Adesso.”

A lifetime fits into a heartbeat.

I unlock the door and step out. “One more moment,” I say, brushing past him before his hand can close on my arm. “Just to collect myself.”