Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller
Chapter 2
Most of thegirls I knew growing up fantasized about their dream weddings.
My younger sister, Ariana, dreamed of soft pastels and virginal white, despite being anything but. Years of ballet meant she knew the exact song and dance she’d bring our papá out for, and she’d look incredible doing it.
Even Stella—the youngest, and smartest Ricci daughter—had the menu scribbled down on a piece of paper, using it as a bookmark for her textbooks.
I planned my funeral.
Up until today, my vision of a marble casket and bouquets of dahlias and lilies felt like little more than a pipe dream. A delusion I’d concocted to help alleviate the dull reality facing me.
Now, though, as I stare at my reflection in the mirror while my mother tries to yank my dress shut, I realize maybe the two events are synonymous.
My marriage to Boston’s favorite volatile playboy, Mateo de Luca, marking the end of life as I know it.
“Dio mio! Suck it in, Elena,” Mamá snaps, anchoring her elbow to my hip as she pulls. “You just got fitted for this gown two weeks ago, how is it possible you’ve gained this much weight already?”
Heat floods my cheeks at her question, shame slicing through my skin like the dull edge of a blade. “It’s only a couple of pounds,” I say, trying to obey anyway by inhaling as deep as I can.
“Probably just stress, or water,” my aunt, Anotella, says from where she’s perched on the edge of the bed, gnawing at a chocolate-covered strawberry from the lunch platter we had delivered. “Or all that time she spends with her nose buried in a book.”
“Or she’s giving up. Kids these days don’t go through honeymoon phases anymore.” Nonna, my paternal grandmother, reenters the room just in time, a bright blue gift box in hand.
“Explain, Frankie.”
Nonna shrugs. “Back in my day, a woman waited at least a few years before letting herself go. Now, they treat keeping in shape like an option, and then wonder why half the country ends up divorced.”
Humming, Mamá gives a final tug, stealing the breath from my lungs. Stepping back, she brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, huffing with finality. “There. Good thing we went with the lace ties and not a zipper.”
Face flushing, I glance down at myself in the sleeved gown—the smooth, flat expanse of my stomach, the excessive cleavage that I know is hidden beneath the conservative dress because Ariana insisted I wear it.
‘This is the first time Mateo’s seeing you naked,’ she’d said, beaming at me from the lingerie section of the bridal shop. ‘Make him eat his heart out.’
In truth, the only person I’m interested in inspiring something like jealousy within most likely won’t even show up for the ceremony.
Not that he’d see what’s underneath the dress, anyway. Not again.
Crossing my arms over my breasts, I spin away from my reflection, embarrassment making my stomach cramp. Perspiration slicks down my spine and along my hairline, and I busy myself with checking the seating chart, making sure every guest is accounted for.
Nonna walks over, licking the pad of her thumb and rubbing it across my cheekbone. “Anotella, get your makeup bag. We’re going to need to keep it nearby if she keeps sweating it off.”
My aunt hurries from the room, bringing the main hall of the de Luca estate into view for the briefest moment. Catering staff bustles by as the door swings back into place, the scent of lobster and marinara sauce heavy in the air, making my stomach growl.
I haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday, and now that my weight seems to be a topic of concern, I’m sure that if I try sneaking a bite in before the ceremony, Mamá will likely have my head.
God forbid there be a hair out of place on my wedding day unless it’s by her own hand.
Image has always been the most important thing to my family, though, especially in recent years with the shrinkage of organized crime. They still exist, but it’s with limited involvement—behind screens, hidden in the shadows. Papá and his men, along with the other families around the country, have to be more skillful about the way they conduct business.
‘Control the narrative,’Papá always says. ‘That way, you control the story.’
If people don’t think you’re a violent criminal organization, then they have no reason to report you.
It’s why I’m being married off to the heir of Boston’s premier media firms, despite the fact that the only feelings I hold for my future husband are those of disdain.
Not that my feelings matter, of course.
Not in this world.
All that matters to la famiglia is that I keep my head down and abide by my duties. Help them maintain their power in the most archaic fashion.
Sighing, Mamá places her hands on her hips, scanning me from head to toe with narrowed eyes. Out of the three Ricci daughters, I’m the only one who favors the beautiful, former debutante Carmen—we share the same long, dark hair and golden eyes, while my sisters fair lighter like Papá.
I know the similarities in us affect how she views me. That she finds little, insignificant things to critique because it’s too late to fix them in herself.
I wish that knowledge made it easier to stand up to her perusal, but... it doesn’t.
“All right, ladies. Let’s get a move on. We need to be at the church in half an hour,” Nonna says, moving to the side of the room where the lunch tray sits. She plucks an olive from the silver platter and plops it into her mouth, staining her fingertips with bright pink lipstick.
“Ugh,” a voice moans from the hall. Ariana’s slender form appears in the doorway suddenly, the burnt orange evening gown she has on hugging her ballerina’s body.
Jealousy tears through my chest at the sight of her, long and lithe and beautiful, while I stand here in my wedding dress feeling like an ugly duckling. I swallow it down, trying to dispel my mother’s comments from where they repeat in my brain.
“Not again,” Mamá mutters, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Nonna rolls her eyes. “Ariana, can you do anything other than complain?”
“No.” My sister blinks, her doe eyes widening as she looks at me. “Jesus, E. You look gorgeous.”
I smile gratefully at her, guilt gnawing at my insides. From what, exactly, I’m not sure. “I feel like a porcelain doll.”
“You’ll get over it,” Mamá says, waving dismissively.
Scoffing, my sister crosses her arms over her chest. “Why do we have to go so early? The guests won’t even arrive for another two hours.”
“Because, nipotina, we’re on setup duty. Like I trust anyone in this town to get my first granddaughter’s wedding just right.” Nonna winks, walking over to my sister and slipping her hand around her waist, tugging her from the room.
“You’re about finished, carina. We have your something borrowed, something blue...” Pursing her lips, my mother looks around the room, eyes landing on the gift box Nonna was carrying earlier.
She walks over, slipping the top off, and pulls out a tiara with a veil attachment. I turn back around as she comes back, watching her steps in the mirror. Her fingers brush my temple as she slides the band into my hair, securing it with pins she pulls from her pocket.
Assembling the veil so it falls over my shoulders, past the length of my hair, she lets out a satisfied squeal and wraps her arms around my shoulders.
“Perfection,” she says, squeezing me. “Mateo isn’t going to know what hit him when he sees you at the altar.”
Apprehension fills my gut like cement, solidifying until I ache from the weight of indecision.
“Was it like this for you?” I ask softly, knowing our looks aren’t where our similarities end.
“What do you mean?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, hesitating. “Did it feel like you were being led to your death?”
Her gaze falls to her fingers splayed across my collarbone, covered in various rings. She tilts her head, deep in thought, eyes unfocused as she seems to check out momentarily.
“You’ll find ways to make peace with it,” she says finally, kissing my forehead. When she releases me, she offers a smile, but it feels forced and wobbly; so fragile, it could break in an instant, its shattered pieces scattering along the floor in ruins.
Clearing her throat, she clasps her hands together and takes a step back. “There you go, figlia mia. You’re ready to be someone’s bride.”
I glance at the reflection, seeing a hostage trapped in an elegant white gown, but nod anyway. “Should we leave now?”
Mamá nods. “I think we—”
“Miss Ricci!”
A member of the wait staff bursts into the bedroom, her cherub cheeks flushed and almost as bright as her hair. She bends, gripping her knees as she tries to catch her breath, holding a hand up to keep us in place.
“Mr. de Luca requests your presence.”
I clench my teeth, annoyance prickling against my skin. “He can’t see me before the wedding, it’s bad luck.”
Plus, I don’t want to spend any more time with him than absolutely necessary.
“Please, miss. He’s not feeling well, and says you’re the only one he’ll speak to.”
Sighing, I look at Mamá, who shrugs. “We make our own luck anyway, right?” Kissing me on both cheeks, she slings her purse over her shoulder, heading for the door. “Take care of it and meet us at the church as soon as possible!”
I stare at the staff member’s name tag—Marcelline, it says, printed in big block letters—silently for a few beats, wondering if this is another of Mateo’s ruses to goad me into a fight, or something worse. Still, I don’t want him causing a scene and delaying the inevitable, so I follow this woman down the hall to Mateo’s bedroom.
Once inside, I pause, noting that it looks as much like a guest room as the one I’ve just left; with no hint of memorabilia or personal effects cluttering the walls or dresser, it’s almost as if this room belongs to a ghost.
Or, I realize as I find Mateo sitting on the edge of the bed, someone on their way to becoming one.
“What the fuck?” I hiss, hurrying to his side.
He clutches his stomach, hunching over to hurl violently into a plastic wastebasket.
“Jesus, Mateo, what happened?”
Sucking in a breath that sounds like it gets caught in his throat, he glances up at me through glassy eyes, panic lacing his brown irises. A deep crimson flush crawls up his exposed skin, and his hand lashes out awkwardly, grasping at nothing as another wave of vomit barrels out of him.
“I heard food poisoning,” comes a voice from somewhere behind me. “Doesn’t present like it, though.”
One I recognize better than my own.
It caresses my skin, its heat ghosting across the back of my neck, telling me the owner is close.
“What do you think, little one?”
A sheen of sweat beads along Mateo’s brown hairline, and the basket falls from his grip to the floor, toppling onto its side as he collapses in a convulsive fit.
My stomach churns, bile teasing the back of my throat as the voice materializes at my side, the physical manifestation of the phantom I’ve tried to rid myself of over the last few weeks.
I don’t speak, fear gripping my entire being in its claws, squeezing until I’m completely helpless to watch my fiancé writhe on his bed, seizing and drooling with no interference.
Even though the man at my side is a doctor.
His presence tells me that right here, right now, he’s my father’s fixer.
That this was a hit.
As Mateo’s body goes slack, his life force bleeding from his body within minutes, I watch Kal Anderson from my peripheral, trying to rectify this being with the man I once cared for.
The man who took my virginity eight weeks ago, and left me before the sun was up, scarred in more ways than one.
Tousled, inky black hair sweeps back over his head, like he’s spent his time combing through it. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, covered in a thin layer of stubble and framing Adonis-style bone structure, while his dark eyes are more reminiscent of the evil he’s rumored to be.
He towers over me, taller than anyone else I’ve ever known, the black material of his expensive suit perfectly fitted to every muscle and curve of his lean, sturdy body.
His gloved hand lifts, pointing a cell phone in my direction, and I realize what he’s doing.
Why I was called up here.
“Let’s chat.”
