Chapter 7

Catalina

Mother and Camila entered my bedroom accompanied by a symphony of voices I didn’t recognize. Tiredly, I peeked out from between my barely open eyes. After last night’s snack, I was able to sleep without the bombardment of terrible thoughts…including my thigh holster and a possible red wedding.

“Catalina,” Mama nearly shouted. “You should be awake and showered by now.”

Pushing the covers back on the bed, I sat on the edge of the mattress as more and more people entered. “Who are all these people?”

“Arianna’s team of hair stylists, makeup artists, and aestheticians and family,” Mama answered. “Now, hurry and take a shower while they set up.”

I searched the faces, seeing Mia and Giorgia, the latter a cousin of Dario’s I met at the bridal shower, as well as my cousin Sofia. I whispered to my mother, “Why are people here who aren’t in the wedding.”

Mama shook her head. “Arianna planned it.” Her eyes opened wide. “There is a man I don’t know outside your room.”

“Tall, scary, dark hair?”

Mama grinned. “Yes, but that doesn’t narrow it down. He knew me.”

“His name is Armando, my new bodyguard.”

Mama inhaled. “I see.” She motioned toward the bathroom. “Now go shower.”

Wearing a silk camisole and shorts, I stood. As I walked toward the bathroom, I reached for Camila’s hand and stage-whispered, “Coffee. Please can you find me coffee?”

“I’ll get you some. They’re bringing it and breakfast foods.”

Closing the bathroom door to the growing chaos, I took a moment to look at my reflection—the reflection of today’s bride. My green eyes were bright, from a night’s sleep, not because they were filled with love for my fiancé, the man who I would soon call my husband. I tried to hold onto last night’s talk. It was more than I’d had for six months.

Leaving my night clothes on the floor, I stepped under the spray of the hot water, letting it soak my hair. With my eyes closed, I lifted my face to the shower, conscious that today was my last day to wake as Catalina Ruiz.

After today, I’d be Catalina Luciano.

Dario had said ‘now and forever,’ but as I showered, I had thoughts of something I’d read when researching the Mafia. It said something to the effect of ‘in alive, out dead.’

That was what today meant.

I was about to wed a man I didn’t know and enter into an organization I didn’t fully understand. Enter alive and leave dead. Divorce wasn’t an option. While I had convinced myself that Dario’s world wouldn’t be significantly different than the world in which I’d been raised, there was still so much unknown.

At twenty-four years of age, I should be more knowledgeable and more experienced—in life.

The few times I was near him, Dario stirred a sexual awareness within me. Nevertheless, the idea of our wedding night had me more than a little nervous. I’d read stories where the first time was like fireworks. I wasn’t certain what that meant.

Wonderful, exciting, and explosive.

Or was it more like the finale?

Something starting weakly and ending strongly.

“Cat,” Mireya called as she opened the bathroom door. “I have coffee.”

Turning off the water, I reached for a towel and wrapped it around myself. “Thanks.” I stepped out.

She closed the door behind her. My cousin gave me a concerned look. “Are you scared?”

Pressing my lips together, I nodded. “It’s stupid. There are girls who have their first experience and they’re a decade younger than I am.”

“I suppose it’s one thing to fumble around in a back seat with a teenage boy who doesn’t know any more than you do, versus being presented on a silver platter in a see-through teddy to a man eleven years older who definitely knows what to do.”

I scrunched my nose as I lifted the mug of warm coffee. “Experience is better right?”

Mireya laughed. “I saw a show where it was the first time for the guy, and he came on her thigh. He never even got it in.” Her eyebrows danced. “Dario strikes me as a man with more self-control.”

“That’s what he said.”

“What he said.” Her eyes opened wide. “When did you talk to him?”

“Last night.” Abandoning the delicious coffee, I lifted a comb and began to tame my hair.

My cousin’s volume lowered to a whisper. “He came to your room?”

“No.” I continued to work out the tangles. “In the middle of the night, I was hungry. I went to the kitchen.” The scene came back to me, bringing a smile. “We ate and talked. That was about it.” I looked at Mireya’s expression. “He was nice.”

“Nice. Nice? He’s a murderer.”

“They all are,” I replied, surprised I was defending Dario. “My papá, yours, and Uncle Gerardo. Nick and Em. The Italians aren’t the only ones with blood on their hands.”

Mireya lifted her hands. “I never said that.”

“It feels like it’s always been the cartel against the Mafia or the Russians or the Taiwanese. Now Patron wants me to bridge the gap with the Mafia, and I feel like I’m going to be made to choose whether to support my family or transfer my allegiance to my new family.”

“We’ll always be your family.”

I sat on the edge of the tub. “But Dario will be my new family, now and forever. What if we have children?” When Mireya didn’t answer, I continued, “They’ll be famiglia. If we have sons, they’ll grow up to be like Dario. If I stay loyal to Patron, I’ll be disloyal to Dario.”

Mireya shook her head and leaned against the wall. “It’s a lot.”

“Or I’m borrowing worries because I don’t want to think about tonight.”

“You said he was nice. Do you think he’ll force you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, knowing I didn’t need to be forced. I was anxious but ready. Then again, I wasn’t certain. “Is it force when you’re married?”

“Yes,” she said without equivocation. “Rape is rape. Didn’t Em say Dario hurt one of the whores at Wanderland?”

“Last night Dario swore I’d be safe.”

“From others or from him?”

It was a good question, one to which I didn’t have the chance to respond.

Mama opened the door. “Girls, we have beauticians waiting.”

Massages were first on the schedule. There were already numerous tables set up around the room. Camila, Mia, Sofia, and Giorgia were already being treated. Mireya and I took the two remaining tables. After waxing my legs and under my arms, the technician asked me about between my legs.

Her question brought back my unease. “Do you know what your fiancé prefers?”

I had no idea what he preferred.

“Men like it bald,” Mia volunteered. “No hair in their mouths.”

The room filled with nervous giggles as the heat built in my cheeks.

“Bald?” the technician asked, looking at me.

I shook my head, remembering Dario’s comment about not wanting to marry a child. “I think trimmed.”

The woman smiled. “We can do that and shape it into a heart.”

Camila gave me wide eyes.

My voice was barely a whisper as the coffee churned in my stomach. “A heart. Perfect.”

Less than two hours before the wedding, our makeup and hair were done. Mine had been teased, twisted, and styled into a regal top bun, perfect for my headpiece and veil. Aunt Maria entered with my wedding dress. Mama and I had shopped at the finest boutiques. Patron had told Papá to spare no expense.

The only preference Dario had told me was the color. My dress was white as snow, with a flowing skirt and chapel-length train—perfect for a garden wedding, a sweetheart neckline, a shape-forming bodice, and a long line of pearl buttons going down my spine.

As everyone helped me into the dress, Mia said, “It’s a shame Dario is going to cut that dress.”

“What?” I asked, turning to my future sister-in-law, horror in my expression.

“You didn’t know?”

I defensively crossed my arms in front of the bodice. “What do you mean, cut it?”

“Oh yes,” Giorgia said. “It’s an old tradition. They use one of the blades that they carry. It’s very romantic.”

“Romantic?” Camila retorted. “It’s savage.”

I’d had an idea of Dario unbuttoning the back, button by button, slow and steady, maybe even accompanied by hefty words of anticipation. The thought of him cutting my dress from my body never entered my mind.

Until now.

It was all I could picture.

“Cutting the dress isn’t like that,” Mia explained. “Italian men are proud. Your husband is claiming what is his.”

I felt the color drain from my face. “Cut it. Slice it…” My voice cracked. “With a knife.”

“Oh,” Mia said, “you’re overthinking it. Really, it’s exciting.”

Giorgia’s cheeks filled with color. “I remember when Antonio…it was…scary and then…well, it was easier than stripping. It’s a quick cut, and boom, there you are.”

“Mama?” I asked, searching for my mother among the women. Our eyes met in the reflection of the mirror. “Did you know about this?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t.”

“And you think it’s all right?”

Mama feigned a smile. “I think we should be sure to get plenty of pictures before the two of you leave the reception.”

“Are there any other savage traditions?” Camila asked.

“Surely, you have traditions?” Mia countered. “Cutting the dress is no different than your father giving you away. Some would say they’re both misogynistic, as if the bride is no more than an object given from father to husband.”

I hadn’t thought of my father’s role as misogynistic. Patron’s role, that of leveraging me without my consent, on the other hand…

With the coffee I’d consumed percolating in my stomach, I lifted my hand. “Stop. Please. I’d rather not talk about tonight.”

“My brother is about to be capo,” Mia said proudly. “It’s important for him to show the world that he’s in charge.”

Show the world?

“I think this is scaring Cat,” Mama said.

“It’s not just tradition,” Mia said. “It’s God’s plan for us to belong to our husbands.”

“Okay,” Mama said, encouraging the ladies not in the bridal party to give us a few minutes alone. Once it was down to the two of us, Aunt Maria, Camila, and Mireya, Mama reached for my hands. “Cat, maybe we should have discussed your wedding night in more detail.”

I closed my eyes. “Please, Mama, I know about sex.”

“You know the biology. You said you weren’t experienced.”

“I’m wearing white.” When she didn’t speak, I admitted, “Not experienced, but I don’t need the talk twenty minutes before my wedding.”

Aunt Maria met my gaze. “What two married people share can be beautiful. It’s also a good idea to not go into tonight with unobtainable expectations.” She reached for my hand. “It can hurt.”

Mireya’s and Camila’s eyes were glued to Aunt Maria.

This wasn’t the pep talk I needed.

She went on, “Dario seems like a good man.”

A made man.

A murderer.

The Blade.

A criminal.

Sure…a good man.

“Don’t fight him, Cat,” Aunt Maria said. “Relax and learn to enjoy it.”

Mom added with a tight smile, “Arianna mentioned twice yesterday during our talks that she’s excited to share grandchildren. It’s very clear, the famiglia expects Dario to produce heirs.”

Inhaling, I tried to remain centered. “Jeez, I’m surprised the Lucianos don’t want to see our sheets tomorrow.”

Camila’s expression turned sour. “That isn’t really a tradition anywhere, is it?”

“Mia didn’t mention that one,” Mireya said with a scoff. “But I could go ask.”

“No.”

We all turned to the knock. Mama went to the door, her smile broadened. “Andrés, you look handsome.” She opened the door wider, and Papá stepped inside.

His gaze focused on me. “Cat, you are…” He inhaled and scanned the dress and back to my eyes. “You’re the second most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” He stole a look at Mama.

My chest ached with a pain, the knowledge that Dario and I wouldn’t experience what my parents shared. As Em pointed out, Dario and I weren’t marrying for love. Maybe by the time our daughter walked down the aisle, we could learn to be friends.

“Shall we?” Papá asked, offering me his arm.

There wasn’t a plan B.

Today, I would marry.

Mama brushed my cheek with a kiss and handed me my bouquet, a cascading arrangement with white roses, gardenias, hydrangeas, and green vines made of mint leaves. Camila and Mireya in their silver bridesmaid dresses and carrying their smaller bouquets hurried in front of us. By the time Papá and I made it to the grand staircase in the Luciano foyer, the house was mostly empty. Only guards could be seen standing near the entries. The guests were all seated outside in the backyard beyond the room that was no longer devoid of furniture. We walked around numerous tables with lovely centerpieces.

Papá turned my way as we waited for our cue. “You’re making me proud.”

My stomach lurched at the profile of a man in the crowd. “Is Patron here?” I asked, thinking it was him I saw.

“Sí.”

I turned to my father. “Is he here to be sure I obey?”

“No, you gave your word. He’s here to celebrate your marriage.”

“Marriage.” I inhaled. “He sold me to the Italians. My children will be their children.”

“No, Cat. You will always be Ruiz, Roríguez cartel. It’s in your blood.”

Blood.

I realized at that moment that I’d forgotten to wear the thigh holster.

A shiver ran through me.

It was too late to go up to the bedroom and retrieve it.

If this was to be a red wedding, it would be my blood that would be spilled.

Papá and I stood in the doorway. The sun mercilessly shone down on the Lucianos’ gardens, casting the guests in a shower of sunlight. The corset of my wedding gown kept me from slumping forward as bile rose from my empty stomach, teasing my throat. Slowly and steadily, I inhaled and exhaled, swallowing my physical response. I couldn’t show my unease, especially not with our special guest. Doing so would be an unacceptable sign of weakness, one that wouldn’t be tolerated, not by my father, our family, or Dario’s family.

With my chin held high, my shoulders straight, and my hand resting on the sleeve of Papá’s custom suit, I kept my expression unreadable and faced the altar. As my father and I stepped onto the path, the music filled the air. Without prompt, the congregation stood.

The long path separating our two families was covered by a soft runner and dotted with red rose petals. I imagined each petal to be a droplet of blood, signifying the carnage that would occur if I ran away, turned around, or answered the priest truthfully when he asked the question of my willing sacrifice. 

There was no escaping.

Even if I’d run, the damage would have been done. A deal was made uniting the Roríguez cartel and the Kansas City Famiglia. Much the same as for the men who swore a vow to the different crime organizations, this marriage was my vow, my promise to be the obedient daughter and wife, a promise that was only escapable through death.

Despite the fanfare, this wedding was a transaction, and soon, I, the daughter of one of Patron Roríguez’s top lieutenants, would be the property of the Kansas City Famiglia, more specifically, of Dario Luciano.

Over my twenty-four years, I’d read stories and watched movies about women throughout history calmly walking to their death. With each step closer to my future husband, I pictured some of those women. Anne Boleyn and Mary, Queen of Scots came to mind.

As hundreds of pairs of eyes watched my progression, my mind fixated on the two queens, one killed by her husband and the other by her cousin. Those stories were from the past, yet the irony wasn’t lost on me. The family members seated to either side would consider my failure to marry as betrayal, punishable by the same fate as the queens endured.

Camila’s and Mireya’s smiles reminded me to lift my cheeks.

For the last few yards to the gazebo housing the altar, my mind was no longer thinking about ancient history. Those thoughts were lost, sucked into the black abyss of Dario’s dark stare. The future capo of the Kansas City crime family had his attention laser-focused on me. Even through the lace of my veil, I physically felt the scorch of his gaze warming my skin, singeing my flesh, and leaving goose bumps in its wake.

Dressed in his custom suit, Dario was as handsome as he was intimidating. Towering at least eight inches taller than I, he stood statuesque next to his brother, Dante—a younger version of Dario. Dario’s wide shoulders created the V to his trim torso. With his dark hair combed back away from his forehead, I dared a glance at his prominent cheekbones, and the sharp edge to his clean-shaven chin.

He wasn’t capo yet, but his aura personified the title.

As Papá and I came to a stop, the priest began speaking. While everyone around me was speaking English, what I heard was foreign, an unrecognizable agreement. Like the teacher on the old Peanuts show, the words were garbled. Papá lifted my veil. I watched as if in slow motion as Papá placed my hand in Dario’s larger one.

The giving away of the bride.

An object—transaction.

Dario’s fingers surrounded mine as I willed myself to stay calm. Years of experience within the cartel had secured my mask. I could appear the perfect blushing bride with eyes only for her future husband. While the guests could be fooled, I doubted Dario was. After all, he undoubtedly felt the way my hand trembled in his.

“Today,” the priest said, “we gather together to witness the holy union of Catalina Ruiz and Dario Luciano.”