The Mafia King's Bride

Eloise Laurent had been prepared for this moment exactly two years ago today. Of course, she had hoped that there would be a change of heart or a change of course. It was not meant to be. Her fate was sealed, and so was the fate of Dominic Marino. They were to meet, for the first time, in a few minutes, and decide not if they should be married but when they should be married. Eloise and her father, Eric, were leaving straight from church to the Marino's. The Italian family lived on the south side of the city—the wealthy side such as they did—in a beautiful cul-de-sac that overlooked a glowing canola field in the summer and the flights arriving to, and departing from, the regional airport. Every house had at least one maple tree in the front yard. It looked like the perfect neighborhood for young families, and it was. Many of the young families just happened to have members that belonged to a larger interconnected network of organized crime; a much larger, much more deadly, family that not even true love could compete with. The brightest neighborhoods sometimes harbor the darkest secrets. They pull up in front of a beautiful dusty mauve house, the roof tiles like white fish scales, the pillars and veranda so ivory it was as if they were donated by the gods on Mount Olympus. The bay window is what catches Eloise's attention the most: she imagines first what it would be like to sit and read a book in such a little nook, then imagines the imposing shadow watching her as two figures step away from the glass. Dominic and his father, she guesses incorrectly. Her own father has not said a word to her, nor glanced at her, since he got behind the wheel. He chose not to have any of his drivers come in today, emphasizing the privacy of the arrangement and maybe even a glimpse into his shame. Eric is stoic, jaw clenched, veins bulging on the back of his hand as he puts the vehicle into park. Eloise hides a deep breath, removing her seatbelt at the same time as her father. "I am sorry, Eloise," her father says coldly, abruptly. If she didn't know him better she would think he wasn't sorry at all. "If your brother—" "I know," she says desperately, uninterested in the mantra. "I know, dad, I know." "I know you know, but I am still sorry." He takes Eloise's hand in his and squeezes it, more for his comfort than for hers. Her hand is limp but she allows him the action. All the anxiety has now melted away into numbness. She doesn't have to be perfect, she doesn't have to be great, she doesn't even have to be good. She just has to be presentable and silent. This is something she is innately perfect at. They slip out of the vehicle into the sunny morning. It is late Summer, the tail-end of August. The season of Eloise's birthday, which is today. Now that she is twenty she is officially a woman, according to her father. Not a late-teen on the edge of adulthood, but a full-blown twenty-year old. She feels both too young and too old—too young to be worrying about marriage, but old enough that it was a very real worry regardless. Up the cobblestone steps Eloise and her father go. He tries to grab her hand in an act of comfort once more but she wraps her arms around herself. She doesn't look up from her feet, clad in petite brown flats. She should have worn tights. She will take her shoes off at the front door and her bare feet will be exposed. At least her toenails are painted. They walk up the steps. Eloise hides behind her curtain of hair. She flinches when her father knocks three times on the door and they both take a step back. Heavy footfalls sound from inside, a click is heard, and the door bursts open. Eloise doesn't look up. Her father doesn't expect her to. The man asks who they are, Eric informs him, and the man steps to the side to let them in. This is not Dominic or his father, Eloise guesses, but maybe a bodyguard or butler. What an expository touch. Eric removes his shoes. Eloise hesitates. Her father hisses to her under his breath. She whispers that she has no socks or tights on. He tells her it doesn't matter. Face firing red, she removes the shoes as is expected. The marble tile is cold against her bare soles and toes. She hugs her cardigan tightly around her. Even the breeze of her dress against her knees as she walks gives her chills. The man who opened the door for them leads them through the living room, down a flight of stairs into the furnished basement, through another living room, and then to a closed door made of exquisite frosted glass. He knocks, steps away, and slithers back up the stairs, leaving the Laurent's and the Marino's to their own business. Eloise feels the speed at which her heart is pumping blood: the speed of rapids. A man opens the door. Eloise doesn't bother looking up. They step inside. The man closes the door. Eric grabs Eloise's elbow and she allows him. The man who opened the door slips around to the other side of the desk. There are no chairs at the front of the desk. Eloise and her father must stand, getting inspected, studied, like specimens under a microscope. "A pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Eloise Laurent," says a gruff, wheezy voice. Eloise can't help but look up, meeting the eyes of a man who is clearly very ill. He sits in a wheelchair, an oxygen tube in his nose attached to an oxygen tank at the back of his chair. This is the current Don. She doesn't know his name. This makes her feel guilty for some reason. "And happy birthday. You are twenty today, yes?" "A pleasure to meet you, as well," she says tentatively, bowing her head as a sign of reverence. "That is correct." From his lap he pulls out a bouquet of ruby red roses, leaning forward and extending them across the desk. Eloise is so dumbfounded that she doesn't make any moves, but her father squeezing her elbow snaps her into action. She takes the roses, blushing again, and presses them to her chest. Her father releases her. "I apologize for not having any chairs for you to sit in, Eloise. We don't usually have...women occupy this room." "No need to apologize, Don Marino," his name almost burns her tongue—the feud is woven into her own DNA, it seems. "Thank you for the roses. They are beautiful." "You are very beautiful," he compliments, pricing her. "Hard to believe you are your father's daughter." Don Marino turns his attention from Eloise to her father. She tries to hide her sigh of relief. The men start talking and her ears begin ringing. She doesn't have to pay attention to this part nor does she want to. She will keep an ear out for a single keyword: her name. She wants to drop her chin but the hair on the back of her neck stands up. She is being watched and has only just noticed, though she has been watched ever since she stepped foot into the office. Dominic Marino. He stands behind his father against a shelf littered with old books and new papers, right in front of a large window, and what a vision that is. Dominic Marino is certainly blessed with good looks...but what about a good heart? Eloise feels bold. This man will be her husband one day, after all. She observes him. He is tall—much taller than her. Muscular and strong—much stronger than her. He has glowing olive skin, and in the sunlight his high cheekbones shine gold. His hair is so dark that it is almost black. His eyes, however, are his most prominent feature. They are amber, like yellow marbles in the luminescence. She wonders what they would look like in a dimmer setting. Brown, reddish, tawny, bronze? She wonders if this is possibly the best looking man she has ever seen and inwardly scolds herself. Dominic feels bold as well, and this is what he notices: Eloise is small, short and thin. Her toenails are painted white, like her fingernails, and look stunning in contrast to her sun-kissed skin. Her dress, like all her nails, is white, and Dominic wonders how beautiful she would look in her wedding dress because white is an exceptionally flattering color on her. Her cheeks are a lovely, innocent shade of pink. Eyes blue like faded denim. Mousy brown hair long, thick, and straight. Lips full, glossy. Natural makeup, therefore she is naturally beautiful. As she holds the roses close to her chest, Dominic feels something tugging at his own chest. She is so young. He will be turning twenty-nine at the end of the year, just after Christmas. Before she is done school he will be the new Don Marino. "What are you taking in school, Eloise?" asks the current Don Marino. "I am majoring in history, and minoring in English." "Ah, a girl of culture and grammar. I like it!" he doesn't look at Dominic over his shoulder, but motions to him with his head. "What is it you took again, business?" "Yes, father," Dominic says. His voice is deep, not as accented as his fathers. "And commerce." Ah, so he is also educated. Good to know, Eloise thinks. What she doesn't realize is the dual envy and admiration Dominic feels towards her. He had loved history, and wanted to study that, but his father had insisted that he take business since he would be taking over the family and the family businesses one day. It was a sacrifice, but a practical and fair one. He was currently well on his way to taking over the family. He was running all his father's businesses successfully, already. His father had stage IV lung cancer which was starting to spread to other organs. His skin was faintly yellow. He had six months worst case scenario, maybe a year and a half best case scenario. Dominic suspected the former was most likely. "When do you want to be married, Eloise?" asks Don Marino. Never, she wants to say, but doesn't of course. She clutches the roses tighter to her chest. Oddly, she looks to Dominic for help but he is stoic, unwilling to offer her any. He wants to see what she has to say first. His mind is already made up, though. Once she has said her piece, he will say his. His word is as good as a legal document. "I am not entirely sure, Don Marino," Eloise's father returns to gripping her elbow. "I—" Dominic, mercifully, puts her out of her misery. She has said her piece already. She doesn't need to give the whole cake away. He will bite. "When she is graduated," Dominic answers, then asks her a question. "How many years do you have left?" "Three. I am only taking four classes a semester. I will be needing an additional year." "That gives you an additional year to prepare, then!" Don Marino sounds like a healthy man for a moment, clapping his hands together. "It is settled, then. The war has ended. In three years the armistice will be officially signed. You have just ended two centuries of conflict, Eloise, did you know that?" Yes, she thinks, meeting Dominic's amber eyes, but for how long?