The Mafia King's Bride

1 | I Do

Dominic

I haven't seen my bride since the first and last time we met. It was at her and her father's request. Over the past three years I have wondered about her: what classes she was taking and if she enjoyed them, what she was doing with her friends, if boys were interested in her, and if they were what she decided to do about their interest. Eloise is a decent woman, I know that much, but I also know she doesn't love me. I don't love her, either, but I have been faithful in the years I waited.

Now I wait for her at the end of the aisle. The pianist is playing the classic here comes the bride first in anticipation of her arrival, and then to announce her entrance and subsequent walk. Eloise's father holds one arm of hers, and her brother holds her other arm; both are dressed in all black as if they are at a funeral and not a wedding. Against my will, like a juvenile, I am reminded of an Oreo cookie that doesn't have enough filling. Eloise is much shorter than her family. There is no mistake of the resemblance between the three of them, however. Her and her brother look like twins.

She cannot meet my eyes, or the eyes of the audience, as she walks up the aisle. Eloise is wearing what I suspect is a relative's wedding dress. I decide to ask her about it later to have what could be my first real conversation with her.

She wears a silk dress, tinged yellow with age, that falls just above her knees. It is form-fitting save for the lantern sleeves which hide otherwise thin arms. Her pantyhose are almost jarringly white in contrast, but are offset flatteringly with small pink paper flowers that match the flowers on her two-tier veil she has pulled over her face. Pale pink kitten heels, completed with a bow, serve to tie it all together. She is a vision. She is my vision.

Her brother and father both kiss her cheek and depart when she is in my custody. I hold out my hand to her, offering to help her up the steps, and she accepts, though it is me holding her hand and her allowing me. Once up the steps, she laces her hands in front of her stomach, still refusing to meet my eyes. There is nowhere else for me to stare but at her—her who looks as if she has been anachronistically ripped from six decades ago. She is a classic beauty with her big curls, her light makeup, the natural pout of her bottom lip.

I say my vows first, repeating them monotonously after the priest, not even registering the nature of the words nor the gravity of them. All I know is that while I am not the most honorable man, I intend to honor my vows. The innocence, and sacrifice, of Eloise, is not to be taken lightly. That is not love, just logic.

When it is time for Eloise to say her vows, she finally raises her head. To the audience it appears that she is looking directly into my eyes, but from my point of view she is staring at my nose. Her voice shakes, she stammers, she inserts mysterious intonations. It is like watching someone deliver a speech they didn't prepare for. If I didn't feel so sorry for her I would be cringing. It is obvious these vows, however orchestrated, mean very different things to us.

"Do you accept this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the priest asks me.

"I do," I say without missing a beat.

"Do you accept this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the priest asks her.

"I do," she says after a pause.

Our ringbearer, a cousin of mine instead of my younger brother who could not get a flight back from Italy in time, steps forward and presents us the rings. Two thin gold bands rest on a blue velvet pillow in a blue velvet box. I grab Eloise's ring, and she grabs mine. Observing her reflection in the metal, twisting it in her fingers, I see the panic of reality setting in. I also see the resoluteness of knowing it is too late to back out...it has been too late for three years.

"Place the rings on each other's fourth finger of the left hand as a symbol of your union," the priest directs.

I take her left hand, observing the nimbleness of her fingers, the light pink nail polish freshly done, and slip the ring on her. It fits perfectly and looks perfect against her skin tone. One day maybe I will upgrade the ring, once I am certain that she is not especially concerned with money and material possessions. Her innocence could be a mask...though I doubt it. One can never be certain, however, until they see for themselves.

Her hands shakes as she grabs mine. It looks like she might even drop the ring as she approaches the tip of my finger with it. I subtly propel my finger into the ring, leaving less work for her. I almost wish I would have said I don't. It would have put her out of her misery, but it wouldn't have erased the misery she has no doubt endured the past three years. When the ring is on, and she tries to release my hand, I refuse to let hers go. A show of unity, I hope she recognizes.

"You may now kiss your bride," the priest says.

I am not excited, but I am ready. I have wondered for three years what her lips would feel like. Slowly I lift her veil away and expose her face to me in its entirety. Her eyes are empty, expression stoic, neck tense. Eloise is bracing herself. She noticeably flinches when I take her cheeks in my hands and press my lips over hers. There is no response.

The room erupts in claps and cheers. All I can focus on is how her lips taste like strawberries.

✿✿✿

I have the first dance with my bride. The dance floor is littered with pink and red rose petals, the lights shining down on us are pearly white, and everyone in their seats admire us as if we are movie stars. The song, at my late father's request, is At Last by Etta James. On his deathbed he told me it was the song him and my mother danced to on their wedding day.

The song blooms open over the speakers. Eloise grips the nape of my neck with both hands and I slip my arms around her cinched waist and exposed back. She is so small, so pristine. She reminds me of a doll with her glowing complexion, her vintage dress, the way she moves woodenly. I long to stare at her face but like Eros she refuses to show it to me, burying it in my chest. Gingerly I caress my fingers against her smooth back.

We sway, and it is almost nice, but Eloise is stumbling, her feet tripping over mine and over themselves. I don't bother to look at our guests and see if anyone has noticed. A short dress doesn't hide much, after all. It is almost as if Eloise is drunk but I have been with her all day and know she hasn't had an opportunity for even a sip. I decide to voice my...concern.

"Who does your wedding dress belong to?" I ask.

"It was my mom's, and before it was hers it was my grandmother's."

Eloise talks slow, her voice slurred, mouth filled with marbles. Now it becomes challenging to hide my concern. I don't want her to embarrass herself...I don't want her to embarrass me or my family name. Eloise Marino is her name now. She ought to wear it with pride.

You smiled, you smiled

Oh, and then the spell was cast

And here we are in Heaven

For you are mine at last

The song ends and I am relieved, taking Eloise's hand in mine and evacuating the dancefloor. There is a round of applause, everyone smiling as we walk past and through them, oblivious to the domestic crisis being exchanged between the groom and his bride. We beeline to our table as people move past us to catch the start of the next song. We sit at an elongated table at the front of the room; everyone sits in front of us at round tables. This is a deliberate choice. I wanted at least some illusion of hierarchy.

We sit down. We are in a bubble of just the two of us. Everything and everyone else is just noise. I take Eloise's hands in mine, facing her, our knees touching. Her head stays bowed. It's almost as if she is too ashamed to look at me. This is beyond shyness. If it was purely shyness there would be at least an attempt to make eye contact. There is none.

"Look at me," I demand.

She does almost instantly. Even in the pearly glow of the overhead lights I can see how dilated her pupils are—black discs that have swallowed her blue irises almost entirely. I blink. She is unabashed. If I am not mistaken I can see a spark of defiance in her glossy gaze. My brows furrow. I can feel myself getting angry.

"What did you take?" I hiss.

Ripping her hands from mine, not breaking eye contact, she grabs her silver clutch from the back of her chair and rests it on her lap. Opening the clasps, she pulls out a lime green prescription pill bottle and hands it to me. If anyone is bearing witness to this moment, she cares nothing at all about it. I inspect the label but don't recognize the name of the prescription off the top of my head. Embarrassed, I look to her silently for insight.

"Antidepressants. I took my third pill when we arrived here. I take them in the evening because they make me drowsy," she explains calmly, daring me to comment. "I am not a drug addict, I can assure you."

"I apologize," I say, returning her prescription to her.

✿✿✿

Eloise and I lounge like cats in the backseat of the vehicle. I had given my driver instructions, after Eloise fell asleep, to drive slowly and avoid the potholes on the gravel road leading to my house. She sleeps with her head against the window, veil discarded on the middle seat. I watch her breathe slowly and shallowly, streetlights highlighting her cheekbones until the streetlights disappear. The vehicle hums and bumps along. I just want the night to end.

We pull up my driveway. The automatic lights, a blinding white rather than a pearly white, shine down on us. Eloise stirs, taking a deep breath, opening her eyes to a squint for a second, then flops down on top of her veil. I get out of the vehicle, unlock the front door, propping it open in preparation, and drop off her clutch. Returning to the vehicle, I give the driver a generous tip before turning my attention to the backseat.

I undo her seatbelt, scooping her into my arms, and retrieve her veil on the off-chance it also belongs to someone important to her. Kicking the passenger door shut, my driver leaves almost immediately. It is just Eloise and I now. It seems fitting that I carry my unconscious bride like a true bride deserves. Her hair pours down like a light brown waterfall in the air, lips slightly parted. She looks angelic.

Carrying her inside, I kick the door shut behind me and take her into the spare room. I do not expect her to feel comfortable sharing a bed with me, nor will I force her to. This she can decide on her own time. Whenever she is ready, I will be waiting. I will wait as long as it takes. I am committed to this marriage—committed to her. Committed to peace.

Laying Eloise on the bed, I sit on the edge of it, watching her as she stirs once more but ultimately relaxes. I take off one shoe, then the other, and can't help but smile at how cute she looks with her knees tucked to her chest. As relaxed as she might be, though, nothing can hide the distress she feels even in sleep. She is like a delicate swan against the harsh concrete-gray sheets.

Kissing her cheek, I leave the room, and I leave her be. She will come to me in the morning when she is ready.