Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
And why would I want to go back to them after what they did to my daddy?
That's how I remember him. Still Daddy. That was slowly changing—more and more, I called him Dad—but when I needed something, like a hug, like comfort, like someone to talk to when I had a bad dream, he was Daddy.
And he was a good dad too.
Kind, patient, firm when he had to be, but I was a decent kid and didn't get in much trouble.
Stellan and the Corsettis took him away.
Matteo and Saverino could've pulled the trigger themselves for all I know.
Here I am, binding myself to them again. It didn't work out great for my father. Why do I think it'll work out better for me?
“You're shaking.” Stellan's grip on my hands tightens, and he leans forward. He whispers softly in my ear. “You'll be okay. It's almost done.”
I bite my lip. “I'm just nervous.”
“I know. You're scared. But you don't have to be, Kira. I'm here.”
That's the problem, I want to tell him, but he's being soft and kind. I don't even know why, but I grab on to that while I can. The priest is nearly at the end, and I'm desperate for him to finish.
The rings. The vows. I mumble the words, feeling foolish. Gem watches on, face impassive. Shouldn't there be tears? Shouldn't there be smiles? Everyone's so grim, myself included.
“This part's not strictly necessary, but that concludes the official part of the ceremony. Stellan, if you'd like, you may kiss the bride.” Father John steps back, glancing over at Matteo and Saverino, and I know he knows what's happening here.
I figure we sign documents next. Prenup, marriage certificate, name change, that sort of stuff. Instead, Stellan steps forward, presses me against him with one hand on the small of my back, and cradles my chin in his other hand. He stares into my eyes for one knee-shaking moment before pressing his lips to mine.
I'm so surprised, I kiss him right back.
It's a good kiss too. I've had some bad kisses in my day. Sloppy, ugly, bored kisses. This isn't one of those.
This is the kind of kiss that starts a new life. Or maybe it ends one.
I pull back with a start as the three gathered witnesses start clapping. Gem wipes a tear from her eyes, and I grin at her uncertainly, dizzy and off-balance from the taste of Stellan flooding into me. His hand still rests on the small of my back, and doesn't he know this is fake? He can stop pretending anytime.
“Time to celebrate,” Matteo says, cracking open a bottle of champagne on the outdoor table. “Surely, Kira, your sister can have one glass?”
I glance at her. “Just one. She's still in high school.”
“No, it's okay—” But she accepts it and takes a sip anyway. Her nose wrinkles, and her eyes brighten. “Bubbly.”
Everyone laughs, even the priest.
After that, the paperwork happens in earnest. The priest takes it all with him when it’s over. Saverino takes care of the prenup, and I get the sense he’s the Corsetti lawyer. “All boilerplate stuff, no worries. In the event of something happening, you’ll be taken care of,” he assures me.
“Is that in the document?”
“Well, not officially, but—”
“Add it.” Stellan’s hand brushes my elbow. I swear, ever since we got married, he hasn’t stopped touching me.
“Are you sure?” Saverino looks uncomfortable. “This language is very standard, I assure you.”
“Add it in,” Stellan insists. “I want to make sure no matter what, Kira and Gem are covered. If I pass, they get assets. If we divorce, she’s entitled to a small percentage.” Saverino looks like he wants to argue, but the weight of Stellan’s glare makes him keep his mouth shut. “Make it happen.”
There’s no dancing. There’s no castle-shaped cake. Matteo and Saverino leave after an hour. Gem doesn’t finish her single glass of champagne. I throw that back for her, plus another, and another. Stellan drinks his whiskey like he’s brooding on his own demise, and maybe he is, who knows.
By dinner, we’re alone.
“Let me ask you something.” We’re sitting together on the porch, watching the sun sink. I’m tired and hungry. The ring on my finger feels unreal. The ring on his finger is even worse. “Why did my father do it?”
He looks over. “I don’t know.”
“But you all talked to him, right? After he got caught?”
“Nobody told me a damn thing.”
“Didn’t you want to know?”
He takes a long drink and finally shakes his head. “No. I didn’t.”
“Why not?” An angry desperation floods me. “If it’d been me, I would’ve wanted to know.”
“I was young and pissed off. I felt personally betrayed—like he’d done it just to hurt me. I wrote him off. I acted like I didn’t care. And by the time I realized I really did, he was long dead. Can’t ask a corpse a damn thing.”