Captured By The Don

Cold Wedding

Neon

“Do you Alexio Donatelli agree to take Neon Graham as your lawfully wedded wife to love and cherish her, to protect and honor, forsaking all others and holding only unto her till death do you part?”

I feel his eyes stare at me even though I refuse to look up at him and face the judgment in his gaze.

It takes him a second or two before I hear that grave deep voice say, “Yes I do.”

I hear the priest’s voice again. “And do you Neon Graham agree to take Alexio Donatelli as your lawfully wedded husband, to love and obey him, forsaking all others and holding only unto him till death do you part?”

Silence.

Do I want to marry this man? The only reason I am standing here in the first place is because of some greedy deceitful plan of my father’s. Do I want to marry this cold man and live like a sinner under the weight of God’s judgment for the rest of my life?

After the revelation yesterday, he for some reason, didn’t say a word about our um . . . encounter, at the club but regardless of that, it’s hard not to feel the hidden texture of his gaze. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night and even while my mother’s handmaidens dressed me up and did my hair and makeup, I could not stop the fidgeting caused by the anxiety that ate at my guts.

The tugging feeling that this man can only say one word – just one – and just like that my whole reputation and my father’s will be ruined.

Again.

The priest feels complied to repeat his words. “And do you Neon Grah—”

“Yes I do,” I reply. At the end, familial duty wins once again.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” he beams, “you may now kiss the bride.”

I feel Don’s fingers on my veil slowly lifting the lacey material.

He grabs my chin between his fingers and tilts my head up so that my eyes can meet his. I feel the stares of the guest on us but my attention is only focused on the man in front of me.

“Are you shy now, slut?” he whispers, but from the way the priest’s eyes widens, it’s obvious his words weren’t so much as a whisper as they were a semi-hushed bite to me.

He kisses my cheeks briefly before releasing me and even something as chaste as that sends a small shiver through my body.

“That all?” he asks the priest who nods feverishly, “Great, I’ve got to go.”

My eyes go round with shock, “Wait, y- you’ve got to what?”

He turns his attention back at me, “I’ve got a whole lot of important things to do.”

“Important things to —” what could be more important than your own f*****g wedding?

He sends me a cold look. “Some people got a tight schedule, Graham. Not everyone can clear out a whole day or night," he winks, "just for fun or the sake of it. My driver will take you home. See you soon … wife,” he says, like marrying a girl at the altar is just another normal thing for Alexio Donatelli to do.

He pats my laced shoulders and leaves me standing on the altar, his long legs striding effortlessly down the aisle as everybody watched and straight to his car before zooming off.

The wedding was arranged to be Italian because of Don’s Italian heritage so against my father’s wishes it was done in a Catholic church in the east side of Chicago, officiated by an ordained Catholic priest and complete with the whole Italian Confetti traditions.

The reception takes place in the garden with a handful of guests including my folks and Fanny and a few deadly looking associates of my new husband. Those are not the kind of people I expected to be at my wedding when I envisioned it. I envisioned more light than darkness and these men represents a darkness like Don that I can't place my finger on.

The kind of darkness that comes with a certain degree of fear when they walk into a room.

The guests also includes some sprinkles of people related to Don like a guy o figured to be his cousin – an athletic looking dark haired younger guy, a few people with the same dark haired and attractive features and a woman I suspect to be his mom.

She is as unsmiling as her son and I’m about to make the move to talk to her since it is obvious she is not going to – when my father pulls me to a spot away from the guest to talk to me.

“You did it,” he says glee shining in the depths of his eyes, “You’re married to one of the most powerful men in Chicago.”

“I don’t really feel powerful dad,” I tell him.

“Listen, Neon, you’ve gotta be grateful. Better Donatelli than that rat ass leech you were dating.”

If it is not clear enough, my father never approved of my ex. He always said I could do better than someone who was lower than our financial status.

Not like we are rich by the way.

I mean we ‘were’ rich. ‘Were’ being the operative word here. We were once the kind of rich that brought with it a certain kind of respect and dignity and status. The kind of ‘rich’ that is evident in the Donatellis although if I’m being brutally honest, we were never as rich as they are.

But things kind of went downhill for my father when he lost the election to be Governor and some kind of dark secret popped out relating to him and since then, we’ve been – not poor – but not exactly rich either.

More like in the middle which is low enough for someone with my father’s size of ego.

“Now all you’ve gotta do,” my father continues, “is to make him trust you.”

“Trust?”

“Scratch that, make him love you. That’s the only way to get a man’s trust.”

“Did you see him today Father? The man is not even ready to look at my face.”

“I don’t care how you do it,” he spits, “don’t you see it? That’s the only way our plan can work.”

You mean your plan can work.

“We’ve got to find another way dad. I don’t know, maybe steal what you want?”

“What I want,” he grits his teeth, “what I want cannot be stolen, child. You don’t know half of it and let’s keep it that way. Your only duty is to make him love you and when that is done, I’ll tell you where to go from there.”

My hands flays in frustration, “But how can I make that man love me??!”

“I don’t know, you’re his wife. Do your duty!”

I still.

Surely, he didn’t just say . . . my father didn’t just tell me to . . .

Nah, he probably – no, definitely – meant something else. He is my father after all.

“Whatever it takes, Neon,” he scratches his brows, “whatever it takes.”

He gulps the remaining wine in his glass and leaves me standing there, beneath the palms, wondering what the man who fathered me meant when he said ‘whatever it takes.”

This is what I am now. Doomed by my husband and doomed by my father.

I hate that I have to work to please them both when all I want to do I crawl in a hole somewhere and hide for the rest of my miserable life.

Because that is what my life is going to be from now on – miserable.

By the time I walk back into the crowd, Don’s mother is gone, along with the rest of his relatives and the sun is setting already. Can’t exactly say I miss them.

After some teary fuss from my mother and a few of my aunties, I say goodbye to the rest of the guests and my father’s gleeful face before Don’s driver whips me off to my doom.

The drive takes about twenty minutes or more but by the time we get to the sprawling mansion that is the Donatelli home, I am already worn out, stressed by the activities of the day and wanting nothing more than to snuggle on my bed and cry myself to sleep.

But I have to keep up with tradition so I go through the ritual of saying hello to the handful of people lined up to welcome me and I have to offer a polite smile while at it too because I don’t want to f**k up the first impression.

A middle-aged lady walks up to me as I make my way to the entrance and offers me an old-fashioned slight bow.

I mean who the f**k bows in the twenty-first century.

“I’m Mrs. Mattie,” she says, “the housekeeper. It’s nice to have you here young miss.”

“Oh you can call me Neon,” I tell her.

She gives me a somewhat stern look. “I prefer the use of formalities. It’s what the boss wants too.”

Um... okay?

“I’m sure you need help with your luggage,” she offers, taking me through a long spiral staircase.

“Not at all. My luggage doesn’t get here till tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll show you to your bedroom, then I’ll have someone prepare a warm bath for you. You must be exhausted after everything so take a rest, dinner will be sent up to you and you’ll be introduced to everyone formally tomorrow.”

She talks like she is being programmed to talk, like someone wrote a very robotic script for her and she is just reading the lines out from it.

“Here is your room,” she points at a beautiful brass door and hands me a set of keys, “designed to fit your taste with the help of your mother.”

I twirl the keys in my hand, “Is Do—uh, my husband,” I stutter, “is his bedroom around here too?”

“Oh no,” she gives me a tight smile, “Mr. Don’s room in over in the east wing. He ordered for yours to be in the west wing of the house.”

Far away from me as possible I see.

“And is he here? At home?”

“He is in his bedroom, Miss.”

“Okay,” I gather the gown around my ankles, “I’ll just pop in and say a quick hello to him.”

“Not necessary, ma’am. He requires not to be disturbed.”

I start walking anyway, “Surely, he didn’t mean for that order to affect his wife.”

I hear Mrs. Mattie’s quick footsteps behind me, “His orders usually extends to everyone, ma’am, you have to stop walking.”

When have I ever been told to do something and not want to do the direct opposite?

Well except for that time at the club. That was one of the few times I wanted to do exactly as I was told.

“Lady Graham!” Mrs. Mattie calls after me.

“Just a quick hello,” We need to talk about a lot, Don and I, we need to speak about everything about our marriage because I never had the time to speak to him between trying to get him c*m on my face and getting married to him the very next day.

“Lady Graham!”

I am already in the east wing, woman, so just freaking let it go!

There are so many doors over here so for a second I figure it’ll take me forever to find the door to his room.

But then I hear the sounds coming out from the door that ends the hallway and I know that must be his room.

But wait—

The sounds… hold on for a second . . .

“Lady Graham, you must come back and –”

I block out the rest of her words as I double my speed and make a beeline for the door. When I fling it open, I am greeted by a sight that sends a shockwave tumbling down my whole body in trembling tides.

Alexio Donatelli, my new husband, the one who just left me on the altar because he had a bunch of ‘important things to do’, who boasted about his ‘tight schedule’ merely hours ago, the one whose lips played with mine just yesterday, is splayed on the bed, naked, his hair spread all over his face, a hand behind his head on the pillows, while a naked brunette is situated on top his c**k, riding the s**t out of him.

My husband decided to f**k someone else on our wedding night of all nights.