Chapter 5
967 Words
The office smelled of old wax and cold coffee. The morning light did not enter the windowless room.
The priest wiped his forehead with a dirty cloth handkerchief. He was trembling. His hands shook so much that the worn leather book almost slipped off the edge of the mahogany desk.
I wore the same thick cotton navy-blue pants and shirt from the night before. No lace. No white dress. No flowers.
"Sit down," Dante ordered, standing on the other side of the desk.
I pulled out the upholstered chair. The leather creaked under my weight. Dante remained standing, his back near the smooth wall. He wore an all-black suit. His gaze was fixed on the double doors, ignoring my presence in the room.
"The... the signatures, Don Russo," the priest stuttered, his voice pitching higher.
The old man pushed two sheets of thick paper toward me. The edges fluttered beneath his knotty fingers. It was the contract of my end.
"Read it to her," Dante commanded.
The priest widened his tiny eyes.
"Sir, it is just the standard Cosa Nostra documentation. The normal vows of obedience..."
"Read." Dante's voice came out a pitch lower. Lethal. Dry.
The priest swallowed dryly. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down quickly.
"I, Siena Bianchi, accept the terms of matrimony. I surrender my blood, my loyalty, and my body to the Russo Famiglia. I renounce my name. I renounce my freedom outside the rules of my husband."
I squeezed my hands in my lap. My nails dug into my palms until the skin hurt. The weight of those words crushed what little air was left in the meeting room.
"Sign it," Dante spoke.
I picked up the heavy metal pen. The object was freezing.
Scratch. Scratch.
The tip scraped against the rough-textured paper. I wrote my full name. My last act with the blood of my father, the cowardly man who paid his own debts by throwing me into a lion's den.
I let go of the pen. It rolled across the polished wood desk.
Dante took three steps forward. He didn't pick up the piece of paper. He didn't come near my chair. His large hand, full of old scars, gripped the pen exactly on the metal tip where my fingers had not touched. He signed with hard, fast strokes, almost tearing the sheet.
"Is it done?" Dante asked. His face was a blank wall.
"Yes. You are married before the Commission and men. God's blessing..."
"Save the blessing for those who have salvation." Dante cut off the old priest's speech. He raised his hand and pointed straight to the exit. "Get out of my house."
The priest grabbed his black briefcase. He almost ran across the dark rug, without looking back. The solid wood of the door slammed hard into the frame.
Bang.
We were left alone. The silence of the office buzzed in my ears once again.
Dante adjusted the collar of his black shirt under his suit jacket.
"It is done," Dante said quietly. Direct. "To the Commission, your blood is now mine."
He turned his back in a swift movement and left through a narrow side door, disappearing into his own labyrinth.
I spent the rest of that day in the east wing. Locked from the outside.
The guest room felt like the tomb of an abandoned hospital. No one spoke to me. No guard patrolled the empty hallway. Absolute isolation was an old and well-known tactic. The mafia broke people's sanity through silence before using fists or guns.
The white clock on the wall ticked the hours away slowly. The ticking beat dryly.
Tick. Tock.
At noon, a younger maid opened a crack in the door. She pushed a metal tray onto the floor with the tip of her shoe. Stale bread, slices of pale cheese, and a glass of lukewarm water. I ate in silence. I chewed every small piece several times to force the clock to move.
I sat on the marble floor. I hugged my own knees. The confusion inside my mind was starting to tire me out. Did Dante Russo hate me? Was he disgusted? No. His brutal reaction to my father's outstretched hand wasn't arrogance. It was panic disguised as fury and blind control.
The faint sunlight faded from the crack in the window. The room plunged into gloom.
The door lock clicked loudly.
Rosa, the housekeeper, pushed the door open. She held a thin pillow and a folded dark gray blanket tucked under her arm. Her wrinkled face remained a hard mask.
"Get up," Rosa ordered. She threw the blanket in my direction.
I caught the fabric in mid-air. It smelled like strong fabric softener mixed with drawer dust.
"Where are we going?" I asked, clutching the pillow against my stomach.
"To the master bedroom. The Don's room."
My stomach dropped all at once. A bad shiver ran up my spine.
"Did he call for me?"
"The marriage needs to look real. Guards do night patrols. The Commission bosses have spies infiltrated everywhere. They need to see the new wife sleeping in the boss's bedroom. Hurry up."
I walked down the long hallway. My bare feet made noise on the marble.
"How long will I be locked in there?" I asked quietly.
"You do not ask questions." Rosa didn't slow her brisk pace. "You go in, lie down, and pretend you are dead."
She braked in front of the double doors at the end of the west hallway. The command center of the mansion.
Rosa pointed her bony finger.
"Go in."
I turned the round iron doorknob. The door creaked on its hinges. The sharp sound leaked out.
The Don's bedroom didn't smell like imported perfume or freshly washed sheets. It smelled of gun oil, heavy wax, and leather.
- Writer
