Left to Die at the Altar

The champagne flute was cold against my shaking fingers. Beside me, Dante Romano raised his own glass. In a few minutes, the Don of this city was supposed to become my husband. His arm stayed firm around my waist as he turned to our guests. “To the Romano family.” His voice carried through the cathedral. “Stronger and more united than ever.” He addressed the room, but he was looking at his adopted sister, Elena. She stood beside the altar in the place meant for his mother, wearing the Romano matriarch’s sapphire necklace. Candlelight caught on the stones. Dante had given a place of honor and a family heirloom to the woman who had spent years trying to drive me out. Elena caught my eye and raised her glass. Her smile was all sugar. Moments earlier, she had placed my champagne in my hand herself and let her fingers linger on the stem. I took a sip. The bubbles almost hid the oily bitterness. Almond. My stomach dropped. I had a deadly anaphylactic allergy to nuts. I had told Dante once, late at night in our bedroom. No one else was supposed to know. Elena must have overheard. The back of my throat began to itch, then sting. I coughed and barely made a sound. Dante’s fingers dug into my hip. “Kira, stop,” he muttered. “Don’t make a scene. Not today.” He glanced at the necklace and mistook my cough for another of my “petty jealousies.” For years, Elena had worn his mother’s jewelry, rearranged our home, and canceled our plans. Dante always answered the same way: *She’s just family, Kira. Don’t be so sensitive.* The sting became a burn. Each breath had less room to pass. “My medical kit.” The words scraped out as I reached for the satin pouch my seamstress had prepared. Dante kept watching the crowd. “Elena has all the first-aid kits. She’s a doctor. She insisted on handling everything. You know that.” That morning, Elena had collected every emergency supply because, as the family doctor, she was supposedly the best person to handle a crisis. She had my EpiPens and my inhalers. She had everything. I stumbled and grabbed my neck. The guests blurred at the edges. Elena hurried over and arranged her face for the guests. “Oh, the poor thing. It’s just a panic attack. The pressure of the day is getting to her.” The guests believed the doctor. Their alarm softened into pity for a nervous bride. My knees hit the marble. My gown twisted around my legs as I clawed at Dante’s trousers, catching my nails in the wool. Black spots crowded my vision. I could no longer speak. *Ambulance. Help me. I’m dying.* He looked down at me, furious. “Get up, Kira. You are embarrassing me. You are embarrassing this family.” To him, I was putting on a performance to steal attention from his blameless sister. I still had one chance. I had hidden one spare EpiPen inside the layers of my skirt. No one knew it was there. My numb fingers tore through the silk seam and closed around a hard cylinder. Relief caught in my blocked throat as I pulled it free. The shape in my hand was too small and too smooth. A gold tube. Lipstick. Elena’s signature blood-red shade. She had taken my last EpiPen and left this in its place. The last air left my lungs. I was going to suffocate in my wedding dress at Dante’s feet, and he was going to watch it happen.