As I sink onto the bed and bury my face in my hands, I wonder if I’m deluding myself into thinking freedom is even possible anymore. Diego is determined to keep me, and God help me, there are parts of me that want to let him.
22
Elena
My wedding day arrives far too quickly, but there’s no escaping it. I spend the days leading up it preparing myself both mentally and physically. I choose flower arrangements and add a handful of my friends and family to the reception seating chart. The day Diego and I came to our understanding, he let me use his laptop to send emails to the people of my choice, inviting them to the last-minute wedding. My inbox was flooded with shocked questions, and the only way to put them to rest was to insist that a whirlwind romance was responsible. Apparently, my insistence that Diego and I are madly in love worked. All my invitations were met with confirmations of attendance, assuring I won’t have to stare at a crowd full of strangers when I walk down the aisle.
The fitting for my dress finishes two days before the ceremony, and it fits like a dream. It’s more modest than I had previously envisioned for my wedding, but the ceremony will be traditionally Catholic so I thought it best to keep things simple. Besides, it isn’t as if this is my dream wedding. Diego isn’t the groom of my fantasies. This new life—one I hope will be temporary—is a far cry from the plans I had made for myself. There’s nothing I can do about that now. I have managed to cope with every change that has come my way from the moment Diego first laid eyes on me. I will survive this.
I wake up on the morning of the ceremony to find Diego already gone. On my nightstand, there’s a massive bouquet of pure white roses and calla lilies. The card attached to them holds a simple note: See you at the altar. Diego.
It strikes me as a romantic gesture totally unlike him. But then, he did tell me he wanted to try to make this marriage as civil as possible. Also, he included lilies, which are my favorite flower. I don’t remember ever telling him that, so I assume it has to be a coincidence.
Pressing my nose into the bouquet, I indulge in a few seconds of fantasy. I pretend this is the wedding day I’ve wanted since I was a little girl, and that meeting my future husband at the altar fills my stomach with butterflies and not dread. I pretend to be excited for the wedding night and the honeymoon—even though Diego hasn’t mentioned any kind of trip. I know there won’t be one, but I pretend anyway. Where would Diego take me if we did take a honeymoon? I imagine someplace like Paris or Italy. He doesn’t strike me as a barefoot in Tahiti type of guy. He’s more of a dinner and dancing and kisses beneath the Eiffel tower kind of man. With a sigh, I hang on to my fantasies for just a little bit longer, telling myself there isn’t anything wrong with my train of thought. If it’s what I need to make it through this day, I’m okay with it.
Someone knocks at the door, and I slip a robe on over my nightgown before opening it. My mouth drops open in shock when I find Marcella standing next to my big sister, Camila. Marcella holds an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne inside, and a carafe of orange juice. Camila has a garment bag draped over her arm and a broad smile on her face.
“Oh, my God!” I blurt, hands coming up over my mouth. “Camila!”
My sister bounces into the room like her typically bubbly self and tosses the garment bag onto the bed before throwing herself at me. I hold her tight and my eyes blur from tears I can’t hold back. She smells like her favorite Chanel perfume and she feels like home.
Pulling back to look at me, she frowns. “Elena, it’s your wedding day! No tears allowed!”
I sniff and laugh, cupping her face. “I’m just so happy to see you. It’s been six months! You look amazing. These highlights are perfect on you.”
She preens and flips her freshly cut hair—dyed a mahogany brown with golden highlights that make her hazel eyes pop. “I had to look my best for your wedding day. I wish you had given me more notice so I could lose five more pounds, at least.”
Marcella sits the champagne and orange juice on Diego’s nightstand, while Mariana and Antonella file in with breakfast for three, along with coffee and champagne glasses. My soon-to-be sister-in-law watches us with a soft smile.
“Shut up, you look amazing,” I tell Camila, still clinging to her hand while we sink onto the bed side-by-side. “You gave birth less than a year ago, for God’s sake! And how is my pequeño angel?”
Camila sighs and pulls her cell phone out of her purse. My chest grows tight when she shows me a photo of my baby nephew, Emmanuel.
“Oh, Mila,” I whisper, gently stroking my finger over his sweet, chubby face. “He’s gotten so big.”
My sister beams with pride. “He eats like a grown man and crawls so fast I can barely keep up. Nick is bringing him to the wedding. You know Emmanuel wouldn’t miss his Tía Elena’s wedding!”
“I can’t wait to see them both,” I tell her. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting to see you until I got to the church.”
Marcella offers me a cup of coffee from the tray, then gives one to Camila before going back to pour her own. “Diego sent for her this morning. Jovan drove all the way to her hotel to bring her here.”
“Your fiancé is so sweet,” Camila gushes. “He called me last night and told me he worried you were nervous. He thought having me here would make things easier for you. Besides, your maid-of-honor should be here for you every step of the way.”
“It does help,” I admit, getting choked up again. “You have no idea.”
Camila pats my leg. “Nerves are normal, Elena. I was sick for hours before my wedding, but when I walked down the aisle and saw Nick standing there, I went completely calm. You and Diego love each other … so it’ll be the same for you.”
I stare down into my coffee, suddenly feeling nauseous. While I’m glad to see Camila, having her close means I have to maintain the charade of being in love.
My sister was lucky. She left home at the first opportunity and never came back. Unlike me, she wasn’t willing to keep giving our father the benefit of the doubt. Camila was accepted into Yale right out of high school, and promptly packed her bags and moved north. She met her husband, Dominick, during her senior year, and they got married a few months after graduation. We see each other whenever we can, but Camila’s strained relationship with my father makes it difficult. I guess that isn’t an issue anymore, seeing as how my father has abandoned us both.
“We only have a few hours before we need to be at the church,” Marcella reminds me. “And the hair and makeup people will be here soon. Are you too nervous to try to eat something?”
I gaze at the spread Mariana and Antonella delivered while feeling like a cold stone was dropped into my gut. Everything looks amazing, but I know I won’t be able to stomach much.
“Maybe just a little.”
“You could always drink your breakfast,” Camila suggests. She leaves the bed and lifts the champagne from its bucket. “You won’t be so nervous after a few of these.”
“Do you really want me to stumble down the aisle, drunk, at my own wedding?” I ask, shaking my head. “In a church!”
Camila shrugs and starts peeling the foil off the bottle. “I was hammered when me and Nick got married.”
“Camila!” I exclaim with a laugh. “You said the sight of him calmed you down. You never mentioned liquor.”
She gives me a sheepish grin. “Hey … it got me through the day, and everything worked out in the end. Bottoms up, hermana.”
Marcella and Camila burst into giggles as a mimosa is shoved into my hands. I only hesitate a second before downing half the glass with one swallow. At first, I feel like I’m going to be sick, but the second sip settles me nicely. When Marcella hands me a plate with eggs and a few slices of toast, I relax and try to eat what I can.
Having them here eases my way through the rest of my morning. By the time the beauty team arrives to get us ready, we’re tipsy and laughing over Camila’s stories of new motherhood. It’s easy to relax with them here,
pretending that this is nothing more than a girl’s day with drinks, manis and pedis, and hair and makeup.
It isn’t until Marcella helps me into my dress that it all becomes real again. She buttons me up, then attaches the veil to my hair before stepping back to let me look in the full-length mirror.
“Oh,” she whispers, one hand over her chest. “You look so beautiful.”
I stare at myself as if looking at someone else. My hair is piled into a ballet bun on top of my head, with extensions helping add a little more volume. A delicate tiara sparkles against the black strands, and a long, sheer veil falls behind me to trail the floor. My gown is pure white, with long sleeves and a modest neckline. The sleeves are made of handmade lace, which also covers the bodice and trails down the front of the skirt in an intricate pattern. More of the lace runs down the back and spreads out to envelope the train, which runs an entire foot behind me. Marcella presented me with a set of pearls that were passed down by Diego’s grandmother—a necklace and pair of earrings. My makeup is natural and understated, and my nails are a tasteful nude shade. I look like something out of a bridal magazine—polished and poised.
Camila gasps when she steps out of the bathroom in her maid-of-honor’s dress. “Dios Mio, you look amazing.”
“That’s what I said,” Marcella chimes in.
They stand behind me in the mirror, their matching baby blue gowns looking amazing on their skin tones and figures. Their hair is swept up like mine, with fresh white and blue flowers pinned in. Despite the wedding being formal and opulent, I talked Diego into keeping the wedding party small—just our sisters, Jovan, and Jaime, who I only met a few days ago.
“Well,” Camila says, giving my hand a squeeze. “This is it. Are you ready?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, asking myself that same question. The champagne hasn’t made me drunk enough to ignore the churning of my stomach or the dread turning my blood to ice. But I smile at my sister and nod ‘yes’, anyway.
Marcella paces away from us with her cellphone pressed to her ear. “Okay … yes … we’re ready and heading down now.” She turns to us after hanging up. “The car is here.”
The two of them help me down the stairs, holding up my veil and the train of my dress. The wide flare of my skirt—and the petticoats underneath—make it slow going, but we eventually make it to the first floor and out to the waiting car.
Jovan—who drove Diego to the church earlier—has come back to retrieve us. Marcella says it’s because Diego doesn’t trust anyone else to get us there safely and on time.
He’s standing beside the back door of the Rolls, which he swings open as we approach. Lifting his sunglasses, he looks me over with raised eyebrows and lets out a wolf whistle. “Damn, girl! You clean up nice.”
I wave a dismissive hand at him, even though I can’t help a little smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He helps Marcella and Camila tuck my gown into the car, then goes to the other side to let Camila in next to me. Marcella slides in up front.
“What are you talking about?” he jokes while sliding into the driver’s seat. “I woke up like this. Ready to get married, dama?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I murmur as he pulls out of the driveway.
I spend the drive into Miami trying to settle my nerves, and listening to Jovan, Camila, and Marcella talk and joke with each other. Fortunately, no one says anything that will clue my sister in on what Diego does for a living. The rumors of his shady activities are usually overshadowed by his legitimate businesses, including Calentar. If Camila suspects anything, she doesn’t ask, and I’m grateful.
We arrive at the church to find the last few guests walking in, and Jovan pulls around back so I won’t be seen. A cluster of men in suits stand around waiting and watching, and I recognize them as some of Diego’s security team.
Is this what my life will be now—constantly followed by men with guns because of who my husband is? Diego promised to protect me from his world, but I don’t see how that’s possible when it seems to overtake very aspect of his life. Now, it’ll be a part of my life, too.
Jovan opens the door for Marcella first, then Camila. When my door swings open, I hesitate with my foot halfway to the ground. Staring down at me through a pair of sunglasses, is Oleg. He’s dressed in a pinstripe suit with massive emerald cufflinks and an ascot tie.
“Krasivaya, my dear,” he says, taking my hand to help me to my feet. “You look like an angel.”
“Th-thank you,” I stammer, dumbfounded at the sight of him. I expected him at the wedding but didn’t anticipate him greeting me at the car.
He takes my arm to lead me inside. Our pace is slow with Marcella and Camila holding up my veil and train.
“I hope you don’t mind me ambushing you this way, dorogoy,” he says. “But I made a request of Diego, and he has given his permission as long as you also agree.”
“What request?” I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.
We slip into the cool interior of the church, and Oleg leads me into a back room where our fresh bouquets are waiting in vases of water. Marcella and Camila stay a discreet distance away to give us privacy, checking their hair and makeup in a gilt mirror.
“I hope you won’t think me too presumptuous,” he begins with a sheepish smile. “But I have heard your father is not here to give you away. It isn’t right for a bride to walk down the aisle alone. For this, I would like to offer my services.”
I gape at him in silence while wondering if I heard him correctly. “You … want to walk me down the aisle?”
He laughs and the loud, boisterous sound draws stares from Camila and Marcella. Oleg lowers his voice so they can’t overhear. “I am not a man to hold a grudge, dorogoy. Diego was presented with a choice, and you were what he wanted. Who am I to stand in the way of that? He is like a son to me, you know. His father … well, Diego has been without him since he was a boy. I have been there to watch him grow into a strong man. I am proud to see him taking the first step toward starting a family of his own.”
I get a weird feeling in my stomach at Oleg’s mention of family and the reminder that Diego doesn’t want children. My new birth control is an implant, so I won’t have to worry about pills. Diego seemed relieved to know that.
“While I wish he had done it with my Nataly, I can’t begrudge his happiness,” Oleg continues. “You love each other, da?”
“Yes,” I say, the lie slipping easier off my tongue than usual. I’m getting better at this. “Very much.”
“Then I am happy for you. Now … will you allow me to give you away? It would be my honor.”
I don’t even have to think about my answer. Being a part of this world—even as a prisoner—has taught me that mafia men are a lot like politicians. There’s a lot of ass-kissing and palm-greasing that goes on, and staying in another boss’s good graces can mean the difference between harmony and bloodshed. I don’t need to be told that being Diego’s wife means I have a role in keeping these men happy.
“I’m the one who would be honored,” I tell him with a forced smile. “Thank you for offering.”
Oleg grins, and looks genuinely happy that I accepted his offer. It makes me think that his affection for Diego is deeper than I thought. Maybe he really is happy, thinking that Diego is marrying for love. How long before that illusion crumbles and he is disappointed?
I can’t think of that now, because Camila hands me my bouquet of white and baby blue roses and smooths a non-existent wrinkle in my dress.
It’s time.
23
Diego
Considering I never wanted to get married, my wedding day turns out to be more enjoyable than I expected. While standing at the altar next to Jovan, waiting for Elena to appear, I feel like I’m on display. The church is filled from wall to wall with members of both the Pérez and the Yezhov cartels, along with old friends of my parents, various business contacts, and a handful of Elena’s family and friends. It�
�s hard to stand still, even though I’m used to being gawked at. Something is different about this. Everything is different. Everything is about to change.
Jovan leans close just as the wedding processional starts to play and the double doors swing open to reveal Marcella walking in on Jaime’s arm. “Nervous, jefe?”
I clench my teeth and keep my eyes on that door, waiting for my bride to appear. “No.”
Nothing could be farther from the truth, but it’s not marriage that scares me. It’s the idea of perpetuating the sins of my parents. It’s Elena being in danger. It’s the realization that I’m starting to care about her, and anything I care about can be used to destroy me. Anything I love can be ripped away.
I push the fear aside and stand tall while Camila walks down the aisle alone, beaming proudly to lead the way for her sister. Fear isn’t new to me. I was forged in it; I learned to adapt and conquer it. I won’t let it take Elena away from me. I can have her and keep my empire, and nothing has to change. Elena will have more freedom, and maybe we can learn to get along. Everything else will go on as before.
The moment Elena appears in the frame of the double doors, my mind goes silent. All my worries, all the things I haven’t figured out yet … it all fades. She’s a fucking goddess, floating toward me all wrapped in lace and silk with flowers in her hands. Her face is serene and naturally made up, and my grandmother’s pearls seem to take their glow from her skin. She reminds me of a bride at a royal wedding, her head held high, her tiara sparkling in the lights, her dignity on full display.
I don’t take a breath until she joins me at the altar, accepting the hand I offer. From there, the ceremony seems to go by in the blink of an eye. Elena is calm and steady, her voice clear when she says her vows, her hands steady as she accepts the ring I slip on her finger. At the sight of the massive, princess-cut solitaire I chose for her, her eyes go wide and she looks at me in disbelief. I give her a little smile while she slips on my plain gold band, then wink. I know she wasn’t expecting such a ring, but I was motivated by a need to give Elena what I can. When I took her, it wasn’t with plans to keep her forever. Life with me wasn’t something she wanted, but I can make sure it’s comfortable for her—maybe even enjoyable.
Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Page 18
