Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(5)
Milene has no idea how close she came to being in my place today. She plans on going to college after high school. Becoming a nurse is all she has talked about since she turned eight, and that is all she ever wanted. I hope her wish comes true. Knowing how stubborn Milene is, she will probably make it, unless our father decides to also marry her off before she escapes his clutches.
“So, tell me about him. I want to know everything about your future husband! Why didn’t you bring him to meet us?”
I leave the eyeliner on the vanity and turn on my chair to face Milene, my sweet baby sister who spent hours of her free time on YouTube and learned sign language because of me. My mother and brother learned the basics as well, but they only practiced enough to understanding simple sentences. My older sister, Allegra, and my father never bothered.
“His name is Mikhail Orlov,” I sign. Milene has gotten so much better in sign language over the last few years, that we can have a normal conversation, but she still needs me to go slow.
“And? What does he look like? Is he hot? How old is he? Come on, tell me.”
“That’s all I know.”
“Oh, don’t be so secretive.” Milene laughs and pinches my upper arm. “Tell me!”
“We never met. And I don’t know anything else except his name.” The truth is, I don’t care, so I never asked. What good would it do me? I’m marrying the man whether I want it or not.
“What! Are you crazy? I though you at least met him and decided to go through with the marriage thing because you liked the guy.”
“Go change. We will be late.”
“Bianca?” She places her hand on my shoulder. “Did you agree to the marriage? Or is Father making you do this?”
“Of course, I did.”
“You agreed to marry someone you never met? Don’t lie to me, love.”
“I am not lying. Please go change.”
She regards me through narrowed eyes, but eventually leaves. I finish my makeup, put on my heels, and head into my unhappily ever after, praying that Milene won’t face the same fate.
The wedding is set to take place in the reception hall of the luxury Four Seasons hotel in the center of Chicago, and as soon as we arrive, all heads turn toward us. Dozens of gazes follow our path as Roman and the rest of the group go to sit in the first two rows on the right side. There are only eight of us in total, whereas the left side, where the Italians are sitting, is packed full. All twenty rows are occupied with grim faces. I guess no one is happy with one of their own marrying into the Bratva, but that certainly didn’t deter them from coming for gossip and free food.
Italians seriously invest themselves into their celebrations and appearances. There are huge white flower arrangements everywhere and silk ribbons tied into bows around each chair. They even put a bunch of white petals all over the damn floor. For Italians, it's always about making a great impression.
While the others sit down, Kostya and I stand near the first row. The Italians start talking among themselves, nudging each other with their elbows, watching us. Most of them move their eyes away the moment they see my face and focus on Kostya, sizing him up. With his longish blond hair and mischievous smile, Kostya is a pretty kid. Women have always thrown themselves at him, so it’s not surprising that these people have concluded he’s the one getting married today.
I take a step forward and stand at the front, where the wedding officiant waits on the other side of the high table. Kostya, my best man, follows but stops two steps to my right. The moment it becomes evident that I am the groom, there is a collective gasp, and the whole room goes silent.
I face the crowd of Italians, who stare at me with shock evident in their eyes, and pass over them with my gaze until I reach Bruno Scardoni. Isn’t he supposed to escort his daughter down the aisle? He’s sitting in the middle of the first row, a smug, self-satisfied smile on his lips. Interesting. The three women on his right, his wife and two daughters, are sitting stone still, a look of horror on their faces. That, at least, is expected. I wonder where the brother is. From the information I gathered, Bianca and her brother are close, so it’s strange for him to miss his sister’s wedding.
Just as I start wondering if I should've had that meeting with Bianca before the wedding, the sounds of the wedding march fill the room. I hope she won’t run off screaming upon seeing me, because I will be chasing.
I regard the white door in front of me and wonder what kind of life waits for me on the other side. Catalina, my cousin and bridesmaid today, fidgets with the veil, arranging the folds to fall over my face.
Sold. I’m being sold like cattle to ensure someone else’s goals bear fruit. There was nothing I could have done to avoid this, other than ruin my sister’s life in exchange for my own. I can’t go back, so I’ll go forward with my head held high to let my bastard of a father see he hasn’t broken me.
He threw such a fit when I told him I would be walking down the aisle by myself. “What would people say?” he had yelled.
What people say makes no difference to me. I have no intention of having the man who decided to use me as collateral damage play a dutiful father. And I certainly won’t go in there with my face covered like I’m some demure scared victim.
A man in a hotel uniform opens the door when the first notes of the song play. I grab the hem of the veil, remove the damn thing from my head, and drop the lacy fabric on the floor. Catalina gasps behind me, but I ignore her, take a deep breath, and step into the reception hall.