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Marriage was never for love-it was for legacy. A strategy. A performance. And for the Lombardis and the Morettis, it wa...
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Widow.
She was going to be the youngest widow in the Famiglia.
She could feel the stares burn her skin as she stood in the corner of the room. Her eyes were downcast, looking just over her arms, which were folded over her torso. His suit jacket was around her shoulders, shielding and protecting her even when he wasn't there.
The smell of blood burned her nose. It stained her hands. It was cold against her skin. She was in her white dress, splattered with crimson and soaked in red. Droplets fell down her arms —her blood. She was careful not to let it touch his jacket.
Her husband's blood and her blood mixed so well that she couldn't even tell when one ended and the other started. She wanted to laugh at it. But blood was beginning to get on the ground, and her skin was going pale.
She was losing blood.
And no one cared.
"...Sniper in the trees.."
"...The wife saw it all..."
Voices were far away, muffled in her ears. Her head was light; it was like she was floating. No, not floating—sinking. She was falling, sinking deeper into oblivion. There was no life raft and no oxygen. It was dark here, quiet and lonely.
She couldn't see. Her vision was clouded. The pressure was too much down here. She couldn't think. She couldn't swim for help. She couldn't talk or she would drown. She could feel it. Feel her heart stop...feel her breath thin...feel death come.
Shoulders. Hands were on her shoulders. Familiar, calloused hands that pulled her to a hard chest. Heartbeat. She felt a heartbeat.
"We need help!" a voice shouted; she could feel its vibrations against her head. Emilio.
"We need a doctor! My sister -she's hurt!" he shouted, pulling her body away from the corner and calling frantically for help as everyone stood and watched.
She was hurt? She didn't feel any pain.
She felt them abruptly stop and come face to face with a presence blocking their path. Emilio tensed against her, holding her shoulders tighter and maneuvering her behind him. Someone was there in front of him. Someone Emilio didn't like.
"Step aside, son." Carmine's low, sinister voice reverberated against her ribcage, and she acknowledged the only emotion she had felt in days: fear.
She knew that tone, she knew what was going to happen whenever her dad sounded that dark --that emotionless. What had she done? Did she do something wrong? She couldn't remember anything from the last day; the last thing she remembered was Roman holding her against his body this morning, smiling down at her, and telling her she was beautiful.
