A Bride For A Devil

Ginevra

I could hardly believe the conversation unfolding around me. “You cannot seriously expect Luciano Vescari to dance,” I said, raising my eyebrows as if that alone could end the debate.

Nadia’s aunt nearly choked on her champagne, laughter bubbling up so suddenly it sent a spray of sparkling liquid across the white tablecloth. My mother gasped as if I’d suggested a public scandal.

“Of course he’ll dance,” Cecilia Bellandi declared, her tone as inflexible as steel. “It is his wedding, after all.”

“That doesn’t mean he knows how,” someone countered, and the women all burst into laughter.

I dropped my forehead into my hand, groaning. This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted a bridal shower.

“You’re lying,” my cousin Emilia called out, fixing me with that knowing grin she always wore. “You love attention.”

“I tolerate attention,” I shot back, lifting my head.

Emilia leaned forward, her eyes glinting. “You’re marrying Luciano Vescari in front of four hundred people.”

“Three hundred and sixty,” I corrected, though it wasn’t much of a defense.

“Oh, that makes it so much more intimate,” she teased.

Laughter rippled around the table and, despite myself, I smiled too.

The private dining room was a chaos of sound and color: seventeen Bellandi women, crammed around a gigantic table scattered with champagne glasses, half-eaten plates, fresh flowers, and enough gift bags to fill the trunk of three cars. My mother had insisted we keep things small. Apparently, in her world, seventeen women counted as “small.”

“Speaking of the wedding,” Mom said, wielding her fork as a pointer, “your next fitting is Saturday.”

I groaned again. “No.”

“Yes,” she replied, unmoved.

“The dress fits.”

“The waist is wrong.”

“The waist is fine.”

“It wrinkles when you sit.”

I gave her a look. “Mother, people generally sit at weddings.”

“And you’ll wrinkle beautifully after the ceremony,” she replied, meeting my stare without flinching.

There was no winning with Cecilia Bellandi.

Someone down the table piped up, “Is Fiorella coming this time?”

“She’d better,” Mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I laughed. “I threatened her.”

“With what?” someone asked, always eager for gossip.

“I told her if she skips another fitting, I’m making her wear yellow.”

A gasp went around the table. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” I grinned. Fia hated yellow. She’d probably show up in sweatpants out of spite, but at least she’d show up.

My smile faded a little. I wished she were here tonight.

Fia had insisted this dinner didn’t count, she’d survived the actual bridal shower three weeks ago, and then she’d claimed she had plans with Nadia and vanished before Mom could guilt her into coming. Typical Fia. Maybe even lucky Fia.

My gaze drifted to the empty chair beside me. Viola should have been sitting there. No one had touched her place setting. I’d told everyone she wasn’t feeling well at the last minute. Another lie. One more for the collection.

My phone sat facedown next to my plate. Forty-three minutes ago, I’d sent Viola a message.

Don’t come tonight. Don’t ask me why. I’ll explain tomorrow. Please trust me.

She’d replied with three question marks, and then:

You better be alive tomorrow to explain this.

My stomach twisted at the thought.

“Ginevra?” My mother’s voice snapped me back. She was watching me, her eyes sharp. “You disappeared,” she said quietly.

“Just thinking,” I replied.

“About Luciano?” my aunt asked, smirking.

“Maybe she’s thinking about the wedding night,” someone else chimed in.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, grabbing my champagne glass as the table dissolved into laughter. “I hate all of you,” I told them, pretending to pout.

“You’ll hate us more when we start giving advice,” Emilia promised.

“Please don’t,” I begged, but it was hopeless.

Mom reached over and squeezed my hand. Her smile was warm; her eyes were not. She knew. Not everything, but enough.

She leaned closer, voice low so only I would hear. “You still have time to tell him.”

My fingers tightened around my glass. “Not until I’m sure.”

“Ginevra—”

“I need proof,” I whispered.

Her mouth flattened into a thin line. “We don’t know how much time you have.”

The words struck a little harder than I expected. I glanced around the table, but no one was listening.

“I’ll know tomorrow,” I promised.

“Marcello?” she asked.

I nodded once.

Mom sat back, letting the matter drop. Nothing else needed to be said. Not here. Not tonight.

Someone raised a champagne glass. “To Ginevra!”

Groans and cheers followed.

I forced a smile. “To surviving the next six weeks.”

“You mean marriage?” someone teased.

“I meant my mother,” I replied.

Mom smacked my arm in mock outrage, and the whole table erupted in laughter again.

For a fleeting moment, everything felt normal. Safe. Happy.

Then headlights swept across the windows. I barely noticed. Cars passed all the time outside. The second set of headlights slowed. Then a third.

My mother’s smile vanished.

The first loud crack sounded like someone had dropped a tray. The second shattered the window.

Everything exploded at once. Glass rained inward. Someone screamed.

Gunfire ripped through the room. I hit the floor before I even understood what was happening. Plates crashed. Chairs overturned. Bodies fell.

Someone landed against me, and something warm splashed over my cheek. I started crawling, not knowing where I was going or what I was looking for. My ears rang so violently I couldn’t even hear my own screaming.

And then I saw her.

“Mom!” I screamed, seeing her there on the floor, her dress stained dark with blood.

No. No, no, no.

I scrambled through broken glass, feeling my palm split open but not caring. “Mom,” I pleaded, falling beside her.

Her eyes found mine. I pressed both hands against her stomach. Blood welled between my fingers.

“Stay with me. Stay with me,” I begged.

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“I need help!” I screamed, or tried to, though I couldn’t hear anything.

Bodies surrounded us. Nobody moved.

Mom grabbed my wrist, hard. “Gin—”

“Don’t talk,” I choked out.

Her grip tightened. “Marcello…” she whispered.

I leaned in, desperate. “What?”

“They…know…”

Ice filled my veins. “Who?”

She tried to say something else, but just then the gunfire stopped. The silence that followed was worse.

My breathing sounded thunderous in my ears. My hands were slippery with her blood.

Somewhere behind me, I heard glass crunching… one step, then another. No. The shooters had been outside. Why was someone inside now?

I turned.

A man stepped through the ruined doorway, dressed in black, face hidden, gun in hand. He wasn’t searching; he already knew where he was going.

Straight toward us.

My heart stopped as I watched him step around bodies. His hand shifted on the gun. A heavy silver ring with a black stone glinted in the light, an engraving on the side.

I knew that symbol. Marcello had shown me!

Oh God.

The man raised the gun.

I threw myself over my mother. “Ginevra—”

The gunshot cracked. For half a second, there was no pain. Only white.

Then nothing.