Chapter 4

I selected my clothes carefully, taking care to avoid heels due to the nerve damage I had on my ankles when I was little: an injury that could leave me prone to random gout episodes. I fished out a simple mint green wrap dress and paired it with a thin emerald green belt and a pair of tan sandals. After scanning my choice of clothes and nodding at them in approval, I went into the shower; letting the hot water do some magic to my nerves which were going haywire by the second.

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The first person I saw upon departing the bathroom had me stopping dead in my tracks.

Mother.

My hands tightened on the soft white towel I was wrapped in.

Her stance was stiff and upright, her spine-straight posture giving her a severe air. Mother's bleach blond hair was fastened in a chignon at her nape, the suave cut of the white shift dress she was swaddled in reinforcing the Ice-queen moniker she'd been dubbed generally.

After mumbling a greeting I made a beeline for my dresser, trying so hard to affect a nonchalant air as I practically rushed towards the pale cushioned stool. I fancied my mother could evoke fear in even the strongest of men. I stopped my hurried pace only once when I heard the click of her heels drawing closer to me.

Reality had decided to screw with me early, and in form of my mother at that.

Sat on the stool now, I involuntarily held my breath as I watched mother approach me through the mirror; my cheek starting to throb viscerally as I remembered the slap she'd landed on it yesterday.

I sat stiffly when she stood directly behind me. The rays from the early morning sunrise pouring into my room burned the side of my face; or maybe that was mother's stare.

I watched as she bent forward and picked up a ruby encrusted hairbrush. After a while she began passing the brush through my hair gently, while my eyes stayed glued to the mirror nervously.

After a moment I started to relax, but my brief prelude with calm was cut short and had my shoulders tensing when she spoke softly.

"You know the type of world we're part of, Emily. I would've thought you'd reconcile yourself with the fact that you wouldn't be given a choice at choosing who you'd marry. But I understand if you didn't," she paused, gathering my hair from my shoulder. "After all, such... rules are so at odds with the era we live in. But not inapplicable"

Through the mirror, I saw my jaw tighten.

"Castello is a good man." So she and father have been saying. "He'll take care of you, wouldn't put his mistresses above you."

Was that supposed to make me feel better?

Through the mirror, I couldn't see my heart tighten.

I wailed internally, I'd gone and forgotten about the promiscuous nature of the men in the mafia. About their can't-keep-it-in-their-pants-tendencies.

Through the mirror I saw my eyes glisten.

"Emily," mother called softly, "marriage isn't the end of the world."

It wasn't. But it was the end of mine.

What was left of me now was an empty future stretched out before me bleakly.

I felt my throat constrict and I swallowed hard, blinking rapidly; trying in a useless attempt to suppress the tears that were already slipping out of my eyes.

"Oh, Emily," Mother whispered, guiding me up to my feet. And with her cool facade slipping momentarily, she gathered me into a hug. I didn't return it. But I did bury my face in the silk material of her dress and cried.

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Some time later, we were both making our way down the grand twin staircases spanning the length of the receiving hall, the click of her heels echoing loudly amidst indistinct chattering.

Workers bustled about the white themed hall making hasty preparations for the engagement tomorrow evening: some stopped to pass greetings to us. I returned them all with a fake smile, all the while hoping none of them saw through the impregnable mask I'd affected; saw the soulless gleam that had taken up camp in my eyes.

"Down the patio, you'd be meeting with your stylist, Ursula Dwayne, at seven in the evening," mother imparted briskly, "you'd do well to enjoy your session with her thoroughly," then she muttered under her breath, "took me almost a fortune to book a single schedule with her."

I nodded obediently.

It was at the tip of my tongue to tell her I could plan my own clothes, but I didn't: not because mother, for some reason, had refused to acknowledge I was a fashion designer: but because I couldn't. Wouldn't. I wouldn't contribute to my impending doom.

"Make an effort to get to know her personally. Because she, and along with a host of other committees you'd meet later, would be the ones planning your wedding."

My wedding. I forced a nod. And couldn't stop a stray thought from flitting into my mind; Ursula Dwane sounded old and wizened.

On entering the sparse dinning hall, I was immediately met with father springing up from his seat at the head of the table sharply, a cellphone clutched in his hand tightly.

"Mercutio?! Mercutio Ivanov?!" He boomed, rushing out of the room to our shocked stares.

Vaguely wondering who that was, I moved away from the entrance as he came marching towards it.

Drawing nearer to the large oak table my eyes connected with Tura's, my little eight year old sister.

"Good morning, sister Emiliano," She greeted in her soft, tiny voice. I internally cringed at the 'sister' title my father had drilled it into her head to be addressing I and Ardoo with, and then I mentally winced at my full name being used.

I smiled down at her petite form. Chestnut-brown ringlets framed her small oval face, neatly brushed bangs falling inches over twinkling green eyes. "Morning, my little advenTura."

A sparkle infiltrated the green eyes only she had inherited from mother, and a large, guileless smile stretched across her face. I felt a pang in my chest when I wondered if Tura would also marry someone twice her age when she gets older. The pang turned into flame of resolution; not if I could help it.

The door to the hall opened and Ardoo walked in, I avoided her eyes as she inched closer to the long table. Taking a seat, I settled myself into a grey, straight-backed chair.

"Good morning, sister Leonardo," Tura said. I raised my head a little to see Ardoo's lithe form still striding towards the table. The air of calm and stiff suaveness about her hinted at the fact she was more like mother than anything.

But I knew that was false.

I felt a coil of sadness and regret wrap itself around my heart tightly, she'd once been carefree and outgoing; she'd once been happy.

After a while of waiting for father to come back to the table, we said the grace--another rule father had imposed--and began eating when it became apparent he wasn't returning.

"So, Ardoo," Mother started quietly, taking a sip of her apple juice. I made to roll my eyes mentally then stopped, deciding--due to what was about to happen--it was better I rolled it for the world to see. Tura caught the motion and stifled a giggle.

Mother had made it a rule to probe into our lives every breakfast.

"Yes, Mother?" Ardoo answered noncommittally, forking pasta into her mouth.

"How's your tech project coming along?" Mother asked.

"Fine," Ardoo replied distantly.

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The remainder of breakfast carried on in a whirl of small discussions. I'd quipped responses to mother's questions as politely as my sinking heart would allow; which meant I'd snapped at some points.

Late afternoon soon rolled in and father sent for me. As I walked down the silent Italian furnished hallways, I relished the feel of not having a bodyguard shadow me at every turn.

Five months ago, when the intrusion of Dimitri, my former bodyguard, had grown overwhelming; I'd asked father to cut him loose. You'd have thought I would have gotten used to a bodyguard tailing me incessantly--as they'd done since I was little. But nuh-uh, the act of someone constantly invading my privacy...

That never grew old.

I should've known something was wrong the moment father had agreed to my request immediately. Because--as was normal--he would've stationed them around me for an extended period of time, a time which consisted of three more months at best. Before replacing them after he'd given me a much needed bodyguardless break.

The shocking fact still remained that father had sent Dimitri away at my request immediately. And I was still enjoying aforementioned break.

The months that'd followed had heralded a ton of requests from me--which had gotten agreed upon with surprising alacrity. So surprising was his generosity that I hadn't stopped to question it.

That single shortcoming had come back to bite me in the culo.

Nearing the sturdy mahogany doors, I stared at the muted red burnishes for still moment before knocking.

My father's deep baritone ushered me in.

On opening the door, my senses were immediately assaulted with scents of sandalwood and faint cigarette smoke. I lingered near the doorway for a bit before stepping into the study. A large shelf took up the entire east wall that connected to a wine rack. Behind the monumental desk he sat behind, a large wall of glass lined the perimeters of where the north wall would've been.

Treading on earth-brown carpeted floors, I walked deeper into the greige toned room. I absently stared at the familiar murals on the walls, noting Lorenzo, and Benvolio,-- father's consigliere--weren't present. 

Father's deep, quiet tone drew my attention to him.

"Take a seat." His voice had me slowly settling down into one of the leather chairs before the large table.

Noncommittally, he fiddled with a scrunched up piece of paper he held  between his fingers before saying, "Congratulations, Emiliano."

My face remained blank.

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A/N

Aiik!❤ Sorry I had to cut this chapter short, didn't want it exceeding a certain word count I'd set for it. ^^

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