Mafia Puppet

FRANCESCA

TIME FLIES BY, and before I know it, I’m being told it’s my wedding day. It’s not unusual for a bride to be kept in the dark about her groom’s identity.

Usually, his rank is all that matters. I’m lucky enough to know who I’m marrying, but until a few days ago, I had no idea when the wedding would be.

When my father calls me into his office again, he’s sober and less angry. I can only hope he doesn’t remember what he did.

And he doesn’t.

The fathers in the Giordano Mafia aren’t fools. They know how women are treated after marriage, so they try to keep it a secret.

After the wedding, the woman becomes the husband’s responsibility. She’s his puppet. His plaything to torment and keep alive.

My mother is restless. She has a large scar on the right side of her forehead that I know will leave a mark. She doesn’t seem to care though.

She lost hope long ago that her beauty would make a difference. My father will never change. She even has multiple bruises on her face and neck, which she tries to cover up as well.

It hardly works when she can barely walk. Her limp is quite obvious, and I have no doubt my father had her discharged before her recommended date.

“Francesca,” my mother says as she covers my face with the long white veil. “It’ll hurt a lot.” She pauses. I can feel her shaking as she holds my shoulders. She’s that weak.

“Don’t fight it. It’ll be bloody. A mess. And then…it’ll get better. You’re lucky the Giordano Family no longer follows the bloody sheets tradition. During my time—” She stops herself.

The bloody sheets tradition is nasty. Only the Giordano Family has stopped following it. Our crime family has the highest rate of rapes.

It got so bad that the bloody sheets tradition was slowly removed as many women started faking it.

“Mother, how was your first time?” Her eyes widen in pain at the memory, and I immediately regret asking.

“It was horrible, Franci. I resisted and he wasn’t a patient man. He, uh, he tied my…” she chokes on her words. “It’s better if you don’t hear it right now. Especially right before your wedding.”

To be honest, I don’t want to hear it either. I don’t want to imagine it. Even for just a few moments of my life, I want to feel like I’m happy and marrying the love of my life.

But I know that’s close to impossible. Yet still, I imagine. I hope.

Hope really is a deadly thing.

Arianna isn’t here to tell me it’ll all be okay. She isn’t here to give me a comforting smile as I leave with a brutal, total stranger.

My sister isn’t here because she’s surviving in the hospital, fighting for her life because of the injuries my father gave her.

It’s not her fault and neither is it mine, but we still have to endure it because we’re the women of this family. It’s our duty. Or so, that’s what we’re taught.

It’s what’s inscribed into our souls the moment we see a glimpse of light. Our first word isn’t Father but omertà and our understanding of silence.

Time flies by and before I know it, my father is walking me down the aisle. The soft music playing in the background does little to soothe the rapid thumping of my heart.

My family, distant and close, are all here. Even the other mob bosses make an appearance for this moment. It’s historical. But I don’t look at any of them for more than a mere second.

I look ahead because I know that if anyone stares into my eyes for longer than that, they’ll know how weak I am. They would know how much I want to escape this bond.

They would know everything inside me.

My father places my hand onto the cold one of the Don. I know he’s tall, strong, and olive-skinned; a true Italian man as they like to say.

The priest says the prayers. When it’s time to voice our consents, I freeze.

My throat suddenly feels dry and his hand holding mine feels like iron shackles, pulling me into the dark depths of an abyss with him and his deadly crimes.

I don’t want to go there. I didn’t ask for this.

“I do,” he says, his voice deep and husky.

“Do you, Francesca Lastra, take this man, Antonio Giordano, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer?

“In sickness and in health, till death do you part?” the priest asks, looking deep into my eyes as if he was questioning my soul.

I can see the sympathy that he tries to mask, but if I see it, then so does the Don. I pray for the priest’s good fate, but I know the Don is not merciful.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I do take him as my husband.” My voice echoes in the silent hall.

And then my fate is sealed.

Will I be able to love him? Will I be able to give him my complete loyalty without question? Will I be able to make him my priority? I have no answers to these questions.

“You have declared your consent before the Church.”

My cousin, who is my bridesmaid, walks forward with trembling hands, holding a tray with two small crimson boxes.

My hand tightens around his as the priest blesses the rings. “You may say your vows, if you have any,” he says.

He doesn’t say anything when he slips the ring on my finger, but I want to say a vow. His trust is important.

I glance up at him. He’s already watching me, analyzing me as he tilts his head when I don’t make a move to grab the ring.

I know he’s wary. He doesn’t trust me, but he also knows I can do him no harm. He’s not afraid but he’s silent.

I bite my lower lip before grabbing the diamond jewelry. There’s no point in delaying. Placing my hand under his left hand, I hold it still before I slip the ring around his finger.

Words fly from my lips—a promise I vow to never break despite my intention to gain his confidence.

“I give you this ring in God’s name, as a constant symbol of my promise to be faithfully yours as long as I live.”

Even as his ring tightens my freedom, I know I’m not the kind of woman who will find love outside the commitment I’m now tied to.

This is a commitment I know I’ll honor. It’s just him now. It’s always been just him.

“In the name of the Holy Spirit, I now solemnly declare you husband and wife. Let no one separate those who have been joined together today in the presence of almighty God.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

I have to look up when he lifts my veil. Fear clouds my judgment. He’s not bad-looking, even handsome now that I can see him more clearly, but I’ve seen better.

His piercing, dark eyes capture my attention the most. They’re not special but they feel different; they feel darker than any other. They look like mirrors of death.

I don’t want to live with death.

“I now declare you Mr. and Mrs. Giordano.” The words feel like a whisper in the background, repeating themselves multiple times as if to mock my future.

His lips touch mine in a short, aggressive kiss as the ceremony ends, and soon it’s over.

My loyalties now lie with the Don. Father and Mother are no more than the ones who gave me birth, prepared me for him.

I meet Mother’s sullen eyes as I leave. She just gives me a curt nod. She’s parting ways, just like her mother did with her, and realization hits hard.

I’ve lost the woman I’ve grown to trust. I’ve lost my mentor because now I’m married and my world is supposed to revolve solely around the Don. It’s just him now.

My hand feels cold and clammy in his as he drags me out. We’re not staying for the reception or for the after-wedding rituals. I realize that the moment he pushes me into a sleek black SUV.

I’m not going to get a chance to say goodbye to my family. It’s odd but I don’t question it. I’m glad to leave the scrutinizing gazes of my relatives and supposed allies.

I know our married women know the pain of sex. They’ve endured it themselves. I’m a fool to think that maybe I could be happy, but just from the look in his eyes I know that he’s not going to wait.

He’s going to take me and I’ll have to let him. It’s my duty as a wife. That’s what I’ve always been told; it doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not in the real world.

“Drive,” his cold and daunting voice orders, making shivers of fear scorch my body. I try to be as small as possible, even though the middle seat is between us.

He makes no move to touch me either.

I don’t want what’s to come next. Neither do I want his touch, but I know that the only man I’ll ever have in my life is him.

There’s no going back. There never was any going back in the first place, so then why should it matter when we do it?

Everyone does it so I won’t be any different. Don’t think too much. Mother’s words ring in my head, and they answer my question. It won’t make a difference.

Five years ago, Father willingly agreed to the Godfather’s orders to give me to the Don in exchange for money. How could he not agree?

Men are meant to be warriors and carry on the legacy but daughters are meant to be sold off and used as things. That’s the custom in the Giordano Family.

But in reality, daughters are the ones who join them all together. It’s so messed up and twisted; a blind set of rules.

***

I haven’t slept a wink throughout the whole car ride and neither have I dared look at the Don. I don’t even question him when he brings us inside a well-guarded mansion.

I don’t question him when he drags me upstairs and into a richly decorated room. I don’t need to. I know what’s bound to happen. I know everything. I’m not oblivious.

The scene is wholly set for a wedding night, with rose petals on the bed and the lights dimmed to create a romantic atmosphere. The place is even scented.

I look at the white sheets. It’s the place where my blood will be spilled.

I’m lucky that the tradition of the sheets is now abolished because if it wasn’t, I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

The embarrassment would have been too much. It’s supposed to be my honor and his pride, but I only feel dishonored by it.

It’s the only thing I respect the Don for—abolishing the tradition, irrespective of his reasoning.

The room is filled with black curtains and beige walls. A large, black and white bed sits in the middle with curtains surrounding it. The cherry floors are covered with a few black rugs.

It looks so dominating and scary. The room looks royal. The walls even have carvings on them.

There’s a beige chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a balcony located at the side with elegant couches. To me, it feels like a king’s room.

I feel his presence behind me. His hands creep onto my hips and I feel every inch of his body through my dress. My heart races and I tilt my head to the side, the blood rushing to my ears.

A mirror stands in front of us. I can see my flushed face and him behind me, watching me like a hawk and gauging my every reaction.

He bends down and his cheeks touch my face softly. I don’t stop him when his hands creep up my waist, his eyes never leaving mine in the mirror.

His black suit fits him snugly, outlining his muscles. It’s not hard to believe that he’s the Don. He has that dominating aura around him. He’s obviously dominant.

His head dips down and I feel his lips on my neck, sucking rather harshly. He starts getting rougher. I don’t resist. I listen to Mother’s advice.

I don’t want it to be any more painful. I just want it to be over.

He moves my hair to the side as his lips wander down to my bare back. The dress is off-the-shoulder and made with long lace sleeves. I suddenly regret pulling my veil off in the car.

His hands grab my arms before turning me around and dragging me to the bed. I bounce on it before he straddles me, grasping my hands and pinning them above my head, his breathing slightly ragged.

I feel disgusted. This is the first time I’ve been touched and I know it’s not going to be the last. I had hoped for some small talk, even though it was a baseless hope.

A gasp leaves my lips when I feel pressure on my breast. He squeezes it while his other hand holds him up.

“Francesca?” His voice is soft, his gaze intense as he looks down at me. His olive skin is tinged with a hint of red.

“Yes, Don?” I reply, careful to avoid his gaze. It’s a sign of disrespect.

“Antonio.”

I knit my brows together, puzzled, until it dawns on me. He’s telling me his name. My lips part in surprise. I hadn’t known his name until we stood at the altar.

I hadn’t really thought about it, but it’s not that unusual. Not many people know his real name. They know him as the Don or the Ace.

“Yes,” I swallow hard. “Antonio.” His name feels strange on my tongue.

“You belong to me now, Francesca,” he says, his voice measured. He’s testing me, gauging whether I’ll resist or submit. My next words will determine how he treats me.

“I know, Antonio,” I reply. It’s exactly what he wants to hear.

“Then tell me”—his hand moves to my throat, a silent threat—“why you thought I could let you go unpunished when you went out half-dressed?”

I freeze, doing my best not to recoil, even though I know he can sense my fear from the slight tremor in my body. He doesn’t want an answer. He wants my submission.

“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper. I feel so small, so vulnerable. But haven’t I always been this defenseless?

He laughs, a harsh, cold sound, and applies a bit more pressure to my throat. It’s not enough to cut off my breath, but enough to make it difficult.

“I know. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here—quaking with fear under me,” he says.

His words send a shiver down my spine. The Don never lies. He means what he says. He would have killed me, and I’m not surprised.