Bride For Cruel Mafia

Portia.

I sigh as soft, feathery lace falls across my face. It's black and heavily stained from being tucked away for so many years, and the smell that clings to it makes my stomach churn. It's musty. Dry, and reeks with dust. I suppress the urge to fling it away because it belonged to my mother. It's the same one she wore on her wedding day. The same one my grandmother wore on her big day as well.

Clove pink and discarded daisies are scattered, littering the stone floor. The huge, black woman who's been brought to help me prepare grumbles behind me. It's the fifth time she's wondering aloud why she has to work with an old, musty, smelly veil when a new one stays tucked in its box a few meters away. I move my foot, tossing the delicate clove pink about, before crushing it, impaling it's bright pink petal with my heel.

It's my wedding day, but it feels like a funeral. No, a funeral would have been better. My funeral.

Wish I had it a while ago.

The strong, heady smell of the pink carnation makes my stomach turn. I've envisioned my wedding day so many times, despite my fate. This doesn't match the picture-perfect image I have in mind at all.

Not that I expected it to.

“Done,” the woman whistles, stepping away from me and dusting her hands. “At long last.”

I exhale as I stand, the now-dirtied petal sticking to my heel. Not that I give two fucks about that. Lifting my face tentatively, I let my eyes roam over my reflection in the mirror. “What do you think he'll say about the veil, Amma?”

She tsks, shaking her head as her lips curl up in distaste. “Fernando is the embodiment of niceties, but I'm doubly sure he won't like that veil. It's old and an eyesore.”

I shift my gaze and let my eyes settle on her fully for the first time, taking her in properly. She's average in height, plump and has a huge black birthmark on the side of her face. Her soft, pitch-black tresses frame her almond face, and enhance her small, pretty eyes. The expression; a green snake underneath a green grass fits her so well. She's just as cunning as the rest of the devils who kept me confined her, her gentle outlook be damned.

“I guess he'll have no choice but to get used to it. I'll only have it on for an hour at most, anyway.”

“Why don't you just wear the damn one he sent? I swear, you and your brothers are stubborn.”

I don't bother to answer her, smothering the crinkles on my gown. She has a point though. The veil was a gift from my brothers.

A gift.

No, not a gift.

Just another cruelty to make me wear my mother's veil for this disgusting wedding ceremony. They know how much I detest this. How much I loathe Fernando.

He's an enemy of our family for crying out loud. Why are they honouring his wants like little, needy puppets?

Amma snorts and turns to gather the dress, the keys jangling on her waist. I stare hard at them. Tiny metal demons. I could take them. Knock her over. That part would be easy as pie. It's the men with guns outside the door who'll be the problem.

Noisy footsteps advance from a mile away, announcing the approach of soldiers to my basement room.

A basement. A fucking basement, that's where they locked me in. My own brothers. Flesh and blood. Same mother, same father.

From the way things are going, they're expecting me to put up a resistance. A strong fight. They'll take me kicking, screaming and crying if I do, I very well know that. Besides, I'm smart enough not to waste my energy on them. I'll need it after for something more important. For the wedding night.

A man shouts something in Russian, and another laughs. A low whistle pierce through the air, followed by a loud thud like something heavy falling. Scuffling feets, and blows are heard.

It's then that all hell breaks loose. Gunfire explodes just beyond my room. A bullet slithers its way through the thick, metal door — straight into the mirror, shattering it, shattering my miserable reflection into a thousand, tiny pieces. I groan, skidding back forcefully into the stone wall.

Amma shouts out a strong of words in Russian.