Union-of-Death

Aliyana Leonardo da Vinci once wrote, Black is like a broken vessel, which is deprived of the capacity to contain anything. I wonder what he thought of the color white. Did he think it was a sign of purity? Or did he too look upon whiteness as a false brightness, a lie? 2-years-ago if I stood on this very podium, with this man across from me, I would have smiled similar to the way I am now. The white dress hugging my body then a promise of honesty and trust as I glowed with a warmth knotting my stomach walls. Only then, my smile would've been comfortable, wrapped in genuine joy, because then I loved him. At that stage in my life, he was my world and I would have laid myself on the floor where he walked with his blood-stained soles. And I would have done it naked, ready to bare myself to this one man with a smile on my face. A smile that wasn't bold, or soaked with the whisper of revenge. My heart would have beat with love, and not in the threat that now lurks outside these Church walls, waiting with finite patience that would soon be over. This marriage is no fairy-tale. Yes, this entire scene once had the potential to be the perfect imagery of a great folklore tale where the devil married his angel. But I am not the angel, I'm the bad one. Since I am going for honesty, I should also point out that this man is not the devil. The devil was once an angel. Marco Catelli has never known a day of what it feels like to be pure. He only knows evil, hurt, pain, and hatred. And the only greatness in this entire Church is my hate for this one man, my future husband. He lifts my hand, enclosing it in his own. I need not look into the crowd to know the women are glaring at me in disgust and jealousy. I am marrying a Catelli. The few PEOPLE happy about this union are old and might think Marco's hand over mine means he loves me. But I assure you, love is not the case of point. He is squashing my hand, his cynical eyes are stabbing me to death, over and over again. Marco Catelli is showing me he will soon have power over me. This isn't a Union of Love; this is the Union of Death. Marco isn't marrying me for the life he claims to breed with me in the foreseeable future. He is marrying me to avenge the one he has already claimed as his own. He is slipping this ring on my finger because I am the one with the tools he now needs in his arsenal to start a war. I am the last choice. His last step into the darkness. And my inevitable early grave is the only solace he offers. My father told me Marco was obsessed with the idea of me. But I know that is not true, Marco Catelli's only obsession is feeding his addiction to power. It has blinded him to the extent that he can't see, that I, Aliyana Capello his future bride, is his most dangerous enemy. If he thinks I am going to just allow him to use me, I will relish in his misery when he realizes I am not the mouse he was so in love with. Camilla Moretti was foolish and whatever led her to her untimely death was her own doing. She wanted to play a game with the wrong players and like Ren; they took her out like a pawn:- worthless and dispensable. But for me, I have gained Queen status. I am as evil and cunning as Marco's biggest adversary, Lucca Sanati. The man they all search for. A man who chose to make an enemy out of me when he took someone he was not supposed to touch. "Do you take Marco Catelli to be your lawfully wedded husband, through sickness and in health, until you both shall live?" The word no comes to my lips. I should say it. My true-love remains buried in a shallow grave that is still wet, in the middle of nowhere thanks to this man. I should say no. I look at him, his clean-shaven jaw, harder than I remember it. Those obsidian eyes that once burned with so much heat, I felt touched by the sun, now empty, freeze me in that my skin is still covered in Goosebumps from the time I arrived here, 37 minutes ago. "Yes," I say it and like a tick of a clock my fake smile drops. It boggles my mind how one simple word can have such a life-altering outcome to one's life. Is that what my existence has now come down to? Is that all that my freedom meant? One word and it is all gone. Sold at a low cost of pride to the man with the biggest title. How shallow has it all become? And I have said yes, sealed it all, and now I am the official Mrs. Catelli. I take a deep breath, as the flashes of last night remind me of why I am here, and I tell myself that biding my time is my only option. The ring my father chose comes into view by my small cousin Bernardino and as I take it my eyes drift to the man sitting in the front of the Church row, my father, my jailer who just gave me away. A deep throat clears and my heart beats in equal measures of fear and nerves as I face my soon to be husband and hold the hand that just hours ago, left the mark on my neck. Funny isn't it. What is hilarious is I slip the band on his finger knowing full well that he is not yet done with me. It is sad that a tear betrays me, as it slips down the side of my cheek. Life can sometimes be a cruel joke. How did it all come to this? When did I make the wrong choice? My name is Aliyana Capello, daughter of Consigliere Sartini Capello, and today on June 23rd, 2014, I became the wife of Marco Catelli, The Capo Dei Capi of the 5th State. The man who killed my lover, best friend, and who now wishes to kill me. And this is my confession. ----- Camilla 6-years-Old America, the place where dreams come true and white picket fences are a must. "Miss Moretti, your grandfather sends his apologies but he will not be coming to your birthday. He said to enjoy the evening." "Couldn't he have just called and told me that himself," I say to Ridwano, my 2nd bodyguard, or was he the first? "Scusi Signorina." Sorry Miss. I sigh but say nothing else, as the car continues to travel along the road of no real destination. There is pros and cons that come with the title of Dante Moretti's granddaughter. Pro's were far and few between because the con's always slapped me right in the face. Today is no different, only today instead of wasting this chance I am embracing it. "Can you drop me off at the hotel." The driver doesn't question me and I don't turn my face from the street lights and bustling cars of Washington DC. I'm 23 today. 1 year to add to my growing hate of my Grandfather and another year to add to the loss of my parents and brother. We arrive at the hotel just before 8pm and in a way, I am glad and relieved to just get inside. Sliding out of the Bentley, a standard car if your Grandfather is the Godfather of the underworld, I rush to the door. "Miss Moretti, you are back early, did you enjoy your dinner?" The door man asks me as he opens the door to lead me in. He is a short chubby man, around 50. He reminds me of someone I met on my trip to Alaska last September. "I did thank you. Do you have a bar around here?" My long dress is not the perfect bar outfit but it is definitely me. A mafia princess "Certainly, this way." I move toward the door he's ushering me to and spot the dim lights and mirrored beams before I enter the cosy place. "Thank you." I signal the bodyguard which is closest to me to tip the guy. The place has a vanilla scent which hits my nose as I enter and make my way closer to the bar where I sit down. The bartender is a handsome bulky man, maybe in his late 30's. "What can I get for the lady." "3-fingers-whiskey, anything black will do, 16-years or older." "Coming up." The shelves surrounding the bar is designed in a pyramid of cherry wood finishes. Hundreds of bottles of alcohol are stacked around the expanse, catering to a truly wide variety of customers. "Give her a Jameson Jacob." The deep voice comes from the other end of the bar and my eyes fray to the man who now holds my attention. "Are you the manager or something?" I am genuinely curious. "Or something." He is hidden in a shade of light so it is hard to make out his face but his voice is deep, dry. He must be one hell of a man. I get off my chair and make my way toward him as my guard's start approaching. I send them a signal with my fingers to relax. I don't want them ruining an evening before it hasn't even begun. I get closer to the man and that is when I see the uniform. "You are a soldier? Wow, I didn't see that coming. I've never met an American soldier in my life." He says nothing but when I sit next to him and smile, he stares at me with dark intense eyes. "What brings an English woman like yourself to this fine dine, dressed like that?" "It's my birthday, so I thought I would dress up and leave my castle and have a drink with a handsome man. And not that it makes an inkling of a difference to you, but I am actually Italian." His face is clean shaven. His head is cropped short and a tattoo is visible on his scalp but the dim lighting in this particular area makes him seem like a vivid dream. The Bartender brings my drink over to this side and as I take a much-needed sip my eyes stain his handsome face with lust. "Two Italians in a bar. What are the chances. Like what you looking at?" He asks me and a laugh bubbles in the back of my throat. "I'm still looking, I will let you know when I am done." "You don't strike me as an ordinary Italian, you sound and look British, are you here for holiday?" "It's the hair. I changed it to red. And yes and no. I came to visit some family. I thought I would surprise my cousin, and he would be all smiles to see me but I missed him. It seems like he left for London with the intention of surprising me. And yes, I like what I see." "The nights still young, who knows what can happen." When he says that my entire body heats up at his not so subtle hint. I have never been an exhibitionist but tonight staring at this man I know he was about to change that. "If I'm going to miss my plane for you, I should get a name." "You first." "Marco." A man walks toward us with a tray in his hand that has a cell phone on top of it, interrupting our conversation. "Sir, your brother is on the phone." His eyes stare me down and a flicker of recognition shifts my lust into something deeper. Could it be? "Tell my brother something has come up." "Yes sir." I smile as a swamp of nerves rushes through my body as the boy I have loved since I was 8 years old sits across from me with want and doesn't recognize me at all. "Do I get that name?" "It depends, how badly you want it."