Her firm, detached demeanor spoke volumes. She had no intention of freeing me from this burden.

A mixture of emotions flooded me all at once. Resentment. Dread. Anger. But mostly, fear.

At twenty-one, I was far too old to begin crying because I wasn’t getting my way, but here we were. My lips quivered and I blinked back tears as I begged her, “I don’t want to do this, Enza. Please don’t make me do this.”

“Aw, Vicky, don’t cry,” she cooed, pulling me into her warm embrace. She held me close, cupping the back of my head gently and my arms gripped at her back, my fingers tightening in the material of her suit jacket. I sniffled into her shoulder, breathing in the sweet scent of her dark, golden-brown hair. She gave me a minute of reprieve before she pulled back, looked me dead in the eye and said, “I know you don’t want to do this. I don’t want this for you either.” She regarded me carefully as she lifted a hand to brush away my tears and then, her pretty sable eyes turned frosty enough to give me chills. “But sacrifices need to be made.”

Easy to say when you weren’t the sacrifice.

My mouth opened but before I even got the chance to protest, a solid knock on the door sounded. Both my sister and I turned as it opened, and when he walked into the room, he glanced over what Vincenza was wearing and his lip curled in disgust.

“Really, Enza? A suit? A black suit?” our uncle, Como Vero, drawled, utterly unimpressed with her antics. “What the hell is the matter with you? It’s your sister’s wedding.”

Vincenza shrugged carelessly. “Precisely why I chose an outfit fit for mourning.”

His face twisted and he looked uncomfortable as he jerked his head, stretching his neck out from side-to-side. He tugged at his tie, straightening it while he uttered, “There’s a lot riding on today. Please, for the love of God, do not fuck this up for your sister.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, zio,” she muttered in return.

“We’re going to talk about this later. Don’t think-” Obviously he’d seen me, but I don’t think it hit him until a second pass over me, and when he stilled and took me in, he smiled but there was a hint of sadness to it. “Oh, sweetheart. You look beautiful.” Zio Como turned to Vincenza and said, “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

“That she does,” she replied, strolling over to the bar, lifting a glass of bourbon to her lips, sipping on it.