Arranged To Marry A Devil | 1st Draft Complete

Prologue and Characters

"I can do this. I can do this. I really can do this," I repeated the words so many times to myself, trying to will myself to actually believe them, as I paced the simple dressing room of the church in my bulky, yet traditional, and way too elegant wedding gown.

Tradition. Oh how I hated that word in any form.

The petticoat under the pristine white dress made a very annoying crinkling sound with each step I took and made my ankles itch from the coarse frill at the bottom of it, only adding to my current distress. My hair suddenly felt like it was being yanked unnecessarily out of my head and I could feel a headache coming on. I took the pins from my hair out with great care, with the intent to let the black silky curls fall down my back, this was sure to warrant disapproval from my mother, who had spent several hours putting it up with the utmost care and patience. However, with all the hairspray in my hair, the curls were more or less stuck in wayward directions around my head.

This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. At least that's what Disney had led me to believe. Yet, here I was, stressed out, acutely unhappy and to be honest, a bit incazzato*.

"I can't do this," I finally lamented in defeat as I dropped down onto the cream colored fainting couch that rested near an open window of the church. At least sitting had stopped the annoying crinkling sound that came with my walking. My head fell into my hands with a disgruntled groan. Why did traditions, such as arranged marriage, even exist? It was the twenty first century after all, the very idea of arranged marriage was all but abolished in America. However, my parents were migrants from Italy and they still held firm to their blasted old world traditions.

Music from the orchestra playing outside poured into the room from the window, playing something that sounded like it was oddly from The Beatles. It would have been soothing if it weren't for the fact that it was essentially the hype music for a more sinister plan afoot; getting me to marry a man I had never met.

My mind was suddenly reeling and I couldn't make sense of my own life. Tradition had ruined my life! My life, that wasn't even mine!

How did it get this far? How could my parents actually expect me to do this?

I'd never even met Michael Romano, obviously. The only things I knew about my betrothed were that he was wealthy, Italian and ten years older than me, which put him at thirty two years old. That wasn't much to go on and it certainly didn't spark the flames of romance. On the contrary, it sparked the flames of suspicion and mistrust deep within me.

I had never even been on a date with anyone, well not that my father knew about anyway, because even before I was born, I was promised to the Romano family. It was some sort of sordid family tradition that I was stuck in and was bred for my whole life. The lot in life that I did not want to begin with and fought against every step of the way. What parents in their right mind would just pawn off their only daughter to some random man?

Obviously, my parents.

I had aspirations for my life. I wanted to become a successful writer and live in Tuscany in a beautiful ranch house that was designed by me and the man I chose to marry, because I loved him. Those aspirations died out quickly as soon as I became old enough to tell my father what I wanted out of life. He shot every hope and dream down as quickly as they popped into my head. "No bambina, you're to marry Michael and he will support you where he sees fit. None of this writing nonsense," my father would say in a gentle, yet firm way. "Head out of the clouds and feet on the ground," that was his catchphrase and he used it frequently to dash my hopes and dreams.

My mother taught me how to cook and be a proper Italian wife. "Never ask questions, bambina. The man is the head of the house, what he says, goes," she told me often. That was complete cazzo* and I hated that I had no choice but to accept it. After all, questioning authority was going against the very standard my mother lived by. My father, on the other hand, taught me that husbands were to be superior to their wives. Can you believe that!? He also taught me resentment and loathing of tradition, he just didn't know it. Yet, here I was, bending to his rule to marry a man I didn't know or love and I was resenting every minute of it, because of tradition.