The Donafrio Donor (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

8: In Which She Sees the SL (and DR)

“I can’t,” I told him, “because I can’t help but feel that I was coerced into this.” Even as I said it, I knew I was lying. Being with Carlo was the only real way Mickey and I could be safe. It was convenient. It was logical.

“I did not coerce you,” he said in a low growl. “I asked you, and you said yes.”

The priest cleared his throat, signalling us to shut up. He looked like a holier-than-thou version of Father Christmas, with his portly belly visible in his robes and his curly silver hair. Half-moon glasses were even perched on his nose before bright, hazel eyes. Carlo had told me that he’d asked the Father to speed the Catholic ceremony up and it was obvious the priest was more than happy to do so.

“May we begin?” he asked, his Neapolitan accent far heavier than Carlo’s.

“Sì,” Carlo swiftly affirmed, glancing at me.

“Whatever,” I offered.

If Father Russo was astonished by my less-than-ecstatic answer, he did a brilliant job of not showing it. Instead, he cleared his throat again and began to read something about the holy matrimony being a pillar of honesty, love and trust. I instantly zoned out, my eyes settling on the wall behind the altar. Intricate paintings depicting famous biblical events took up the entire space. Art had been one of my favourite subjects at school and I vaguely remembered studying the Renaissance artists, like Botticelli, Michelangelo and Pinturicchio. This looked like some of their work and it was utterly compelling – so compelling, in fact, that I didn’t realise Father Russo was looking at me expectantly, the heavy silence indicating that he’d been doing so for a long time.

“Sorry, what?” I asked.

From beside me, Carlo muttered something under his breath. It was probably a curse. He shouldn’t have been cursing in a church.

“Your vows?” Father Russo patiently prompted me.

“Forget them,” Carlo snapped. “Just ask her if she takes me.”

“Do you, Danielle Clarke, take Carlo Donafrio as your lawful husband, to have and to –”

“I do,” I interjected, matching Carlo’s boorish eagerness to get this mess over with.

“But I have not finished,” the Father protested, giving us a puzzled look in turn.

“E’bene,” said Carlo, all but snatching my hand and putting the ring on my finger.

“I must bless the ring, Signore Donafrio.” Father Russo’s voice was barely more than a wheeze.

Carlo ignored him, sliding his own ring onto his finger.

“How romantic,” I said dryly, flexing my hand before me. I couldn’t deny that, just like the dress, the ring was stunning and probably cost a fortune, judging from its carat-size estimate. It sparkled in the dim light of the church, a beacon in an otherwise murky storm.