MOORED TO AN OUTLAW

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

-Marilyn Monroe.

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The dining was aglow with enough candles to guide a ship to shore because nothing says 'classy' like a room full of stuff that can be used as a weapon. But I wasn't admiring the decor - I was too busy having a heart attack, courtesy of being trapped in a wasteful mansion with a bunch of family and strangers alike, and too much glassware.

The hum of conversation and clinking cutlery were just background noise to the sound of my own mortality.

I was stuck at a depressing angle of the table, wearing a gown so sparkly, I'm pretty sure I blinded everyone within a 5-foot radius. Aunt Rosa and my mother's mission accomplished.

The classic 'you're a star, now go make him worship you' advice from both of them had been a real treat. Should I be honest with you? My mom and her sister, Aunt Rosa, were a dynamic duo of toxic encouragement. Their push for me to rub my 'Benedetti bestness' in everyone's face was a dead giveaway that humility was clearly underrated in my family.

The irony was rich-why dazzle when I could just crumble? My bestness had been reduced to a flaking layer of my makeup and a whole lot of desperation. Desperation to survive this glittering nightmare without losing my dinner or my mind.

Guest of honor-my ass.

Don Vincenzo, the self-proclaimed king of the table, basked in the spotlight like it was his birthright – and honestly, with that ego and chiseled jawline, he probably thought he was the sun itself. His mini-me, his first son-my portentous brother-in-law-to-be, sat across from me, a carbon copy of his father's cold, detached, and self-absorbed demeanor. The apple didn't fall far from the tree, and in this case, it just rolled onto the same ego-fueled path.

Marrying into this, I wasn't just in for a long ride; I was in for a never-ending cycle of narcissistic hell, with the whole family as my personal chauffeurs.

"Smile, Sessie," my mother's voice cooed in my ear as she leaned in, her perfume-a mix of rosewater and authority-wrapping around me like a noose. "You're too beautiful to wear such a frown tonight. You're a-"

"Save the celestial flattery, mother," I spoke back discreetly, not moving a muscle as I stared ahead to the men in black. I was far from being a star. "I'm more like a fallen meteorite - crashed, burned, and utterly done with this night."

"Sessie!" She barked in a way only I could hear, fork abandoned, eyes blazing with the thrill of another opportunity to drill our family motto into my skull. "Enough. Now chin up, shoulders back, and for the love of all things Benedetti, pretend you're not dying inside."

I managed a smile, or rather, a grotesque parody of one, like a skull grinning from beneath a tattered mask of flesh.

I was twenty-three for crying out loud; my life didn't have to be filled with so much depressing details.

My mother's words were still heavily settled on my shoulders, much like the engagement ring glittering on my finger-a symbol of everything I was being forced into. She adjusted a loose strand of my hair, her fingers cool and precise, as if she were preparing a doll for display.

In many ways, she was.

In many ways, she'd raised a social doll - not merely a puppet dancing to the tune of societal expectations, but a marionette whose strings were pulled by the whims of etiquette and politeness. But like all dolls, there was a limit to how far I could be bent and molded before I cracked. And deep inside, the cracks were beginning to form.

The guests-family, a few business associates of the Family, and those who wanted to be on my father and Don Vincenzo's good side-were all here to celebrate what should have been the happiest night of my life. But I couldn't stop the knot tightening in my stomach. This circus, though it was in my name, was not for me, it was not for my happiness; it was for their own entertainment-witnessing the union of two powerful families in one. Witnessing how Vincenzo and Benedetti expertly played matchmaker – as long as the match was between two pawns who'd keep the Family's secrets and secure its future.

Haha, the classic Vindetti move: take one volatile Tiziano, add a dash of 'Sessie's' supposed obedience, and hope for a recipe of stability – or at least a decent PR spin. Because what every unhinged Don's son needed was a 'me' – a.k.a. a doormat with a pulse – to manage his temper and smile pretty.

Across the table, my younger sister, Vi, was giggling at something Ariele, the underboss's son, had whispered in her ear. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling in a way mine hadn't in years. At least one of us had a shot at happiness – Vi's contagious laugh told me she'd found her escape in the colorful guy, and maybe, just maybe, the matchmakers would grant her a reprieve from the Tiziano treatment.

My father sat at the other end of the table, his phone in hand - fork out - scrolling through what I could only assume were urgent business matters. As usual. The only time I merited a glance from him was when he needed to confirm I was still a marketable asset.

This dinner and the guests were just formalities for him; it was a necessary inconvenience to solidify the alliance this engagement promised.

And then, there was Tiziano.

Dressed in his trademark all-round black, he was seated to my right, his presence brewing like a dark cloud. His eyes, too sharp, too focused, roved over the room with a hunger that made my skin crawl. Oh great, they finally landed on me, and I got to enjoy a lovely frisson of discomfort because, you know, being looked at by him was just what I needed to make my night complete. His hand reached out to cover mine, and I had to fight the urge to pull away.

His touch was cold, his grasp possessive, like he was branding me with an unspoken ownership. I was a prize he'd already won and was simply collecting.

"You belong to me, body and soul, Sessie. Don't ever forget that." Tiziano's voice took on a predatory edge, carrying a weight that pressed down on my chest.

All eyes were on us now, the room collectively leaning in, expecting me to dispense the usual saccharine smile and gentle words that Sessie was famous for, the ones that never seemed to lose their potency.

But Tiziano's words were a velvet trap, and only Vi saw the steel beneath. The others just heard the sweet nothings.

Words remained caught in my throat. I was choking on the bitterness of it all. I managed a nod, barely, the edges of my vision blurring as I forced myself to meet his gaze.

Tiziano's eyes did the whole 'I've got a secret and it's going to ruin you' thing. Motherfucker had a mix of victory and something that made my instincts scream for me to run. And the other familiar faces around me? They wanted more than a nod; they wanted my soul to sign on the dotted lines.

To feed the beast of their vanity, I sipped my wine, uttering under the glass, "Cheers to many more years." It was partly to drown out my doubtful tone, and mostly to distract myself from the nausea twisting my stomach.

Just as the suffocating silence between Tiziano and me threatened to swallow me whole, my immediate older brother, Cosimo, leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Well, Sessie, if Tiziano doesn't marry you, I'll have to hire you as my personal chef. You do make the best lasagna." A mischievous grin spread across his face. His voice was loud enough to catch the attention of everyone at the table, causing several heads to turn.

Aunt Rosa, sitting beside him, let out a hearty laugh, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh, Cosimo, don't tempt fate," she said with the playful affection she reserved for him. "But if I'm being honest, dear Sessie, you'd be better off with someone who knows how to make you smile, like your brother here."

Our mother, however, was less entertained. Her eyes narrowed in on Cosimo with the kind of disdain that only a disappointed mother could muster. "Cosimo, enough with your nonsense," she barked. "This is a serious occasion, not one of your juvenile games."

Cosimo raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face didn't falter. "Just trying to lighten the mood, Mamma. Can't have a party without a little laughter, right?"

"Some things are not meant to be laughed at." Her gaze shifted pointedly toward me, disappointment locked in them.

I could feel her unspoken words pressing down on me again: This is your duty. This is your fate. Accept it with grace.

Even when the joke wasn't my doing, I still bore the brunt of it. More than marvelous.

Cosimo merely shrugged, unfazed, but before the conversation could spiral into further tension, the sharp ring of my father's phone cut through the air. He glanced at the screen, his expression darkening as he stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the marble floor.

Without a word to any of us, he answered the call and strode out of the room, his departure signaling a pause in dinner. The energy in the room shifted immediately, as if a spell had been broken. Chairs were pushed back, sighs were observed, and a few began to rise, murmuring their need for a recess and exchanging polite smiles.

Don Vincenzo, with his usual air of authority, stood as well, offering a stiff nod to those at the table before following my father out. It was the unspoken rule in the Family: when Don Vincenzo left, so did everyone else. The evening was officially over.

Grazie a Dio.

Just as I stood up, hoping to escape notice, my phone trembled in my hand, the screen illuminating with a name that made my heart skip a beat.

Jake.

Anxiety kicking in, I froze, scanning the room to see if anyone had caught my momentary panic. But the others were engrossed in their own conversations: Tiziano charming my mother and Aunt Rosa, Vi besotted with Ariele, Cosimo deep in discussion with our older brother Remo, and my older sisters clinging to their partners like lifelines.

Everyone was too busy with their farewells to pay me any mind.

With a quick breath to steady myself, I pushed away from them, away from the dinning hall, to the gallery away from the building, and answered the call.

We did our ceremonial pleasantries, Jake and me, my laughter echoing in the room full of art, craft and candles. But just as Jake's boyish voice crackled through again asking if I'd finally surrender to his plea for a kiss tomorrow, icy fingers wrapped around my waist like a vice, and another hand snatched the phone from my ear, severing the connection.

My fingers froze, abandoning their gentle tracing of the delicate curves in Botticelli's 'The Birth of Venus'. The beauty in front of me was starkly different from the beast behind.

The stench of Tiziano's breath, a toxic cocktail of ruthlessness, stale wine, and decay announced his presence like a dark omen. My body froze, not just because his fingers were tracing paths I hated, but because his voice, soaked with venom, hissed a question that made my blood run cold: "Why are you speaking with another man on the eve of our engagement?"