Dressing in white for my wedding day was not something I'd ever thought I'd do. When I was a child, I always saw myself strutting down the aisle in a red wedding dress, fierce like the warrior I was and refusing to submit to tradition. When I was a little older, I considered a black wedding dress, symbolism of my ultimate power. Older than that still, I switched the thought to a purple one, symbolism of my royal status in the mafia world. White had simply never been an option for me.
As I stood in front of the mirror, running my hands down the skirt of my white one-shoulder dress, I couldn't have imagined anything more perfect. Wearing white to marry Henri seemed so right, not because either of us were pure, but because the core of our relationship was. Underneath the wild sex and—technically speaking—enabling of each other's dark side, I knew that we were it for each other.
