I was twenty-two years old when my father sold me like a piece of defective furniture.
It happened on a Tuesday, raining—the kind of cold, gray rain that sleets against the windows of Manhattan penthouses, blurring the city lights into smudges I could only imagine. I was sitting in the library, tracing the raised dots of a Braille novel, when my father, Vincent Santoro, walked in. I didn’t need to see him to know he was there. I smelled the heavy, cloying scent of his imported cigars and the sharp tang of his expensive cologne.
He took my hand. His grip was dry and firm, devoid of warmth.
“Tomorrow, you’re getting married, Elisa.”
Just like that. No preamble. No question. Like announcing a change in the stock market or a dinner reservation.
“Married?” I whispered, the book sliding from my lap. “To whom, Dad? I don’t… I’m not seeing anyone.”
“It’s arranged,” he said, his voice flat. “A quick ceremony at the courthouse. No guests. No reception.”
