“It’s my wedding day. What better time to think about Mom?” Think about Mom’s brains splattered all over me. We were in a limo when it happened, too. “You like Celia?” I ask, to change the subject.
“She’s sweet. A little déclassée, maybe. I believe you’re marrying down, sweetheart, but as long as you’re happy. Celia loves you already. But then, who wouldn’t?”
Maggie, for one. Pops, for two. Luca D’Amato for a third. But Maggie’s comment about my happiness makes me wonder what story’s been spread around about the wedding. No one’s asked how long Luca and I have been dating, or why they’ve never met him before today. My fiancé appeared fully-formed out of the ether and everyone seems to be ignoring the lack of backstory.
There’s a silent understanding, I guess.
“It’s time!” Celia squeals from her position in the window seat. She’s staring down at the street. My sisters flock, chattering like seagulls, in a flurry of brandy-colored satin and lace. I come over too and look down at two white stretch limos, both decorated with wide satin ribbons, and watch as the driver hops out of the one at the back to open the rear door.
It’s Pops. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see him until I do, my heart giving a painful squeeze.
When he comes into the room, it’s like a storm has swept in. The female twittering and tittering stops. But when I see him, I’m shocked by how small Pops seems. The last time I saw him in person was a while back, so maybe it’s just my imagination, but he seems to have shrunk. My Pops is just as powerful a man in his own domain as the Mob Bosses here in New York, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him here and now, despite the three-piece suit.
Any power he might have is also tempered by the Italian heavy trailing behind him. I guess we’ll have Mob company in the limo, just in case I try to make a break for it.
Pops looks around the room, catching eyes with Maggie, who frowns at him. Then he turns to me and gives me a stilted nod. “Howie.”
“Hiya, Pops.”
“Ladies, you can leave us now. Your car is waiting.”
They all kiss me goodbye and then rub their lipstick off my cheek. “See you at the church, honey,” Celia whispers, even though it’s not what I’d call a Church wedding. Not at all sanctioned by the Church, in fact; we’ll have a celebrant waiting for us in a non-denominational chapel downtown.
I’ve been told by Celia that my future husband insisted on Episcopalian vows if he couldn’t have the Catholic ones. I don’t care much either way. I just hope he won’t expect me to go to Mass with him. I stopped after Mom’s death. If God was so jealous of her earthly family that he took her from us for his own, like a whisker-chinned great-aunt whispered to me at the funeral, what use do I have for Him?
“Give us a minute?” Pops asks the Italian guy. I recognize him from Luca’s crew—Marco, I think he’s called. Marco shakes his head and Pops looks furious, but turns back to me without another word. “Well,” he says. “Here we are.”
“Here we are,” I echo.
He puts a hand up to his head and almost stumbles, so I have to grab at him and help him to a chair. “What I’ve been reduced to,” he whispers. “What I’ve done to try to protect this family…”
“It’s okay, Pops,” I say brightly. “What’s done is done. And Luca D’Amato is as good a husband as any. He’ll keep me safe.”
I’ve never told anyone about my history with Luca, about the meet-cute brush with death that’s haunted me these last five years. I get the feeling if I look happy about this marriage, it’ll end with a bullet shattering my grin, so I’ve been trying to stay somber the whole week.
Inside, though, I feel like I’m getting everything I ever wanted. Maybe Luca’s right, that man who is going to be mine by the end of the day. Maybe if you pray hard enough, you get what you want in life.
Mom still died, though, didn’t she?
Our guard Marco stays silent on the ride over, and so does Pops. He doesn’t even look at me, and I’m busy chugging the mini-vodkas stashed in the limo fridge. Normally he’d give me a look, but not this time. Not today. When we pull up at the chapel, I see Luca and Tino Morelli have only just arrived as well. When I see my intended, my heart leaps. Luca wanted to go in before me, wait for me at the front, because his Italian machismo wouldn’t have it any other way.
I don’t care when I get down that aisle, just as long as I do.
“We should circle—” Pops starts.
“No. Let’s just wait here.”
“You,” Pops snaps at Marco. “Get out. We’re here, aren’t we? And I want a word with my son.”
The guy hesitates, but then gives a coded knock on the privacy window, and the locks snap open to let him get out of the car, then shut again once he’s on the sidewalk, waiting.
I can’t take my eyes off Luca. He’s dressed in a white tux just like mine, only where my vest is the golden-green of olive oil, his is frosty blue. His black hair is slicked back with an Elvis wave at the front that makes me smile. And by the way he’s tugging at his jacket, he’s nervous.
Tino says something to him, and Luca pats himself down frantically until Tino, laughing, holds up a box from his own pocket and puts a fatherly hand on Luca’s shoulder.
The rings. I wonder what they look like. I didn’t get a say in that, only had my finger measurement taken in among all the other activities of the last week.
“That scheming asshole, Morelli,” my Pops
