When Frank asked me why the hell I just stuck my neck out for the Donovan kid, I just stuck to my story about the debt of honor. Even with my brother I’ve had to keep it hidden, my true feelings.
The truth is, I’m not even sure what my real feelings are.
But…I’m not doing this just because I owe Finch for saving my ass. For the first time in years I didn’t do the smart thing and just kill someone like I was ordered. There have been plenty of murders I’ve committed that I didn’t see the point of, but I never hesitated until now.
Until Finch.
Frank knows me well enough to see when I’m covering up something. He also knows me well enough not to push it. He hasn’t asked again, but I’ve felt his eyes on me this past week, appraising, when the rest of the crew joked about my upcoming nuptials. I’ve acted mean, surly, contemptuous, angry.
The reality is, well. Quite different. But I’m still working it through. Emotions tend to be strangers to me. I still haven’t worked out exactly what it is I feel for the Donovan kid.
And now here he is at the carefully non-denominational altar with me, his father pressing Finch’s hand into mine with barely-concealed anger. I keep my face still.
Even when Finch stares at me, his eyes shining gold, I keep my face expressionless and cold.
The celebrant begins. Since we couldn’t have the Catholic wedding I’d prefer, I chose the closest cousin in vows. And as it happens, the old-fashioned vows from the Book of Common Prayer suited my plans.
“Repeat after me,” the celebrant says to me.
So in echoing words, I make my vow to Finch.
“I, Luciano D’Amato, take you, Howard Fincher Donovan, to be my lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death us do part.”
And then I add my own spin on it.
“In front of God and these witnesses here today, I vow that you are under my protection. Any man or woman who moves against you, moves also against me. Your friend is my friend, and your enemy is my enemy. “
There is dead silence throughout the chapel.
I take up Finch’s hand and jam the ring down on his finger. It’s a simple band of gold, and I got them to make it a little tight, so he can’t just slip it off and on with ease.
Once he’s mine, he’s fucking mine.
The celebrant, a friendly-looking woman in her forties whose name I forgot as soon as she told me, blinks as we turn back to her. Now it’s Finch’s turn.
“Repeat after me…”
“I, Howard Fincher Donovan, take you, Luciano D’Amato, to be my awful wedded husband…”
I think I’m the only one who heard him make that substitute, and he breezes on as though nothing is wrong, innocent eyes looking into mine, repeating the celebrant verbatim until he gets to the sticking point.
The special request I made for his vows.
“To love, honor and—” He breaks off, glancing at the celebrant sideways, wondering if he misheard. Then his golden eyes fix back on mine, unreadable.
There’s a cough in the crowd during the long pause.
I squeeze his hands tighter and tighter, his wedding band cutting into my fingers as much as his.
I will have him say it.
The celebrant looks nervous and clears her throat, but before she can say anything, Finch laughs. It rings over the heads of all those fucking thugs sitting there in the crowd, all those people who hate us and want us dead.
“To love, honor and obey,” he repeats loudly. And when he gets to the end, and takes up my hand to put the ring on my finger, he adds to his vow with traditional words. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
He pushes it to my knuckle, and looks back into my face for the next part as he slides it home: “With my body, I thee worship.”
A hushed, angry murmur rises from where the Fuscone faction are seated.
Finch ignores it. “And with all my considerable worldly goods, I thee endow.” Very softly, so that only I can hear him, he adds, “You lucky motherfucker.”
But I guess the celebrant heard as well, because she gives a startled gasp, and rushes through her final words. “By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husbands. You may kiss your—oh!”
I’ve leaned in for a chaste kiss, but I should have known better. Finch throws his arms around me, almost taking out the celebrant in his leap, and just about humps me in front of everyone. I hear a loud clapping and hooting, and when he finally lets me go, all our guests are on their feet.
Fuscone and his allies look like thunder, but Tino is the one leading the cheers, so there’s not much they can do but clap slowly and send me a collective death stare.
The ceremony is legally binding; Tino makes sure of it. We sign the register afterwards with Tino and Howard Donovan the elder as witnesses. Then a photographer tries to get us to smile for a portrait in a back room. I make sure he sees my guns when I tire of it, and he takes one last snap, says, “All done,” and hurries away, just in time for Celia and Finch’s sisters, all pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, to rush back into the room and scream their delight at us. All except one of them, the tallest and most beautiful of the sisters, who gives me an appraising look and a flippant, “Congratulations, I guess.”
It’s a strange thing to have a ring on my finger, golden and heavy. I can’t stop looking at it,
