by Kim Linwood
One step after another, the guests barely registering in my brain. The DiFieros on our left, the Caporossis on our right. A few I know: close family, our capos and some of their wives. Most of the faces don’t mean anything more to me than extras in a movie. They are here for our families.
To watch the historical union.
Or at least be there for the inevitable chaos as soon as everyone’s away from the priest’s knowing gaze. Rival mob families, a shotgun wedding and an open bar.
What could possibly go wrong?
Standing by the altar are two figures I’d know anywhere. Marc and Montana, in perfectly fitting tuxes, both of them watching me like hawks. Their resemblance to each other is uncanny, obviously brothers.
Evie and the usher break off at the front of the church.
This is really it.
I’m doing this.
I’m terrified.
As I near the end of the aisle, and Marc doesn’t move, the thread I’ve hung my trust by seems thinner and thinner. There is a plan here, right?
I look to Montana. He’s trimmed his beard and styled his hair into submission. I want to mess it back up, to feel his natural waves and curls running through my fingers, even when he’s looking so handsome. His gaze never wavers, and his face is impossible to read. I look for warmth, but while his expression is tight, there’s little to reassure me.
I must be the most gullible person on the planet, because I still want to believe that this is all part of the plan. For all I know they held a gun to his head, or threatened me and the baby to make him lure me into the church willingly.
The music stops as we come to the last pew. I turn to my father. He lifts my veil and kisses me on both cheeks.
His eyes are bright with emotion. “Options,” he whispers.
I smile in spite of my nerves and nod. Like a robot, I move in pre-programmed steps as Marc and Montana come forward, and Dad hands me over. I barely feel it as Marc takes my hand.
Dad sits next to Mom. There are no tears on her cheeks, but she takes his hand. Leah is on the other side, and Giuseppe is right there with her—apparently out of jail just in time for the happy occasion.
A wave of hopelessness washes over me.
It’s over.
There is no plan.
I thought I would feel more pain and betrayal, but I’m just dead inside. Maybe this is what I expected all along, even if I wouldn’t let myself think it.
And then as we step onto the altar in front of the priest, Marc stops and transfers my hand to Montana’s arm in a single smooth motion. Without a word, they switch places like it’s just a natural part of the ceremony, and color floods a world I hadn’t even noticed fading into shades of grey. I let out a breath I’ve been holding for what feels like hours.
I look up and find Montana’s deep brown eyes looking down on me, and his confident smile makes me feel like just this once, everything might be alright.
43
Montana
She’s here. She showed. She didn’t run away, or hijack her limo, or use whatever other crazy escape plan she might’ve thought up. Instead, Andrea chose to show.
And I couldn’t be fucking happier. Don’t get me wrong, but a big part of me never expected it to happen. She could’ve raised hell, but instead she’s floating down the aisle like an angel in a dress that puts me in a mood to be a devil.
Before now, I'd never pictured a wedding dress as sexy, but I'm already looking forward to peeling it off her tonight. If we all make it through this, there will be plenty to celebrate. Somehow that dress clings to her curves like a second skin, while still looking classy and respectable. Hell, I might just take her in her that dress before I peel it off. Then do it again.
Her face is hidden behind the veil, but she’s walking with her head held high like fucking royalty. Whatever fate she’s coming to, she’s the DiFiero princess. She’s walking straight into danger like she owns the place, with no guarantee that she’s going to come back out safely.
If there’s one thing I know in this life, it’s that I won’t let her regret this.
There’s not a chance in the world that I deserve her, and maybe she’s just doing this for the baby, but once the priest says the words, she’s mine.
I don’t have eyes for anyone but Andrea, but next to me, Marc is keeping his eye on Giuseppe. The old man only got out yesterday, and keeping him calm and without suspicions has been a walk on eggshells. He still doesn’t know about the baby, and fuck if I’m about to tell him.
The music comes to a rousing crescendo as Andrea and Emilio reach the front of the church. He pulls back her veil, revealing wide, terrified eyes. Her normally golden complexion reminds me of a seasick ghost.
Just another minute, Princess.
My muscles tense as Marc accepts Andrea’s trembling hand. We step back onto the altar, and just as we talked about, Marc smoothly steps aside so I can take his place. A knot I didn’t know was there unravels in my stomach. Did I think my brother was going to double cross me?
This whole trust thing is going to take a while.
A quiet murmur echoes from the front pews. The people in the back might not have even noticed the switch, if they can even tell me and Mark apart from a distance. Doing this right in front of everyone is like rattling the lion’s cage while wearing a meat suit, but it’s the only way. After this, there’s no way anyone will be able to dispute our marriage, or sweep it under the rug.
I look down into her big, brown eyes and grin.
We’re actually fucking doing this.
When the priest indicates that we should kneel, Giuseppe swears, only to be hushed by Mom. The sound of Andrea’s mother drawing a scandalized breath is cut off by a brief and quiet, “Shut up, Gloria.” There’s frustrating mumbling on either side of me, but miraculously, no one’s charged up onto the sanctuary to tear us apart yet. Church discipline is strong in our families.
Having my back to them goes against every instinct I have, but nobody is going to make a move here.
I hope.
Even though the service is the shortest possible, it feels like forever. Every second that passes before the vows are made is another moment of opportunity for someone to stop this. The legal paperwork is a formality, but in our families, it’s the church that matters. The sharp hiss of whispered arguments come from both sets of parents.
Kneeling in front of the priest with our legs touching, hands folded in front and heads bowed, we look like any couple getting hitched. You’d never tell that we’re terrified. That we’re expecting this to go south at any moment.
“Almost there,” I whisper.
Andrea doesn’t move. She’s focused on looking down. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Have a little faith.”
She huffs. I bet if I could see her face, she’d be rolling her eyes at me.
“Why’d you come then, if you didn’t trust me?”
The priest clears his throat, and when I glance up, he gives me the eye like a teacher who just caught students whispering in class. Andrea waits until he’s back to his sermon before she replies, very quietly.
“Because I had to know.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I can work with that. It’s a start. The priest coughs again, and this time we behave, at least until he’s done. Given how many things he’s already overlooked to allow this wedding to go off, a few whispers shouldn’t bother him, but what do I know?
“Please rise.”
The rest goes by like a blur. Marc steps up and fishes a pair of rings out of his pocket. The smaller is so dainty it nearly fits inside the other.
“Do you, Andrea Donatella DiFiero, take this man who holds your hand to be your true and wedded husband; and do you solemnly promise before God and these witnesses to love, cherish, honor and protect him, to forsake all others for his sake; to cleave unto him and him only, and him forever until death shall part you?”
She nods, then seems to remember
she’s supposed to actually say something. “I… I do.”
Two little words, and suddenly this is so much more than a plan to save the girl and screw over Giuseppe.
I’m actually getting married.
“Do you, Montana Pierce Caporossi—”
Voices explode from the pews in the back. More people must’ve missed our switch than I thought. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder. Those closest to us shift uncomfortably, but so long as the heads of family stay put, they’re not going to dare do anything. There’s a building buzz of mumbling that’s sounding damn ominous, though.
Fuck, this is where it all falls apart.
I tense, preparing for anything, but then the priest looks up and glares at the congregation with the full weight of eternal damnation in his gaze. I’ve never heard a rowdy crowd quiet so quickly before. I don’t know how big our donation is going to be this year, but I think it just got bigger.
“—take this woman who holds your hand to be your true and wedded wife; and do you solemnly promise before God and these witnesses to love, cherish, honor and protect her, to forsake all others for her sake; to cleave unto her and her only, and her forever until death shall part you?”
Fuck, yeah.
“I do.”
44
Andrea
As soon as the words are spoken, Giuseppe explodes from his pew, twisting himself out of Leah’s frantic hands on his arm. Surprised cries and murmurs fill the room. Mom isn’t any better. Her face is screwed up in pure fury. If Dad wasn’t keeping her locked to his side, she’d be over here clawing my eyes out.
“What the fuck is going on?” Giuseppe roars, ignoring the priest’s angry glare.
Leah follows, unable to keep him from disturbing the ceremony, but trying desperately to at least keep it from turning into a brawl.
Marc shoves his way between Giuseppe and Montana, and the priest backs quickly away. Probably not his first Mafia wedding. “Dad! Sit down, you’re making a scene.”
“I’m… I’m making a scene?” A thick purple vein pulses on Giuseppe’s forehead.
Montana pulls me behind him with a firm grip on my arm, then steps up alongside Marc so they can face down Giuseppe together. Mom’s angry hissing is clearly audible over the growing surprise and confusion in the church, but at least Dad seems to have her under control for now.
“Just listen for a minute,” Leah pleads, tugging on Giuseppe’s arm, but he might as well be deaf for all he registers her words.
He focuses his anger on Marc. “How could you do this to me? To the family?”
The two brothers stand side by side. Everyone’s watching, and there’s got to be at least a couple of people on both sides who already have their guns ready to deal with whatever happens.
“If you listened once in a while, you might understand,” Marc snaps back. “Montana is family. He’s my brother.”
Giuseppe barks out a bitter laugh. “Not in the way that counts, and you hate each other! I spend a couple of days in the slammer and suddenly you’re working together? Please.”
Montana looks at Marc and nods. Something passes quietly between them, then he gestures at his little brother. “He’s an asshole.” The priest chokes. “But he’s my blood and I’m his. Let’s just say we’ve had a chance to talk.”
Far from taking offense, Marc laughs.
Giuseppe isn’t nearly as amused. “It doesn’t matter. This wedding is to unite our families, not tear mine apart!” He turns to the priest. “We’re not finished. Get back here and start over!”
“No fucking way.” Montana growls, a dangerous sound deep in his throat.
Giuseppe levels a dangerous stare at him. “The dead don’t speak.”
“Let’s not get melodramatic, eh?” Dad finally steps up, leaving a fuming—but quiet for now—Mom in the front pew. He claps a hand on Giuseppe’s shoulder. “This should be a happy day. My daughter, your son—”
“I only have one son,” Giuseppe snaps.
Dad shrugs. “I say close enough. It’s what the children want, and with the bambino on the way—”
“The what?”
Oh no.
Dad looks at Giuseppe in confusion, then grins. “You think it’ll be a bambina, eh?” From the shocked murmurs rushing backwards in the hall, it’s obvious someone near the front caught his words and passed them along.
Giuseppe’s eyes go wide. The way his eyes flick wildly between Montana and me and back again, I expect him to froth at the mouth next. His features twist into an ugly grimace, and then he loses it.
Completely.
With a roar, he charges Montana like a bull at a red flag. I jump out of the way just in time for them to crash into the side of the altar, knocking over an ornate candelabra and spraying wax all over the floor. Leah screams, and the priest dives for cover behind the altar.
Shouts ring out in the church as DiFieros and Caporossis hurl insults back and forth. It’ll only be a matter of time before bullets take their place, if we don’t defuse this somehow. Evie and Dad yank at my sleeves, trying to pull me away from the fight, but I shake them off.
“Stop it!”
Predictably, that doesn’t help much.
A thin line of smoke trails up from the corner of the altar. Just the candle burning itself out. At least that’s what I assume—incorrectly. The trickle turns into a stream, and the stream into a plume.
“Fire!” I yell as altar cloth bursts into full flame with a whoosh. Oh shit. Glancing up, I cross myself quickly, just in case. Nobody else is even paying attention. “I said, fire!”
And then my cry is echoed by a couple of the other attendants before spreading backwards almost as fast as the baby news did. But does anyone do anything? Of course not. They’re too busy probably taking bets on the brawling at the altar.
Rushing in from the side with a handful of water, Evie throws it on the quickly growing blaze, before she makes a one-eighty and runs back off. Leave it to my roomie to think fast.
“Where did you…?” I watch in a mix of admiration and horror as she grabs another scoop of holy water out of the font by the side entrance.
“Don’t just stand there. Help!” she shouts as she dashes past.
I suppress the memory of Sister Rose slapping my hands and dragging me off to confession for wetting my fingers and smoothing down my hair when I was ten. The Lord helps those who help themselves, right?
I say a quick Our Father as I rip off my veil and soak up the rest of the water before throwing it over the flames, patting everything down until I’m sure it’s out. What’s the expression? Baptized by fire? Baptizing the fire? Something like that.
When the emergency is over, I look up with my hands full of sooty veil.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, is staring at us. Even Giuseppe and Montana, who are still mid wrestling match, with Montana poised over his stepfather, fist raised.
My mother sits with her face buried in her hands. I think she’s praying, but I’m not sure if it’s for our safety, or in the hopes that a tornado will hit, finishing off the spectacle and ending her embarrassment.
Dad is the first to break the silence, throwing his head back and laughing. Loud peals of laughter echo off the church dome, drawing everyone’s eyes from us to him. Stepping up alongside Marc, he puts an arm around his shoulders. It’s a clear signal to everyone watching that our families are united.
Screwed up beyond belief, but united.
Montana shakes himself off and stands, giving Giuseppe nothing but a dismissive glance before disappearing behind the altar and returning with our priest, guiding him by the back of his robe. “Let’s finish this before someone else goes crazy.”
“What?” the priest squeaks.
Giuseppe stands, and Leah moves quickly to his side. Fuming like he wants to kill someone, he glares at all of us, as if deciding who’s going to get the first pair of cement shoes. He settles on Marc. “Is this really what you want?”
I hold my breath. Th
e symbolism isn’t lost on anyone. Giuseppe stands alone, while Marc stands with both his brother, and my father. It’s a changing of the guard. Montana whispers something in his ear and Marc’s eyes soften.
He moves over to his father. “This is good, Dad.”
Giuseppe doesn’t look convinced, but he gives a quick nod, still refusing to look at Montana. His shoulders sag, and he looks oddly defeated as he and Leah return to their pew. My father does the same, settling down next to Mom and patting her hand. I can practically hear her eye-roll from here, but she isn’t screaming or wailing so I’ll call it a win.
The altar cloth is half on the floor, soaked in holy water and sooty with ash. All the things that were knocked over during the scuffle still lie where they fell all over the floor. Our priest looks shell shocked, but if you agree to do a rush job mafia wedding, you have to be willing to roll with the punches a little.
Sometimes literally.
“Father?” Montana prods.
He looks around, confused. “Huh?”
Montana makes a sort of get on with it motion with his hands.
“Oh… Oh!” The priest stands up straight, and we all get back into position—more or less. I make a point of not standing in the puddle of holy water that’s soaking into the rug. The priest draws his breath and proclaims with a shaky voice, “You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, men must not divide.” A pause, before he realizes what everyone’s waiting for. “Uh, you may kiss the bride.”
Montana wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me up. I lock my arms around his neck, and when our lips meet, I kiss him for everything I’m worth.
“See, I told you I had a plan,” he whispers against my mouth.
At first I smile, but then as his words settle in my brain, my smile dies and doubt takes its place. Being with Montana is so easy, but this is first of all about the baby. At least she’s safe. He? For some reason it seems like a girl to me.
