Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

“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 growls, and I turn to look at him in astonishment. I’ve never heard words like those pass his lips before. He’s always been the perfect, polite gentleman, even when the Mob collectors came around for discussions. “This is his doing,” Pops continues, glaring out the window at him.

  I’m glad those windows are tinted dark when the two of them, Luca and Tino, glance over to where our limo has parked. They look away, confer with heads together, and then go into the chapel.

  “He saved my life, Pops,” I remind him. “Morelli, along with D’Amato. I was supposed to die there in that dirty warehouse.” And on account of you, I think, but don’t say.

  “Don’t you go into this thinking you owe those bastards anything,” my father insists. “You hear me? You’re a Donovan. You’re above them, and you make sure you act like it. Any inside business they let drop, you bring it back to me, to your real family. You hear me?”

  I swallow. Pops and I have never been close, especially after the hit that took out Mom. He withdrew from us all, even Maggie, who was always his favorite. I’ve never asked the question, and officially my mother’s death is still unsolved, but I can’t see what else would make my father hate a man he’s never met this much.

  “Was it them? The Morelli family? Who killed Mom, I mean.”

  Pops looks away. “You come to me with any information you gather. It’s important, Howie.”

  “I will, Pops.”

  “And don’t you say a word about our family business. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.” I don’t know anything about the family business, so that’s one command that’ll be easy enough to follow.

  We’ve been sitting here at least five minutes since Luca and Tino went in. I don’t want to wait any longer to start my life with the Devil D’Amato. “Come on, Pops. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Ten

  LUCA

  The only thing I remember about the walk down the aisle is the cool, heavy feel of the guns holstered under my tuxedo jacket. Frank is waiting down there for me as my best man, his eyes scanning the crowd, and Marco joins him at the last minute as another of my groomsmen.

  During the course of this last week, Tino suggested Sam and Joey to make up a quartet of attendants to mirror Finch’s number, but I told him I’d rather not be knifed in the back at my own wedding. He laughed like I was kidding, but he didn’t push the issue.

  But when Tino deposits me now in front of the celebrant, my reality becomes wider than self-preservation. It finally hits me: this is my wedding. A wedding I never thought I’d have, and when it comes down to it, a damn sight better than any wedding I expected.

  To all these goons, shuffling in their seats, nudging each other, whispering and mocking, this wedding is a sham. But the thing is, if I have to get married? I can’t think of a better partner in life than the crazy, bleach-haired angel, who loves death so much he tried to take it in my place.

  Besides, he has connections that might prove useful in the coming months and years.

  Tino has been our Boss for many years, but his Underboss, Paul Marino, was jailed a few months back, and then wound up dead with a shiv in his throat. Tino hasn’t replaced him yet, or named an acting Underboss. I know he doesn’t want Fuscone to be so close to the throne. But Tino never married, has no heir; his extended family are estranged. So he has no blood relativ
e to nominate as his successor.

  But Tino has always been fond of me. I never knew my father and our mother died when I was just a baby, so we were raised by our maternal grandmother. Nonna never told Frank and me much about our father. She had no photographs of him. She told us once that Frank was named after him: Francesco D’Amato. Nonna had no other family in the States, and her husband was long dead. She died not long before I met Finch that first time, but she’d brought us up in strict Italian tradition, and Tino Morelli was a regular visitor during my childhood.

  I loved Tino’s visits. Frank thought he was boring, but I lived for his stories, tales of ancient Empires and the men who ruled them. For my first communion he gave me a book called The Prince. I read that shit from back to front for years like it held the secrets of the universe. I learned a lot from Niccolò Machiavelli, but most of all I learned that I was going to have to work goddamn hard to get where I wanted to go.

  But despite all his interest in me, it took Tino a long time to accept me into his Family. Long enough for me to try other Families, take insults from them, beatings. It was after the Clemenza attack Finch saved me from that Tino finally gave in. Or maybe that was what he’d been waiting for: for me to make a spectacular splash so he had an excuse to step in and protect me. Because the Clemenzas were out for blood after Frank and I killed four of their guys, and it was only Tino’s intervention that kept us alive.

  I’d like to think I’m a worthy protégé for Tino. Sometimes, with the way he delights in my achievements, I find myself wondering if there’s a hidden truth there.

  Sometimes I wonder if Tino is actually my—

  The music changes.

  I turn abruptly, almost startled.

  Coming down the aisle on the stiff arm of his father is my angel. I’ve never seen him look so gorgeous, not even the night he saved my skin.

  It takes me a second to remember that I can’t show any emotion towards him. Not now, not ever. It would be an instant death sentence for Finch if Fuscone and his allies ever thought I had real feelings for him, this Irish kid who’s supposed to be my punishment as well as my hostage. Even the threat of Tino Morelli’s wrath wouldn’t save us if Fuscone ever realized how I felt.

  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, because when I’m not looking at the ring, I can’t keep my eyes off my new husband, and if anyone looked at me they’d see stars in my eyes.

  We don’t have a single moment alone, not the whole day. I’m happy about that. If I was alone with Finch, I might break down, might say something stupid and syrupy and emotional that I’d regret, because
I need him unhappy.

  I need him to be miserable in this marriage, because one moment of joy in front of the wrong person will kill him.

  Chapter Eleven

  FINCH

  I could tell Luca was on edge for every second of the ceremony, but I wasn’t. And it wasn’t just the limo vodkas or the earlier pills Celia slipped me. No, today has been incredible. I’d go so far as to say it was the most amazing moment of my life so far when Luca leaned in to peck me on the cheek, but I grabbed him and jammed my tongue in his mouth.

  I got cheered by at least a dozen mobsters. Talk about living my best life.

  The wedding feast was fun, or so I’m told. I don’t remember much, thanks again to Celia’s pills. I do remember Brother Frank giving a speech, and Celia and my sisters all cried, except for Maggie, who sat there with a furious smile on her lips for the whole night. Luca sat through the whole thing grimacing like he had a toothache, except for one time when Pops snapped at me that I was laughing too much and too loud.

  Luca leaned over to him, across my lap so I could feel the warmth coming off him, and said, “I think a man should laugh as much as he wants on his wedding day.”

  Pops was livid, but he didn’t say anything, just got up and walked off to the bathroom.

  “Thanks,” I told Luca, surprised. “He fucking hates my laugh.”

  “I like it,” he said, his eyes soft. I smiled, but then his eyes narrowed, flicking around the room, and he leaned back in his chair to put some distance between us. “Besides, you might not much feel like laughing much in the coming months.”

  I didn’t believe him at the time. I figured at least we had bed that night to look forward to, and every time I thought about it, I couldn’t help grinning to myself again. Five years. I wondered how much he would have changed? How much of my memory of that incredible night was memory and how much embellishment?

  But then I was sent back to my Central Park West prison, and I didn’t even get to spend the night with my husband.