“Mary, Queen of Peace, pray for us,” I murmur and cross myself in unison with the rest of the attendees and the priest.
I can’t believe Junior’s remarrying. Well, it’s not the remarrying part that shocks me. It’s the happiness that radiates from him now as he stands facing Desiree, his tough-as-nails bride. He holds both her hands in his, gazing at her like she’s his whole world. Beside him stands her young son. Watching Junior’s quiet bond with him brings me to tears. Junior lost his preschool daughter in a tragic accident years back and shut down completely. I never thought he’d open his heart to love again. Now he’s not only got a baby on the way, but he’s doing the stepdad thing.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” my mom whispers tearily, squeezing my hand.
“Absolutely perfect,” I agree, crying right along with my mother.
Nico’s pregnant wife Sondra went all out on the decor. The hall must have ten thousand dollars worth of flowers. The pillars and real grape vines draping over the trellises make it feel like we’re back in the old country.
Tasteful and extravagant, yet also low-key, the ceremony fits both couples. Only forty or so family members fill the place. It’s made all the sweeter by the two pregnant bellies—Sondra and Desiree are both expecting.
I’m so thrilled to be an aunt. Children are my passion—I got my degree in early childhood education, even though I’ll probably never be allowed to work. Not by my family. Not by whatever husband my family chooses for me.
It stings knowing I’ll never have any of this—the love, the impromptu elopement, a family.
The expectation was always for me, as the Family princess, to endure a huge virginal church wedding to some Made man of my father or brothers’ choosing. No staring into the eyes of a man who loves me. It would be an arranged marriage all the way.
I used to fervently wish for a love match. Back when I thought I’d actually marry and have children of my own. I was overjoyed when Nico got away with marrying a woman of his own choosing instead of the bride he had been promised to from the time he was ten.
I’ve been allowed some freedoms I never thought I’d get.
They let me go to college. I had to campaign for years just to get Junior to consider it, but in the end, he relented. The diabetes almost kept them from letting me go, though. They see me as fragile. Mamma didn’t want me out of her sight. My brothers didn’t think I could handle myself.
They wanted me to stay where they could protect me—in either Chicago or Las Vegas.
But in the end we all compromised. They sent me to university in the Old Country where I could be watched over by La Famiglia. The Sicilians. And my brother Stefano was there part of the time, too, to keep a very close eye on me.
I’m always guarded like a princess in a convent. Which doesn’t mean I didn’t sneak in a few experiences. I stole kisses with a nice Italian boy who took my V-card in the most respectful way possible. But when he found out I was part of the Family, he couldn’t run fast enough. Which was just as well, because I wouldn’t want him to be hurt.
I was just looking to live a little before it’s too late.
Because what my family doesn’t know is that I’m in stage three kidney failure as a result of the diabetes. I’ve been told having children would kill me.
So the love match and babies of my own isn’t ever going to happen.
In fact, if I don’t take care of myself, I may not live to see twenty-five.
Vlad
I return to the Bellissimo with a plan and everything I need to execute it: A syringe filled with tranquilizer. Rope to tie her wrists and ankles. Tape for her mouth. Mikhael—Mika, as we call him—my twelve-year-old accomplice and the only living member of the Chicago bratva, to drive the getaway car.
I get off the elevator wearing the crisp Bellissimo waiter’s uniform, pushing the cart I plan to carry the girl out in.
I leave the cart just outside the door and stand in the doorway, scanning the room. I keep my head down and my tattooed fingers clasped behind my back. If the Chicago-based Tacone brothers recognize me, I’ll be a dead man before I can take a breath. Not that I care. If I were overly-worried about living long, I wouldn’t be here. Ironically, it’s my carelessness with life that always makes me come out on top.
I take risks. I’m never ruled by fear. I saw the way the bratva worked early on and figured out how to come out on top. I made myself indispensable. Not through violence, although I’ve had my fair share, but through knowledge.