18. Brody
brODY
Three months later
The happiest moment of my life is seeing my bride step onto the lawn as the music swells. The sun is shining, and well-dressed guests including a who’s who of the London Mafia Syndicate since Caterina is now in their book club and has told me I have to be nice to them, are sitting in neat rows in our walled garden.
And I’m the luckiest man in the world.
Caterina looks stunning. She takes my breath away. This girl is the sun, my everything. The source of all the good things in my life, and I’m so grateful that she somehow loves a grumpy mafia boss twice her age.
A little sob comes from the front row, but I don’t look over to see who it is. I already know, and my smile widens.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” says Caterina’s mother. “My baby is all grown up.”
I found Caterina’s parents in the Cayman islands, as expected. It was a cute family reunion. While they weren’t delighted about her choice of fiancé being a mafia boss, they didn’t take too much persuading. They love her, and since she’s glowing with early pregnancy and being spoiled to within an inch of her life, they gave their blessing. I think my reassurances about the Geraci mafia having been disposed of helped, too.
“She’s a credit to you, Mrs Hart.” But what I mean is that Caterina is a credit to herself. It’s her hard work that made this wedding as stunning as it is. She chose everything, I just gave her a bank account in her name with a lot of money in it and said yes to her every idea.
She holds my gaze as she walks down the aisle between the guests. At her side is her father, but I only see her. And when she reaches me, and takes my hand, my chest is an expanding balloon that threatens to lift me off my feet from sheer happiness. I could hold Caterina to me and float away.
But thankfully, my heart only feels light. This sensation is still unfamiliar after decades of snapping and growling at everyone. Caterina marrying me is more than I deserve.
And when she repeats her vows with so much love in her eyes, and slides a thick platinum band onto my finger, I can’t resist catching her hand to press an illicit kiss onto her soft palm. I enjoy every moment of our wedding ceremony, because Caterina crafted it.
After the formalities that make her officially mine, there’s a reception in the garden. The same one where we finally understood each other. Caterina is busy hugging people and being perfect. All I have to do is stand by her side like a very protective and pleased gargoyle. I love watching her so happy.
“Congratulations,” says a voice to me.
“Thank you.” I don’t look away from Caterina.
“Worked out well in the end, didn’t it.” The voice is posh. And not good at taking a hint.
“Yes.”
“How did you get on with the Italians?”
“Fine,” I reply.
Caterina laughs as her mother exclaims loudly about how proud she is of her daughter with her Business Studies degree. The university was very understanding about the alternative exam arrangements, after I made a substantial donation.
“Angel, you’ve married her. You can take your eyes off your wife for two minutes. I’m sure you’re aware of object permanence. She won’t disappear if you’re not looking at her,” the kingpin of Westminster drawls.
To make a point, I stroke Caterina’s shoulder and kiss the top of her head in a leisurely fashion, before I murmur to her, “I love you, I just need to speak with a self-important zhopa.”
She nods and clasps my hand briefly.
“I know Russian swear words,” Westminster says dryly as I turn to him. “That’s mild. Try harder if you want to insult me.”
We regard each other. The best-known kingpin in London, and the Shadow.
“There’s something you’ll be interested to see,” I tell him, and he nods.
We head across the lawn as Steve emerges from the house. Just the person I wanted to catch.
“Come with us,” I order, but slacken my pace to account for his lingering injuries.
The older man hides his pain as we take a second flight of cream stone stairs down into the cellar.
Westminster gives a low whistle as I guide them through the arched rooms all racked with bottles. “Nice stash.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll have to talk about some swaps, one day.” Westminster eyes the labels as we walk past. “I have an excellent store, but it’s a lot more whisky. Whereas you have some truly lovely wine.”
I didn’t bring them down here for that, so I don’t answer. In the furthest of the first set of cellar rooms, there’s a mostly-empty rack.
“Boss.” Steve tries to help as I drag it out. “I can…” He trails off as I squat down, careful to not get dust on my suit.
I lift a circular wooden trapdoor and a stale smell rises.
“What the hell is this?” Steve asks, peering over the edge of the revealed hole.
“It’s an oubliette,” Westminster replies for me, voice hushed.
“What’s that?” Steve is none the wiser.
“A deep hole,” I reply.
“It’s from the French, ‘to forget’.” Westminster folds his arms. “It’s a medieval torture and death device.”
“You said I had no class, and I was too impatient.” I gesture at the oubliette. “Does this meet your standards?”
Not that it matters. My wife’s approval is the only thing I need.
Westminster sighs, but there’s a hint of a smile around his mouth. “Dark Angel indeed. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I said last month that justice occasionally took time.”
Steve flicks his gaze between Westminster and me, and trembles. “Please, Boss. I didn’t mean for anything to happen to your wife. I swear I was paying attention. I won’t fail you again.”
“There’s always room…” I pretend to ponder aloud.
“He didn’t send you to the best hospitals in London, pay for physiotherapy, and have you as his best man at his wedding only to throw you down here,” Westminster reassures Steve with a wry look. “If he wanted either of us dead, we’d already have a bullet in our skull.”
True, though saving someone only to kill them more slowly, is not a bad idea, as torture goes. I nod in agreement. “I brought you because I thought you’d like to see the revenge on the leader whose men put you in hospital.”
Steve sags a little in relief. “So…”
“The Geraci kingpin,” I confirm. The mafia who went after Caterina and her family.
“How long has he been in there?” Steve asks.
One week, three days, and approximately five hours. “I forget.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” Now staring at the black hole with morbid fascination, Steve seems to have recovered from the fear that I was going to shove him into the oubliette.
“I don’t know.”
“Normally, you prefer the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ tactic. I’m surprised you controlled yourself this time.” Westminster can’t resist a peek into the darkness either.
I don’t look. There’s nothing to see but black.
“My wife stood at the back of a cupboard in the dark for three hours, petrified for her life.” The familiar anger flows through my blood. It’s almost calming now that I’ve dealt with everyone involved and Caterina is mine. “The oubliette is shaped like a bottle. He can lie down.”
“Generous of you,” Westminster says, with a touch of sarcasm.
“How deep is it?” Steve asks, turning his head to examine the stone walls that are akin to a well.
“Twelve feet to the bottom, though it seems it would have been deeper originally. The floor presumably was built up a little over the centuries with whatever was thrown in.”
Steve blanches and steps away from the entrance.
“Mmm. You don’t want to fall down there,” I say. “Probably would break several bones.”
A low sound like a dying animal reverberates up.
We all hear it.
My hands curl into fists and I wish I’d just killed the zasranets man immediately.
“We’ll return to the party now.” I’ve spent too long away from my wife already. “But another time, I can get the drone out so you can look if you’re curious?—”
“This is not how the London Mafia Syndicate approves of dealing with conflicts,” Westminster interrupts me.
“Mmm.” It’s nothing more than an acknowledgement.
There’s a hush full of the awareness that I didn’t have to show Westminster this, and could have killed the man in the oubliette immediately. I don’t want to pull that bastard out, but he isn’t yet dead. That’s all the concession Westminster gets.
And he seems to know that. “I appreciate your change in practice.”
“For this mafia leader. The others…” I take out my phone and ping him the file I have with the names, list of notable activities, and photographs of the men I killed in my quest for vengeance against all who hurt Caterina. The two who directly hurt her, and those stupid enough to be found hurting women or children when my need to kill was on a hair trigger.
Westminster pulls out his phone and scans the document. His eyebrows raise. “Geraci was involved with…”
“Yes,” I confirm. Neither of us speak further, but we share a glance of mutual disgust.
Westminster pockets his phone. “Understood.”
A croak echoes up from the hole. Weaker this time.
Rage flares again in my chest, but Westminster’s expression is impassive.
“How long did you say he’s been in there?” In contrast, the lines of Steve’s face crease with concern.
“He’s probably dead by now,” Westminster lies calmly. “And we have a marriage to celebrate, and a family reunited.”
“Exactly.” And a family begun. Pride flows through me remembering again that my wife is pregnant under that pure white dress.
Steve straightens, as though coming from a trance. “How about we just forget about this whole thing?”
I close the trapdoor and the three of us move the racking back into place. Then the cellar is dead silent again.
“Now.” I turn a couple of bottles on the rack, pretending to search. “This space is almost empty, but I have some excellent wine arriving next week that will be stored here for twenty or more years.”
I pull out champagne and pass it to Steve and Westminster. “I think you’ll enjoy these. They’re properly aged and chilled.”
“Served cold, you might say, Boss.” Steve accepts two bottles.
Westminster lets out a bark of laughter. “But isn’t revenge supposed to be sweet, not sparkling?”
“Revenge is ice cream. Sweet and served cold.” Maybe Caterina’s humour is rubbing off on me. “But we’ll have to make do with champagne.”
We chuckle as we climb the stairs out of the cellar, and at the door, I switch off the lights.
Back in the garden, Steve and Westminster take charge of the alcohol we just acquired, and I search the crowd until I find the most beautiful woman in the world, wearing a white dress. She’s with her mother and a group of the London Mafia Syndicate women, sunlight spilling all over them, making them shine.
They part as I approach, and I take Caterina’s hand and interlock our fingers as she’s mid-sentence.
“She’ll be back in a minute. I just need a moment with my bride.”
There’s a chorus of “ahhh” and “so cute” as I draw Caterina away. I intend to only go far enough to speak alone and kiss her in privacy, but my feet take us to the entrance of the maze.
“Angel,” she murmurs, leaning into me and squeezing my hand as she sees it.
But I only pull her out of sight and drag her against me as I sink my back into the firm outer hedge, surrounding us with the scent of the leaves as I claim her mouth in a kiss. It’s several minutes before I ease off consuming her.
“Much as I’d like to fuck you right here and now, looking so gorgeous, I’ll wait until later when I can chase you, hold you down, and properly hear you scream your pleasure into the darkness,” I promise against her lips. And this is her wedding day. I’m not risking messing up the dress and makeup she so carefully did when tonight I can rip the white lace negligee I saw her slipping into the wardrobe yesterday.
She makes a breathy little whimper and I smile as I kiss her again.
“Thank you. For everything,” she says, holding the back of my neck as she stands on tiptoe to kiss me more.
“Are you having a good day?” I check.
“The best,” she says against my lips. “And you?”
“It’s perfect when I’m at your side.” Carefully, I hold her jaw and stroke her cheek lovingly as I look into her deep brown eyes. My wife. I’ll never let her go. I’ll never let anything bad happen to her again. “A day to remember.”