26. Contessa
Five months later
I always imagined I would have a springtime wedding. Budding flowers and warming sun, the world brimming with the promise of life and possibility. But a fall wedding—it suits Salvatore. The inevitable necessity of death, unable to have growth without decay. I can see the beauty in both.
We plan for an October wedding. Salvatore is too impatient to wait for seasons and weather and vibes . I think if the ceremony weren’t important to the family, he would have already had us eloped by the nearest priest he could get at gunpoint.
My old room has been turned into a little studio for my artwork. His bedroom has become our bedroom, where I have complimented his dark wardrobe with a sea of bright dresses and scattered jewelry. The pistol I used that night is now displayed next to Salvatore’s in the weapon case. A long line of tradition is broken by our guns—his pistol the only one that has a twin, sitting side by side with mine. My initials have been added to the little gold plaque underneath our weapons.
Though I don’t need the reminder of that night, I appreciate being included in the tradition.
Ava welcoming me back home has, apparently, been one of the few times she has spoken since she lost Vinny. She even hugged me. Often, I find myself going to her room now, sitting with her in the quiet, as we pass the time again. I brush out her hair, and between Marcel and I, we make sure she gets at least one solid meal a day. I hate how our roles feel reversed. She’s invited to my wedding, though I promise her she doesn’t need to feel pressured to attend. I have no idea if she will be there or not. I hope so.
Well-wishes and welcome home sentiments are gradually offered to me. More and more, the family has gotten used to seeing me around the house and at dinners, which I now attend with Salvatore and the immediate family.
There is one final person who calls upon me in the days leading up to my wedding.
Cecilia Mori is the last person I expected to ask for me. She invites me for lunch in her little corner of the house, the sunroom, with its many exotic plants and carefully arranged antique furniture.
Now that I have made the connection, I see Cecilia’s influence over this warm little space, where she keeps herself bundled up and watches the outside world from her wheelchair. I glance toward the glass door that I absolutely obliterated once; it probably didn’t do anything for her opinion of me.
Cecilia has never called on me since I returned to the house. Not once.
I wonder if I am going to be given the shotgun talk, or maybe she will try to pay me off to leave and give up this mad dream of marrying Salvatore right before I sign myself over to him.
As if I am not already his, as much as he is already mine, in ways that neither of us can undo now.
But there are other ways to stop a marriage. I sniff my tea for the scent of almonds, just in case.
Instead of poison, Cecilia offers me an old necklace box with scuffed edges. I’m unsure as I take it, feeling its age. Inside, I find a vintage necklace—the Mori family insignia in white gold, set with diamonds, with the heart of a gorgeous gem. The stuff of heist movies—the kind of jewel that should have its own name.
“This heirloom is passed down among the women in the family. It is formally held by the don’s wife. My sister was the last to have it, and until such a time that someone else came along to claim it, it has stayed in my safekeeping. I have been holding out for too many years to pass this along, Miss Lovera. God forbid it have to go into Vera’s charge,” she adds, snippily. I bite back the smile at that familiar, surly judgment that was once directed at me. “I admit, when I first heard of Salvatore’s choice, I had no intent of handing this down. Over my dead body is not much of a threat, for a woman of my age, but that was my sentiment.”
“Then why are you giving this to me now?” I ask, not understanding. Cecilia and I have hardly spoken, even now that I am moved in. I thought she would be much happier that way.
“No one raised Salvatore Mori up to be what he is. What I have wanted in this family, for many years, is a sense of honor. Tradition. Stability. My only ambition was to secure him a good match. A don needs a very specific type of wife. Someone who would strengthen both the family and the man.
Salvatore was never dismissive, but you could always tell he would do things his way, one way or another.”
I know that all too well.
“You have gotten through to him in ways that the elders cannot, and by all accounts, I believe you have good instincts for this role. God knows where you got those from, perhaps your mother. So, while your bloodline may be…unusual,” she just barely swerves around the word unsavory , “I do see some of the old ways in you.”
I bite down my smile again. Maybe it would be unfair to expect the old woman to change completely .
“Take it, and wear it to your wedding, if you can. It’ll do you good. The men may not see it for anything special, but what do men know? Among the women in this family, it means something that you have this. They’ll respect you. Consider it, if you will, my blessing to your union with Salvatore.”
I am briefly floored. I thought this woman hated me.
“Thank you, Cecilia. You don’t know how grateful this makes me.”
“Of course I do, child. Even these blind eyes can read that face.”
I blush softly at being so easily discerned again, but I nod in understanding. I never thought I would want the old woman’s approval, but winning it unexpectedly makes me giddy.
Our session lingers past lunch, into the hazy afternoon, until the crickets take up singing in the backyard. For hours, I give Cecilia what I suspect she has wanted for decades—someone who is eager and hungry for an old woman’s advice.
I hide the jewelry box in my art room—assuring safekeeping for the wedding.
It feels like there is too much time and yet not enough. I do not have bridesmaids. I asked Vera, but she laughed me out of the room, saying the only place she was fit for at a wedding was the wine table.
She was even sober when I asked. Maybe that was the mistake. Ava may not attend, and Kay. . .I didn’t ask. I cannot convince myself it would be a good idea. Not again.
Though it will never feel like the perfect day without her, Salvatore is not the only one who doesn’t like repeating mistakes.
We have not seen each other in person since the party, though I’ve kept in touch through text now that Salvatore is no longer paranoid about me having a phone.
I am a nervous, stressed wreck as the time shrinks, bringing me closer to the big day.
We’ve chosen a gorgeous venue for the wedding. Though the house is undoubtedly the safest place, it’s tainted with too much memory. Fear and death are still fresh there. It would feel like getting married in a graveyard. For safety, we turned away all external event planners and coordinators, leaving me to spearhead the huge undertaking. I have found a few allies among the women of the house and formed our own ‘wedding planning task force,’ as Salvatore sarcastically calls us, always fussing over shades of blue or cream, this or that flower.
I wouldn’t be so particular, but it feels like my success as the don’s wife is somehow inexplicably tied to the success of the ceremony. The entire family will be in attendance, even those whom I have never met, coming from branches of the family in Chicago all the way to Las Vegas. Salvatore mentions even, oh so casually, that the mayor will attend. When I gawk and ask why the mayor will be at my wedding, Salvatore simply shrugs and says he wouldn’t dare not be there.
Fine. Sure. Great.
Might as well save a seat for the governor, too, just in case.
Traditionally, the bride and groom do not see each other on the day and night before the ceremony. Salvatore only makes it until 1:00 in the morning, when I hear him sneaking into our room like a stray cat. I should shoo him away…but I hate this just as much as he does.
The mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed. He seems hesitant, not knowing if I’m going to be cross with him for breaking tradition.
I whisper into the dark, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He crawls over to me, sighs, and says, “I fucking hate tradition,” between kisses.
We spend the night curled up with each other like always, whispering like two school children getting away with being naughty.
Salvatore Mori has honored his word to me every night since I came back here with him.
I have had my full freedom, with bodyguards when necessary. Salvatore keeps me informed on the family business, and when I sit in with him at his office, he no longer has me on his lap like a puppet. Once we are formally married, Salvatore wants me at all of his dinner meetings, at his side. I will be weighing in on business deals more and making small talk with trophy wives.
“Are you nervous?” he asks into the dark.
“A little,” I say, his arm curled around my middle, my back against his chest as he hugs me to him.
Predictably, I feel the tension ripple through him. I’m glad I’m facing away from him, smiling to myself.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“I mean, it’s a week-long honeymoon, Sal. How am I going to walk after?”
Salvatore smacks my ass for making him nervous, while I laugh and roll on top of him, pressing kisses of apology to his mouth.
I straddle him between my legs.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Not for me. The ceremony—in a way, is just for everyone else. I already know that I’m yours.”
Salvatore brings me down into a kiss again and again, until he finally growls and pushes me off. He lays on his back, looking up at me like this as his chest rises and falls.
“You better stop, unless you want to spoil the honeymoon.”
“You know,” I begin, sliding back a little more to take his cock in my hand and stroke it, “we had a wedding rehearsal. Why does nobody ever talk about the honeymoon rehearsal?”
“Finally,” Salvatore breathes, head falling back into the pillows, “a tradition I can get behind.”
I was once too scared to be on top of him, but once he showed me how to move, how to not hurt him, I marvel at being in control of this huge, powerful man. I pin him down the way he sometimes pins me, my hands around his thick wrists, my legs spread around his cock, hips rolling.
I ride him to exhaustion, until I can physically no longer manage it, and Salvatore flips me under him. I expect him to take charge, to finish us off in a hungering blitz, a crash of pleasure. We move together, fucking deep and slow in a way that blows my mind. I cling to him, gasping and aching, as he whispers sweet, soft confessions against my ear.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
With slow, relentless lovemaking, Salvatore rolls my orgasm one into the other, in a way he has never done before, until I am a sobbing mess of pleasure, pushed to the brink, soaked and collapsing into his arms.
I wake with the sunrise, exhausted and sweetly sore.
Salvatore is already gone.
The next time I see him will be at the altar.
Within five hours, I am squeezed into my wedding dress. It is the closest to the real princess treatment I have ever come, being tended to by a handful of women, most of them older than myself, when a familiar face appears in the mirror behind me. I think, for a second, that I’m hallucinating. I turn around and find Kaydence on the verge of tears, looking me up and down in my dress. She’s in a glossy pastel bridesmaid dress, perfectly matched to the color scheme of the wedding. Our hug is so enthusiastic, some of the women fret over the dress and veil, worried we might rip the intricate lace.
“How did you get here? Kay, how did you get here?” I ask, over and over, so bewildered and overwhelmed, clutching her face as if she isn’t real. There’s no way Salvatore would do this twice—is there?
“Same way you did,” she sighs, throwing up her hands. “Kidnapped.”
“ What ?”
“Mafia finally kicked my damn door down in the middle of the night.”
I hadn’t heard anything about this.
“Marcel let himself into my place last night. I was almost asleep. I may have tried to beat his ass with a tennis racket before I knew what was going on, but it didn’t do much. Once I stopped trying to murder him, he told me it was your wedding today, and that you wanted me here as a Maid of Honor.”
She shows me a little scrap of paper with my own handwriting. I recognize it, a piece torn off from that silly list of demands I gave Salvatore so long ago. I’m mystified. I didn’t know anyone still had this.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Kay. That must have been terrifying. I had no idea they were going to—”
She gestures to herself up and down.
“Girl, I got late night takeout, a designer dress, and, more importantly, I got to see you on the most important day of your life. As far as I’m concerned, hot dudes from the mob can have an open-door policy to my apartment if they want it.”
“Oh, great —”
“I’m telling you, this man had me in hair salons and clothing boutiques in the dead of night. He would just call around places, and they would open for him. It was insane.”
“…Do you really want to be here, though? You were trying to convince me I was crazy the last time we spoke.”
“I know.” Her expression dims slightly, as she works up something to say. “About that day…”
I cut her off with a soft clearing of my throat. There are too many people around, too many unsympathetic ears. I shake my head. As far as I’m concerned, Kay should never mention that day again. For her own sake. She takes the hint.
“I was under constant supervision until about five minutes ago. Marcel had a lot of time to convince me that you really did choose this. I don’t know if I approve, but…” she shrugs, “hell, I have impossible standards anyway. I was always doomed to hate anybody who thought they were good enough for you. As long as you want it, that’s what matters to me.”
Kay being here is the final touch on the day that makes it perfect. We get dangerously close to ruining my make up with tears of happiness, and emergency tissues are deployed to be dabbed at the corners of my eyes, until I am laughing again.
The ceremony arrives, music filling the chamber. There is only one thing left to do. I fix a glittering tiara upon my head, as is the tradition, and face myself in the mirror one last time as a mafia princess. After this, the title won’t be mine anymore. I will be the wife of a don. I latch the Mori family necklace around my neck.
So many eyes fall upon me as I make the long walk, camera shutters clicking and music rising. I stare past the crowd, meeting Salvatore’s gaze as he waits at the altar.
I have no one to walk me down the aisle, but that is how I want it. I am happy to be the one to give myself away. The last we heard of my father, Gio Lovera had fled the country, betrayed by one of his own most trusted, in-house staff. If I have any cruelty in me at all, it is the part of me that hopes he has fled from the tallest tower, down into some ratty bunker, paranoid and living off food in cans.
I know it isn’t likely. He is still out there somewhere, with however much power and money he managed to bring with him. Maybe he will still be a problem one day, but for now, my family no longer has the cohesion or leadership to be a threat to us.
Among the many faces in the crowd, one is notably missing. Noctus fled across the Atlantic, and though Salvatore has planned our honeymoon to be about us, it is no coincidence our trip and Noctus’s refuge share a destination. Salvatore has one final piece of business to finish while we are abroad. A wedding present of his own, in its own way.
I am sure the opening speech the priest gives is lovely; I don’t hear a single word of it. I am lost in Salvatore’s expression as much as he is lost in mine. The priest skips the part where he would traditionally ask for objections—I can just imagine Salvatore threatening him if he invites any opinions into what he can and cannot do. It makes me smile so hard my cheeks hurt.
Nate is our little ring-bearer, dressed in a tiny tux, and he takes to the aisle like it’s a football field, little feet pounding up the aisle to get to Salvatore as fast as possible.
“Uncle Sal, you’re getting married! Uncle Sal, you’re getting married!” he keeps yelling as he runs, a little man on a mission. My heart might burst with how cute he is, the crowd laughing as the pillow tied with fake rings is flung every which way. He bypasses Marcel, whom he is supposed to hand the ‘rings’ to, and beelines right to his uncle.
He reaches us, his big eyes turning to me, as he gasps and gawks. “Uncle Sal! Contessa is getting married, too!” he says, as if it is the most amazing coincidence in the world. The room erupts. Marcel and Salvatore make a quick, underhanded swap for the real rings.
Lana follows after Nate, showering flower petals along the aisle. The warm laughter of the room falls into a quiet hush as we are invited to exchange our written vows.
Salvatore goes first. My heart skips into my belly when he does not pull out any paper and instead recites from memory:
“I’ve taken many vows throughout my life, spoken and unspoken. I’ve made my promises to every person sitting in attendance here today, and to countless more who aren’t. But I’ve never taken a vow as important as this.”
His gaze latches to mine. I’ve seen this look once before, all those months ago, the first time Salvatore was made to lay his heart bare in front of a crowd, narrowing his focus to only me.
“Almost half a year ago, I saw your artwork for the first time. For weeks, you had filled the upstairs room with profound beauty, and I walked by it day after day, never noticing, because you were always there. And when you were there, I couldn’t look away. I had eyes for nothing else.
But that night, I walked into the room alone, and for the first time, I really looked at what you had created. I knew that if you and I sat down with one of those paintings, we would both describe a completely different image. You would see it your way; I would see it mine. And all I wanted in that moment was to be able to turn around and ask you—what do you see? I stood there and I grieved that I had never asked before, that I had never taken that initiative. That night, I wasn’t sure I would ever get the chance.”
My heart beats in my throat, barely holding back the tears welling into my eyes and pinching my throat. Salvatore does not talk about that night that tore us apart, even between just us. He says he doesn’t want to dwell on it—though I knew he really means it still haunts him in some way. The guilt and the what-ifs. Of all the things I thought he might speak about in front of a crowd, it was never this.
“As I stood there alone, I saw how much patience it all must have taken you and the care that you poured into every small detail. Between those brush strokes, I saw what it is that you do best, Contessa. You love. You color your world in warmth, compassion, and joy. You improve upon everything you touch. You take the crude and you make it complex. You take the unfinished and you make it complete. With your infinite love, patience, and forgiveness, you’ve done the same for me. Without you, I’m just a shadow of the man that you make me. I’m grateful for the strength and grace that kept you true to yourself, no matter how many times someone tried to rip those qualities away from you, because I am made so much better by them.”
Tears slip hot and silent across my cheeks. I fight my own lungs. I suddenly wish more than anything that we were alone. That I could throw myself into his arms right this moment, my composure cracked like porcelain. I’ve never had so many tears in my eyes and still been uncontrollably smiling at the same time.
“I hope you will forgive that my vows, in their essence, are simple,” he finishes, “When you want protection, I will protect you. When you want stability, I will anchor you. When you want power, I will empower you. And when you want to be heard, I will listen to you. As always, I vow to give you what you want. What you have said you wanted all along is a husband worthy of your love. I vow to be that man above all else in my life. I vow to love you, and to learn how to love you, forever.”
The paper in my hands shifts in and out of focus through the haze of tears.
My laugh shakes as I hastily trying to wipe at my eyes, barely able to see. Salvatore offers me the pocket square in his suit, and I have a few precious seconds to get myself together.
The letters still blur at the edges, but I gather myself as I take my turn. I take a deep breath.
“I have spent most of my life believing that I was born into the wrong world. That in some way, I just didn’t belong on the path I was forced to take. But today, I couldn’t be more thankful for it. If I had never walked that awful road, then you wouldn’t have found me on it. I am so grateful to you, Salvatore, because you have given me a place—and it is at your side. Many little girls grow up daydreaming about getting married and being a wife, and I was no exception. But as I got to know you, being a wife was no longer good enough. I only wanted to be your wife. You have been the greatest thing to ever happen to me, sometimes despite your best efforts. When we first met, you swept me off my feet—”
Salvatore’s mouth quirks at the corner as we share a look. I bite down on my smile and continue.
“But I am so honored and grateful to be able to stand across from you today, and to stand beside you, for the rest of our lives. I promise to bring respect and honor to you and to your family, to uphold your values and principles, and to be a source of strength and comfort through all adversity. I will love and cherish you as mine forever, and in return, I will always belong to you.”
Salvatore waits for no man’s permission to kiss me, not even a man of God. The moment the words have left my lips, he sweeps me into the kiss. The kiss that almost carries me away, that blocks out a hundred eyes and every camera, until it is just the two of us in this one moment, bound together.
As the kiss finally dwindles, I feel the brush of his hand, ever-subtle, against the soft, barely-there bump contouring my wedding dress. I glance up into his eyes, biting down on my smile as we share a knowing, private look.
That is a celebration for another day.
THE END