Chapter 24
KARINA
We arrive at the Bellanti estate with the midmorning sun shining brightly above us, a spot of blinding gold in a perfectly clear sky. I choose to believe it’s a good omen. A sign that my life is finally about to change for the better.
I know the winery must be open to the public during the day for wine tastings and other events, but right now everything is quiet and deserted.
“Where is everybody?” I ask as the car’s tires crunch on the gravel drive.
“We’re making some changes inside the tasting room, so the winery is closed for the week. The office staff is all here, of course, but there’ll be no one on the grounds.”
Marco turns onto a neatly manicured side road that curves into a copse of trees.
We drive through dappled shade, more trees hugging us on either side, and then park in a small lot beside a quaint chapel.
It’s obviously old, the wood and fieldstone construction reminiscent of an era long gone.
A white cross perches on the steeply pitched roof above tall, arched wooden doors, and there are matching arched windows on either side.
I get out of the car and gasp. “Marco. This is beautiful.”
“It was already on the property when my family bought the acreage, though it was basically a ruin. My great-grandmother is the one who insisted it be restored. She planted every one of these rose bushes herself and tended them like they were her children.”
“They’re incredible,” I say. And they are.
The sprawling rose bushes surround the chapel, blossoms bursting in every shade from ivory to pale yellow to blush, from fiery orange to coral pink to burgundy.
Shrubs laden with fragrant white flowers scent the warm air.
Two weeping willows flank either side of the chapel, their branches of wispy, long leaves brushing the grass.
I love this place.
Marco gently takes my hand and leads me toward the chapel.
Excitement grows in my belly. There isn’t a trace of the nerves that I was experiencing earlier.
And certainly none of the dread. This day suddenly feels like a fairy tale.
My sneakers tread softly on the gravel pathway to the stone steps.
I give Marco’s hand a squeeze as we ascend.
He pushes open one of the doors and gestures for me to go first. Two candelabras of white candles sit on either side of the heavy wooden door. They are lit and waft a soft beeswax scent. We stop at the threshold, and I take a deep breath as I look around.
The inside of the chapel is small, intimate.
Light spills through the diamond paned windows, round iron chandeliers hang from the peaked ceiling, and the floor is made of wide wooden planks set into place with square iron nails.
There are three pews on each side of a narrow aisle that leads to a pulpit made of stone.
Arched stained glass windows decorate the back of the pulpit and let in more light that casts fractures of primary colors around the space.
My gaze is drawn everywhere at once. Even though it’s small, there’s so much to see, to appreciate.
It’s clear the Bellantis are taking great care in the upkeep of this building.
The floors are worn wonderfully smooth from years of foot traffic, the sides of the pews equally well-worn from a century of hands.
The chandeliers overhead aren’t lit, but I spy the remnants of candles that melted over their holders and left a buildup of wax on the iron.
Marco turns to me and takes both my hands. His shirt is still smeared with cake frosting and the knee of his pants has a muddy grass stain. Looking down at myself, I giggle at the dirt and debris soiling my cream-colored slip, at the mud caking my shoes. What a pair we make.
“We look a bit shabby for a wedding,” I tell him lightly.
“We could get married naked and it would still be perfect. But hold that thought.”
He walks to the pulpit and retrieves something from behind it before heading back to me.
It’s a pale lavender box, maybe half the size of a cereal box, and as he gets closer I realize it’s made of velvet.
There’s something familiar about the color, but I can’t quite place it.
Marco’s expression grows serious as he stops before me, cracking open the lid with a flourish.
It lifts on golden hinges, revealing a beautiful pearl and crystal tiara sitting on white satin.
A lump instantly forms in my throat. “How did you know?”
It’s the exact same tiara I tried on in the bridal store.
He lifts it from the box and moves behind me. “I have my ways.”
“The bridal attendant told you, didn’t she?”
His long fingers work through my hair, removing little bits of ivy leaves and debris.
“I’ll never tell,” he says with a smile.
He sets the tiara carefully in place over my curled half-updo and steps back, nodding.
“You’re perfect.” His voice is hushed, almost reverent. “You think you’re ready to become Mrs. Marco Bellanti?”
“I know I am.” My voice trembles with emotion, but not nerves.
The sound of somebody clearing their throat at the back of the chapel draws our attention.
“Shall we begin, Mr. Bellanti?” a priest asks.
“We’re ready,” Marco says. “Thank you, Father.”
The priest has a kindly face with deep crow’s feet, warm brown eyes, and a shock of white hair. His cassock hangs regally on his long, spare frame, and he exudes an air of authority.
“Thank you,” I say, too.
“Father Alfredo has been a priest to our family for three generations,” Marco tells me. “He is the caretaker of this chapel, which is why it always looks immaculate. I’m sure you can understand why this place is so popular with our guests during the winery’s open hours.”
Father Alfredo shrugs. “Wine makes people religious.”
“You take advantage of their most vulnerable moments, eh, Father?” Marco ribs him.
“I would be remiss in my duties if I were to pass up any opportunity to bolster the faith of others,” he admits, his eyes twinkling.
Their banter is good humored and familiar, demonstrating their comfort with one another. It sets me at ease.
Father Alfredo turns to me, gesturing toward the pulpit. “Without further ado, Ms. Rossi. Once we’ve gotten your vows out of the way, perhaps we’ll all have a celebratory glass of wine in the back garden. You can tell me how in the world this man convinced you to marry him.”
I take my place in front of the lectern, facing Marco, and Father Alfredo stands before us, nodding amiably. Marco takes both my hands in his, smiling at me. He looks both anxious and excited—which I’m sure echoes the expression on my own face.
“Mr. Bellanti. Do you have the rings?” Father Alfredo asks.
Marco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black square jewelry box. I hold my breath in anticipation.
“These are just our wedding bands for today. I wasn’t sure what you’d want for an engagement ring, so we’ll pick one out together later,” he says softly.
“I don’t need one. I’m not that into jewelry,” I tell him honestly.
“We’ll find something subtle. Something that’s perfectly you.”
“Okay.” I nod.
This somehow touches me more than I would have expected. That Marco wants to defer to me, that the decision will be both of ours. We’re not even officially married yet, and we already have more of a partnership than I ever could have had with Pietro.
When Marco opens the box, what I see tucked into the velvet, side by side, are two matching gold his and her bands with milgrain edging. Not too thick, not too thin. Timeless. Classic. Elegant. I love them.
He sets the box on the lectern and rejoins our hands, and then Father Alfredo begins a blessing.
I know I’m supposed to keep my head down and close my eyes during the prayer, as Marco is doing, but I can’t stop peeking at my intended.
His brows are relaxed, his breathing slowed.
Peace has come over him. Any lingering worries I had about him changing his mind about this quickie wedding are banished with each passing second that he continues to hold my hands, his grip steady and sure.
The priest moves into the vows, keeping them simple, quick, and intimate.
I’ve never paid close attention to the wording of vows at weddings I’ve attended, but now I find myself moved by Father Alfredo’s words, nodding along in agreement as he speaks of faith and faithfulness, of the covenant of marriage, of respecting and supporting and caring for each other as equal partners.
I genuinely want all of these things, and I want them with Marco.
“For always,” I add.
“For always,” Marco echoes.
Before I know it, he’s sliding the gold band onto my finger, and then I’m placing the matching band on his.
And then we’re Mr. and Mrs. Bellanti.
And it’s time to seal our vows with a kiss.
There’s no heavy veil hiding my face from him. No layer upon layer of silk and tulle separating us. Marco steps into me easily, gently cups the back of my head, and draws me in for a warm, tender meeting of our lips. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud.
Father Alfredo is smiling warmly when we finally part. “You have truly been blessed this day.”
I blink back tears, but for once, they’re tears of joy.
Personally, I’ve never felt God smiling down on me like He must be today, to give me this man as my husband.
“Thank you, Father,” I say.
“You are welcome, Mrs. Bellanti.”
I look at my husband. The feelings welling in my chest are odd and unfamiliar. Overwhelming. I don’t know what to do, what to say, what to think. I’ve never been so happy.
“Breathe, Karina. Take a breath. You’re safe,” he murmurs.
I wipe at my tears and smile up at him.
Am I truly safe, though? Can I ever be free to live my life with my uncle still out there? My family knows I’m missing by now, obviously. I’m sure they’ve dispersed and set out looking for me, the wedding canceled at the last minute. Pietro is probably feeling even more murderous than my uncle is.
But Marco was right—you can’t marry someone if you’re already married. And in a Catholic ceremony, no less.
He truly has rescued me.