Chapter 30 Naomi
It’s a beautiful day for a wedding. Summer hasn’t yet hit its full stride in New York, so the heat is still enjoyable and puts a smile on your face rather than making you think you’ve gone below into the fires of Hades.
We had a leisurely lunch with Francesca and are now on the road to Westchester County where Don Giorgio’s grandson is getting married.
I missed the old man by a hair, it appears, the day he came to invite us. I would’ve wanted to meet the person who confirmed my husband’s position as a Don in the big family of the Northeastern coast Mafia.
It surprised me that Valentino wasn’t already one. Luciano explained it to me—any family’s head is a boss. Not all families are confirmed by the Old Guard.
The Andrettis are now members of this coveted, elite circle. Even their father never reached such heights.
I glance at Valentino in the driver’s seat of the Levante. His shoulders are relaxed, strong forearms dusted with dark, masculine hairs exposed to the sun as he’s rolled the sleeves of his pale blue shirt up. His hair is unruly, sunglasses covering his eyes, jaw surprisingly not tense.
The tension has been leaving us both in the past month, since the day my uncle let us know about my father’s fall from grace. It’s been hard to watch the extent of his downfall, but he brought this on himself. I can’t spare him any pity, not that I have any left for him.
I wake up now with a lazy sigh as my husband leaves our bed to start his day. How can he get up so early, before the sun’s even come up? I’ll protest gently, which will make him laugh, and he usually comes back for a kiss.
More often than not, this ends up with his cock inside me as he takes me hard and fast, making me come just as strongly despite us probably having made love or fucked like animals in heat the previous night.
“Naomi,” Val says, eyes still on the road, a warning in the word.
A smile’s touching his beautiful lips, though.
I sigh heavily, very much exaggerating the sound.
“Stop looking at me like this,” he warns playfully.
I lick my top lip. “Like what?”
He chuckles. “Like you want to devour me right this instant.”
I squirm on my seat. “Well, now that you mention it…”
“Stop it,” he chides. “Minx.”
I wonder if we’ll have time for a quickie at the hotel before leaving for the reception. He wasn’t a fan of quick sexy encounters; I’m slowly converting him.
“Trust me, after this past lunch with Francesca, I need a breather.”
I laugh when I think of his face going white as a sheet when Francesca mentioned she could be pregnant. Halfway through the meal, she sat up straight, then dashed to the ladies’ room, and came back a moment later telling us it was a false alert.
“Would it have been so wrong for her to have been pregnant?” I ask him.
“In itself, not really. But with David?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a penniless, talentless dreamer who thinks himself an artist and has no life skills whatsoever.” He shrugs. “Francesca’s got her head on her shoulders. Usually. Him? I wouldn’t even be able to offer him a job. He good at nothing.”
“Well, it was a false alert.”
“Hmm.” Valentino returns his attention on the road.
I settle back into my seat and think of lunch with Francesca, more specifically the moment Val got up to leave and she and I took our sweet time to reach him at the door. Francesca has this way of hooking her arm with mine and then strolling leisurely through a room like we’re a pair of debutantes at a ball filled with rich, eligible gentlemen like in an Austen novel.
“Regular like the moon,” she’d said. “I always get my period one or two days after a new moon. Never three days after.”
I’d gasped. “Your whole life?”
“Of course. Not you?”
I’d made a non-committal sound in reply, my mind casting back to my last period. Well, last time I saw a hint of blood in my panties. I’ve never had more than a day’s flow here and there when I was a teen. Then it dwindled down to snatches of blood on a very irregular schedule. The few times I went to a gynecologist in college, he couldn’t explain the light flow or even lack of PMS. According to tests, my hormones are normal. Borderline underworking, but still in the normal range.
I did see some red in the crotch a few weeks back. What some women call spotting, I call periods.
By the time we book into our hotel, it’s time to get ready to head to the wedding. Valentino booked this place especially for me. Of Georgian architecture, it boasts that guests get to live in true Austen fashion in its interior and gardens. Without the restrictive corsets, though. I love how he found this out and got us one of their best suites on the second floor.
A car comes to pick us up. Guests are to be waited on hand and foot for this event. Valentino also explained the issue of security and being vetted. Most of the prominent Mafia families of the East Coast, and some even from as far as Chicago and Detroit, will be attending. It will be one of the most well-protected gatherings of the year, akin to the President of the United States holding a summit at Camp David.
We’re taken to church first, greeting the mother of the groom at the entrance. Valentino and I are led to our seats in the pews. The church is a sea of dark colors for the men all in formal suits and a garden of pastel and lively hues for the women in dresses of all styles. No one in white, of course, but it surprised me that guests shouldn’t wear gold, except for their wedding rings, as that brings bad luck to the couple getting married.
The wedding is a succession of blessings, psalms, prayers, and more blessings amid the exchange of vows and rings. The newlyweds walk out under a shower of rice to bring them prosperity, and then we’re all heading to the grand manor on the same property for the reception. Golf carts are ferrying people; Valentino and I opt to walk under the shade of lovely trees.
We’re among the last guests to arrive. After congratulating the bride and groom, we stop in front of a wizened old man sitting in a chair just inside the foyer. People are crowding him; he waves them off to greet us, standing up.
“Don Giorgio,” Val says reverently, bowing slightly before him. “Allow me to present to you my wife, Naomi.”
Don Giorgio Vitale takes my hand and drops a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “Signora Andretti. Welcome.”
I can’t help it, I curtsey a little. Such is the commanding aura of the gentleman. “The honor is all mine, Don Vitale.”
“It’s Giorgio, figliola.” He pats my hand, sandwiches it between his as he turns to Valentino. “Your wife is a bella ragazza, indeed, Don Valentino.” He laughs as he returns his intense eyes to me. “Ah, if I were fifty years younger.”
I laugh, knowing it’s light banter. “He wouldn’t stand a chance.”
His laughter erupts, loud and boisterous. He releases me, now clasping my cheek with one hand, the other palm flat on my head. He mumbles something in soft Italian, and it sounds like a blessing. I saw him earlier in church doing the same thing to the bride when she stopped by his pew on the way out.
“Grazie,” I murmur when he releases me.
He smiles benignly at us. “Please forgive me, Signora Andretti. I will have to steal your husband tonight.”
Valentino is to be introduced in his new position to the other families. It’s one of the reasons we’re here.
“Nothing to forgive, Don Giorgio,” I tell him.
He waves at the reception room behind us. “Vai, vai. Go enjoy yourselves.”
I lean closer to Valentino as we make it inside. “What did he say to me?”
He cocks his head to whisper in my ear. “ From the motherland of seas, mountains, lakes, and rivers, may its waters and earth bless your soul, your womb, your hands. It’s an old blessing for brides on their wedding day or when they first visit the house of their husband’s relatives after the wedding.”
A soft warmth radiates from my chest when I ponder these words. Don Giorgio already seemed to have taken Valentino under his wing. In including me this way today, he embraced our union and welcomed me in, too.
Just like Val’s family has done. Luciano is becoming a close friend. Marco’s not blood, but he’s there for us, and we can count on him. Carlito and Ina, who I’d never have guessed are together—she won’t marry him, though, loving the label of living ‘in sin’—are like doting mother hen with me. Luka is a burst of sunshine, and Francesca probably already has me listed as BFF in her contacts. Franco calls me regularly, and lately, he’s started to ask for dating advice, like a guy would ask his big sister.
And Victor—he surprised us by stepping out of an Uber in front of the house one day. Valentino is a big man, but Victor is literally like a giant come to life. Stoic and unmoving like a small mountain, scary almost in his perpetual silence broken by occasional grunts and one-word answers. Yet, his deep blue Andretti eyes, they’re kind, gentle even. I can totally see him as a quiet yet doting father, those beautiful eyes watching his children learn about life as he keeps a close watch on them.
Val and Luciano both say Victor was paranoid about returning to the States before the family found its foothold again. That he came to visit us, and especially to welcome me into it, says legions.
All of them folding me into their unit, it coddled my bruised heart. And last week, I finally got the chance to meet my uncle in person. I was right—the minute our eyes locked in real life, he opened his arms to me, and I found a piece of myself in his hold.
And today, we were welcomed into a bigger fold. Can life really be turning the corner for us, finally?
Valentino and I are seated at a table with a few other couples—I find out the men are all Dons. We make it through dinner and the speeches, then it’s as if an unspoken cue goes around the table, and the men all stand up.
My husband leans over and drops a kiss on my temple before leaving with the others.
The formal introductions. They’re about to happen. Behind closed doors, in private, of course.
“He’s hot,” one of the women says, fanning herself with a napkin.
“The wedding night must’ve been intense,” another quips.
I can feel my cheeks burning. Bawdy laughter ripples across the table as the women all swap chairs to come huddle around me.
One of them throws her arms around me and hugs me tight to her ample chest. “You poor figlia. We’ve been following the news. After everything you went through…”
Valentino had warned me about these wives of Dons and bosses. Basically, they were Italian mammas—overbearing, loud, smothering, but it’s all meant with love. I have no trouble believing this as they fall on me like a flock protecting an injured duckling.
Thankfully, they’re happy to talk about me and my story among themselves. I’m only required to add in a clarification or a yes or no in some places, and they’re off again embroidering on my tale. I have to admit, it’s fun to watch, like being in the middle of a soap opera or a dramatic telenovela.
The women start to titter, then I feel a pair of warm, strong hands on my shoulders. I don’t need to look up to know my husband is back. He tells them something in Italian, tone sounding apologetic. More titters, followed by a chorus of “Vai, vai!” He thanks them then is pulling me to my feet.
“Dance with me?” he asks.
I smile and let him lead me to the dance floor. I can’t believe we all missed the bride and groom’s first dance.
“How battered are you right now?” he asks as we start swaying to the slow song playing.
“Battered, breaded, and fried to a crisp.”
He laughs.
“I enjoyed it, though,” I tell him, looking up into his brilliant blue eyes.
Valentino sighs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you all this.”
I frown. “All what?”
“A wedding like this.”
I glance around at the laden tables, the remnants of the five-course meal gone, the wine, the crush of people.
“It’s a bit…much.”
Please hear I didn’t miss any of the extravaganza of a wedding.
Please hear I only wanted and needed you, to be yours.
Val laughs softly. “You haven’t seen the half of it yet.”
I let my eyes go wide, glad his tone is light, that he’s not pursuing the dissection of our wedding still. Because I don’t know how to tell him how I really feel about it, about this whole situation. Mostly because I don’t know how he feels about it all. We’ve settled into a routine at home, like this was just the next step in the evolution of our couple.
We don’t have time to return to our seats before the music gets louder, the beat picking up. Champagne is now flowing freely around the room. Suit jackets and ties have been ditched, most of the men in rolled up sleeves, the women and girls in bare feet.
“It’s about to get fun,” Valentino says, ditching his jacket and tie, too. “Take your shoes off. Come on.”
I do as told. Val takes my hand. A young man I don’t know grabs my free hand, and suddenly, a big circle has formed around the room. Joined hands come together as we all move toward the center of the circle. There’s clapping, then hooking arms with the person next to you and swinging around with them and swapping places. More claps, more swinging. I manage to catch Valentino’s eyes from time to time. We’re all laughing, then at one point, we meet again, only to be swept away once more.
It's a traditional dance called La Tarantella, Val tells me when it’s over and we’re trying hard to catch our breaths. Everyone gets a breather as the cake is cut next, and surprise, it’s not a tiered sponge confection but a flat, traditional Millefoglie— layers and layers of crisp puff pastry filled with cream and fresh fruit.
Valentino assures me we don’t want to stay for the rest of the party once the newlyweds leave. Because that’s when the fun starts for the single people—and also those who want to mingle, too. Tinder has nothing on this, it seems.
We pay our respects to Don Giorgio then return to our hotel. Val confers with a man on the grounds—one of his capos, Pesci. A couple of his soldiers are with him to make sure we’re safe tonight.
A shiver travels through me when I think of Valentino’s new position as a Don. Not like he wasn’t in danger before, but there’s a new, bolder target on him now. We should’ve been heading back to Morris County right after the reception, or accepted to stay at the reception manor—everyone from out of town has a room booked for them with breakfast included.
But Val wanted me to experience this special hotel. I show him how grateful I am when we reach our room. I drop to my knees, wasting no time opening the button and zipper on his pants after undoing his belt to take his erect length into my mouth.
His hands tangle in my hair, guiding the rhythm of my sucking.
Too soon, he pulls out of me, making quick work of removing his clothes.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he says, ripping the pale yellow, boho-chic maxi dress I’m wearing.
Sadly, none of my more fitted dresses would zip up. Fuck those damn drugs my father plied me with. I still haven’t lost the bloat, and in fact, I seem to be getting fleshier every week.
Not that my husband seems to mind. His mouth is on one of my nipples, left hand palming a heavy breast, right hand toying between the folds of my pussy, teasing my clit, stroking me inside with one long finger.
He throws me on the bed, continues his ministrations as I sigh in pleasure and let him ravish me until he finally decides to bury his thick cock to the hilt inside me.
His hands flatten my arms onto the bed, as if in defiance of me having clasped my legs around his hips. His nostrils flare, jaw tenses. God, how beautiful he is when he’s taking me.
His mouth slams onto mine to quell the cry from my orgasm. I don’t resist, let him take from me as he pounds away, teeth biting my lower lip softly as he comes with a groan.
If we’d been at home, we would’ve fallen asleep like this. Since we’re in a hotel, I get up after a moment and slip into a nightdress. Imagine there’s a fire alert or something—I’d prefer not being stark naked in the event of an emergency.
Val pulls on a pair of boxers, then he opens his arms to me. I snuggle into them, and we fall asleep.
It seems we’ve barely closed our eyes when sounds of a commotion break the quiet of the night. It’s like muffled footsteps outside.
Lost clients? Drunk ones, maybe, confusing their door with ours.
Then the door is broken, shattering violently, and I sit up with a start. Valentino is already on his feet, reaching for the gun he stashed in the bedside table.
“Drop the weapon!” a man shouts.
We’re surrounded by five men wearing tactical gear and assault weapons, all pointed on us.
“Drop it!” he shouts again.
Val is no idiot. He carefully lowers the gun to the ground and kicks it away.
I scream when one of the men rushes onto me.
“Don’t touch her!” Val yells.
I scream again when he receives the butt of a gun to the side of his head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a man in plain clothes come in and go to the vanity table in the corner. He opens a box, tucks in a small, clear plastic bag half full of white powder. When he turns toward us, I notice a police badge dangling on a chain from his neck.
“You’re planting this,” I say.
Why am I not surprised crooked cops would try to get the drop on Valentino, the most newly-minted Don on the Northeastern coast?
“Shut up, you bitch!” The man holding me backslaps me across the face.
Val roars like an angry, caged bull
I yelp, tasting blood as pain throbs from my broken lip.
“Get them out of here,” the cop tells the men.
“Val!” I scream when they start to pull me away.
“Naomi!” he shouts back.
I struggle against the man tugging me down the hallway, my bare feet dragging on the carpet starting to burn. “Stop!”
“Shut up, I said!”
He clocks me with the butt of his gun this time, and the last thing I hear before darkness claims me is Valentino saying,
“You’ll pay for this…”