2. Enzo
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Enzo
I came to this wedding out of boredom and spite.
Rafael sent the invitation three weeks ago.
It arrived at my office in a thick cream envelope, my name written in calligraphy like we’re still a family that does things properly.
I almost threw it out without opening it.
Fourteen years since I walked out of that house, fourteen years of being the name nobody says at dinner, and suddenly my brother wants me at his wedding.
But then I thought about it. Walking into that chapel and watching my father’s face when he clocks me in the crowd.
All those society people whispering behind their hands, wondering what the black sheep of the Vitale family is doing here, whether I’m going to cause a scene.
Rafael up at that altar, trying to pretend everything’s fine while I sit in the back row and smile.
So here I am. Back row, left side, watching my little brother wait for his arranged bride.
The chapel is packed with the usual crowd: old money families showing off their jewelry, business associates pretending to care about the happy couple, society wives comparing dresses and cataloging who’s wearing what.
I recognize most of them. The Marchettis in the third row.
The Bellinis near the front. A handful of politicians and their carefully curated spouses.
My father is in the first pew, sitting ramrod straight, his silver hair perfectly combed. My mother is next to him, draped in something expensive and looking vaguely bored. They haven’t turned around. They probably don’t know I’m here yet.
Good.
The music starts, and everyone turns to watch the doors open.
Fernando Costa walks his daughter down the aisle, and something is wrong.
I can tell before the veil comes off. The shape is different.
Viviana Costa is tall and willowy, a woman who moves like she knows everyone is watching and enjoys it.
This woman is shorter. Softer. She walks like she’s trying to disappear into the floor, her shoulders slightly hunched, her steps hesitant.
I sit up straighter.
The ceremony happens. A priest drones on about holy matrimony and sacred unions, and the bride says her vows in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it from the back row. Rafael says his like he’s ordering coffee, pleasant and detached, going through the motions.
Then he reaches for the veil.
I keep my eyes on Rafael’s face, because his face is the best part. There. That’s the second it lands on him, the boredom dropping straight off, his hands going still on the veil. He has no idea what to do. Neither does the room, not yet. I knew before he did.
That’s not Viviana.
He pulls the veil back completely, and the room gasps. I don’t gasp. I’m too busy studying her: the flushed cheeks, the terrified eyes, the way she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will.
Adriana Costa. The younger daughter. The quiet one.
I’ve known her for years, back when our families’ circles still overlapped, after I got myself disowned and became the embarrassment everyone pretends doesn’t exist. I would be there as a huge middle finger to my father, to prove to him that I made it.
She was always in the background at those events, standing in corners while Viviana commanded the room, watching everyone else instead of participating.
I remember her at parties, nursing the same drink all night, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
I remember the first time I called her Ana.
I’d heard one of her people use it, the soft private version of her name that only her closest few are allowed, and I took it for myself on the spot because I liked how much it didn’t belong to me.
Her parents corrected me. More than once, cold and quick every time.
So I kept doing it, just to watch that flash of irritation in her eyes.
It was more interesting than her usual blank politeness.
Rafael kisses her. A peck, nothing more. Then the music starts and they walk back down the aisle together.
She’s trying to smile. It’s not convincing.
I watch her the whole way, working it out as I go.
So Viviana ran. Interesting. And I can’t believe they put Adriana up there instead of just calling it off, except I can believe it, because these people would rather swap one daughter for the other than stand up in front of hundreds of guests and tell the truth.
I’d love to know what my bastard of a father makes of that.
And Rafael just went along with it, because of course he did; Rafael goes along with whatever costs him the least.
And Adriana, quiet overlooked Adriana, is now married to my idiot brother.
This is better than anything I could have hoped for.
***
The reception is at the Costa estate, but I don’t go straight there.
I linger outside the chapel, smoking a cigarette I don’t really want, watching the guests file out and head to their cars. Everyone is talking about it. I catch fragments of conversation as they pass. Can you believe it, where’s Viviana, did you see Fernando’s face, poor Rafael.
Nobody says poor Adriana. Nobody seems to be thinking about her at all.
I finish my cigarette and crush it under my heel. Then I drive to the estate, park in the back lot where my car won’t be immediately visible, and slip in through a side entrance I remember from years ago.
The reception is in the ballroom, but I don’t bother with it. Nobody says anything worth hearing in a ballroom. The good stuff happens behind a closed door somewhere, where the families can scream at each other without an audience, and that’s the room I want.
So I follow them into it.
They’ve taken over a sitting room off the main hall, all of them, the whole miserable cast. My father.
Fernando. Rafael, loosening his tie. Cecilia, already bored.
Monica hovering near the wall. And Adriana, still in the dress, standing in the middle of it like she’s not sure she’s allowed to sit down.
Nobody notices me come in. Or they notice and decide I’m not worth the interruption, which suits me fine.
I take a spot by the door and lean against the frame.
“What is the meaning of this, Fernando?” My father’s voice, loud enough to echo. “Where is Viviana?”
“Keep your voice down, Dante.”
“Keep my voice down? My son just married the wrong woman! This is not what we agreed to!”
I stay where I am, arms crossed, watching.
“Viviana left.” Fernando sounds tired. Angry, but tired. “Sometime last night. We don’t know where she went.”
“And your solution was to shove your other daughter into her dress?”
“What would you have had me do? Cancel the wedding? Humiliate both our families in front of everyone?”
“Instead you humiliated us by pulling a bait and switch!”
“The contract specified a Costa daughter. Adriana is a Costa daughter. The terms have been met.”
There’s a pause. My father’s face does the thing it does, that cold calculating expression he gets when he’s deciding whether to destroy someone.
“This is not the same,” he says finally. “Viviana was an asset. She has connections, charm, the ability to work a room. What does Adriana have? Nothing. She’s nobody.”
I stop smiling.
“She’s my daughter.” Fernando’s voice is flat. “And she’s now your son’s wife. I suggest you make the best of it.”
“The best of it? My son ended up marrying your mousy little daughter, and you want me to make the best of it?”
Mousy. That’s what my father sees when he looks at her. A mousy little nobody, useful only as a placeholder for the daughter who actually mattered.
He’s a fool.
“What’s the big deal anyway?” That’s Rafael, and I have to give him credit, he sounds genuinely unbothered. “You wanted me to marry a Costa daughter, Adriana is one. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I didn’t sign up for her to be my daughter-in-law! Viviana was supposed to bring value to this family. What does this one bring?”
“She seems fine to me.” Rafael shrugs, actually shrugs. “It’s not like I was in love with Viviana or anything. One sister, the other sister, what’s the difference?”
What’s the difference. He says it three feet from her, like she’s a piece of furniture that can’t hear.
And she does hear it. I watch it land on her, watch her go very still and very small, watch her decide not to react because reacting would make it worse.
Her own husband, her own father, my father, all of them carving her up out loud, and she just stands there and takes it.
Nobody says a word for her. Monica looks at the floor. Rafael checks his watch.
I came here to enjoy this. I’m not enjoying this.
“This discussion isn’t over,” my father says. “But we can’t have it here. Fernando, we’ll speak tomorrow. Rafael, try not to make things worse.”
Fernando rubs his face. “Adriana, go change or something. It’s better if you’re not here.”
She doesn’t argue. She just goes, slipping out the door with her shoulders up around her ears, and the rest of them keep talking like she was never in the room at all.
I give it a moment. Then I follow her.
She’s leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for an hour.
The wedding dress is too tight on her. I noticed that in the chapel, the way the bodice was straining.
She looks exhausted. Wrung out. Like she’s used up every ounce of energy she had just getting through the ceremony.
She opens her eyes and sees me.
She freezes.
“Enzo.”
“Hello, Adriana.”
For a moment we just look at each other.
I haven’t seen her up close in years. She’s changed.
Older now, obviously, her face a little thinner, her eyes a little wearier.
But she’s still got that quality I noticed when we were younger, that sense that she’s watching everything and cataloging it and drawing her own conclusions.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” she says finally. “I thought…”