Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Izzy
When the bride and groom enter for their first dance, Lance throws his arm over the back of my chair. His invasion of my space doesn’t feel like a violation, more like a willful surrender. I shift and his hand doesn’t move, hovering in this forbidden zone. The newlywed couple laugh and kiss each other, sharing secrets not meant for us. Lance’s thumb brushes against my shoulder. My skin feels like it’s on fire, pulsing and dancing. I should shift my weight, at least move one of us out of this danger zone. Instead, I stay, allowing his thumb to make small circles while wishing it was some place much lower on my body.
Following their dance, the newlyweds are escorted to their table, and we’re all served a three-course meal while they snuggle in together and ignore the world. The appetizer of shrimp and caviar, kinda gross but pricey, upholds their standard and appearances in society. A strawberry goat cheese salad, which is the win of the night, had to be a concession to make some relative happy, but I am not complaining. And the filet mignon, lobster tails, and polenta seem to bring the requisite oohs and aahs to remind everyone exactly which family made the most decisions.
Lance’s knee presses against mine under the table, and, as he’s talking more with Dimitri, his arm goes back and forth between his plate and the back of my chair. Hours in and he still smells amazing. But I can’t focus on that. No. I need to think about something else. Anything else. Math. Math isn’t sexy. Hmm, there’s about two hundred people here, and between the open bar, two hundred dollars per guest for food, plus the flower centerpieces, the band…this wedding is getting expensive.
I replay my dad’s message.
That’s one hell of a gift he’s giving them.
But something about it doesn’t sit well with me.
I snap a picture of the dress and text it to Waverly.
Waverly texts back a car emoji, an equal sign, and a dress emoji. She sends a screenshot of what a similar dress costs, and I almost fall out of my seat. This wedding is at least a six-figure event. Damn, the cake is gonna be good.
Will it be chocolate with buttercream frosting? Maybe a classic vanilla cake with a strawberry compote. It could be a red velvet cake. I’m not too crazy about those, but there’s no such thing as a bad cake. Even a dry crappy cake is still better than eating no cake at all.
The bridal party walks onto the dance floor to do some choreographed dance number for the bride and groom. It’s oddly sexually suggestive to be doing in front of grandparents, but hey, if they’re willing to invite the manager of their sex club to their wedding, I guess this is pretty tame.
The wait staff starts to wheel out another table.
Dessert!
But something sticks out as odd. Too many little plates and not enough giant…oh no.
It’s not a cake.
And it’s not pie.
Maybe it’s crème brulée?
Or éclairs? Some sort of personalized handheld dessert? I can’t see from here.
I sigh. None of these are legitimate substitutes for cake. Time to go investigate. “Let’s go pay our respects to the couple.”
As soon as I stand, my shoes pinch my toes, and I play the speech in my head as a distraction. Fuck, this dessert better be worth it.
I stumble a little, and Lance grabs my elbow. Even though I’m stable now, he keeps his hand on my arm. Damn, I like the way his skin feels on mine.
The dance floor has a smattering of people as the DJ switches from last summer’s hit to a slower, sweeter song. We’re about half away across the floor when Lance whispers, “Wanna dance?”
“Sure.” His hands wrap around my waist, and my arms hang limp at my sides. What the hell do I do now? Recalling every teenage movie with a prom in it, I throw my arms on his shoulders, kinda slapping them there, like my hands did a belly flop. “Um, I’ve never danced before.”
“Jesus, Izzy, did you do anything?”
I pillage my brain for something. I must have had some sort of normal teenage experience. “I went to Disney World. There’s photo evidence.”
Lance’s lips linger in a straight line before curling up into a tummy-twirling smile. “Doesn’t count, you were an adult. No middle school dances? Homecoming? Proms? Nothing?”
I shake my head. “I even missed most of the quincea?eras . ”
“Unacceptable. When we leave, I’ll give you some sort of normal experience.”
“Are you going to knock my books out of my hands and slam me into a locker?”
His face changes. It’s subtle, darker, as he whispers, “I’ll slam you into something if that’s what you want.”
His insinuation mixed with his warm breath makes all the hairs on my neck dance. The blood in my body rushes and blooms on my cheeks and chest, while other parts pool with excitement. “What?”
But the darker, sexier Lance vanishes, and he says, “What?” He’s all light and filled with laughter.
I can’t figure him out. The signals are so mixed, a messy ball of tangled earbud cords trapped at the bottom of my purse would be easier to manage.
Lance guides me away from the dessert bar we’ve managed to sway toward, and, as we move further from my preferred destination, I become acutely aware of my shoes trying to sever my toes. Foot pain is never gradual. I mean, it is sort of. At first, the pain makes its presence known. Like reminding you “Oh by the way, you have a toe.” Stage two is painful but manageable. But out of nowhere the final evolution hits, and I’m all “I will murder a bus full of nuns if I don’t get these shoes off.”
As we approach the bride and groom, they glance at each other. Their eyebrows crease as they once again silently check with each other, still trying to figure out which one invited us. I can see their confusion, but they plaster on super fake smiles and greet us, anyway.
Show time. Here we go. “The Four Families wish you a long and happy future,” I say in my over-rehearsed tone. I pull an envelope from my purse. It’s heavy cardstock with a pretty pink inlay. We have about fifty of them stored in Nonna’s house. “They send their blessing and ask that you please accept this gift on behalf of the Families.”
The bride takes the envelope and glances over at her father, who jumps to his feet and almost takes a header as he rushes toward us. He shakes my hand so hard I’m afraid he’s gonna take a finger off. “We are honored you would attend my daughter’s wedding.”
My toenail feels like it has sliced through the skin of my big toe, and there is a possibility my shoe is filling up with blood. “Of course.”
The message isn’t actually for the bride and groom anyway, so I turn to the father of the bride and lean in closer, whispering for his ears only, “In honor of your years of loyalty, my father is wiping your debt clean.”
It’s seventy grand.
But this wedding was at least six figures. If he had the money for the wedding, he could pay off my dad. This doesn’t sit right with me, but I do my duty.
Lance leans in and shakes the father’s hand. “And when will cake be served?”
The bride’s lips tense into a line. “Oh, there’s no cake.”
WHAT?
No, I didn’t hear that right.
“Huh?” It’s more of a sound than a functional word.
“It’s a granola, yogurt, and fruit bar. You can make your own parfait.”
I whip my head around, and yes, the little plates aren’t éclairs or cookies, like I had given her the benefit of the doubt. It’s a bunch of bowls with nuts and fruit. What the fuck?!?! The pain in my feet spreads to my lower back, which only adds to my rage. “No cake?” Are you fucking kidding me? Did my father know about this when he sent me on this mission?
The bride flutters her eyes like she’s innocent of this crime. “Well, there are vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free, dye-free, chemical-free, and seeded-fruit-free cookies.”
Dirt cookies and yogurt. She’s gone and made it worse. The groom takes a long drink of water and gives me one of those, “I wasn’t the one who came up with this shitty idea” looks.
The bride continues, “I think everyone should eat healthily and cut out all those nasty chemicals.”
Yep…I do not like this woman. Who the fuck is she to push her values on me? My family has killed for less. This is an insult of the highest order that demands retribution.
My rage cannot be contained. This is an injustice. A travesty, even. I snap, “This is an affront to weddings everywhere.” I glare at the father of the bride. “Her dress cost forty grand, and you couldn’t get a damn sheet cake from Costco?”
I don’t know if this is a test my dad set up, and right now I don’t care. My feet hurt, I’m sexually frustrated, and all I want is cake. I’m the daughter of the most powerful man in the Italian mob. My request doesn’t seem unfeasible at a fucking wedding.
The groom fishes through his pockets. “I have these mints if you want.”
I shoot him the “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” look. The guests are watching us. I feel the eyes of the sweaty stranger on me. Underbosses know there’s something wrong. Lance lets out a low growl, and men reach in their inner coat pockets.
I release the groom from my stare and turn to face the room. “There’s no cake!” I call out to the crowd. I half expect people to think I’m insane. Like this outrage is completely uncalled for.
At a table of men in suits, a few I recognize from family gatherings, Facci stands. “Are there cupcakes?” His question is more confused than angry, with an acceptable amount of whining.
“NO!” I yell back.
Murmurs of “what the fuck” cascade through the reception hall.
The father of the bride bounces on his toes and grabs the groom’s arm. “Go to the grocery store and get some cake. NOW!” The groom nods and sprints off. The father glares at his daughter. “I knew it was a bad idea, but you wanted a wedding that would look good on Instagram.”
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? NINETY-FIVE PERCENT of INSTAGRAM IS CAKE!” I whip around to the father of the bride. “I am revoking my father’s gift. You have one year to pay back my family, or we’ll take the money back our own way.” I slam my hand on the table—the glasses wobble but don’t fall, and I’m a little bummed the red wine doesn’t spill—and glare at the vapid bride who has no sense of tradition. “ I wish a lifetime of UTIs and yeast infections on you. May your lady bits constantly burn every time you sit.”
She gasps as my attack pieces through her vegan, chemical-free brain. I vaguely hear a snort behind me as I stare at the bride.
“And…we’re done here,” Lance mutters and drags me away by the elbow. There are outcries from family members as we swing back to the table, grab our stuff, and make a hasty retreat. Or at least, he does. My crushed toes are making it hard to walk. Lance is fighting a smile and losing. One arm has his jacket and my purse, the other locks around my elbow as he ushers us outside. “Let’s go get you some real dessert.”
“Un-fucking-believable. No cake.” I throw up my arms as Lance escorts me out the door. He’s gonna leave her. No one can put up with that level of crazy. “I shaved my legs for this! My toes are squished, and my back hurts. I’ve been uncomfortable all night, but I thought I would at least get cake. But no. Maybe I should lock the doors and burn the whole place down. I don’t think a single jury of my peers would convict me.”
I feel his body shake beside me, like he’s trying to hold back his laughter but is losing the battle too.
“I mean, who the fuck doesn’t have cake at a wedding? Pie is forgivable. Cupcakes are passable. Hell, I’d even take a cookie cake because that’s still cake. But yogurt and joyless cookies? Nope. Absolutely not.”
As we walk through the lobby, Lance pauses and leads me to a plush red velvet chair. “Wait here,” he says. His eyes dart around, doing another threat assessment. Maybe he’s making sure there are no weapons so I don’t kill the bride and the rest of the family for letting her get away with that shit.
While I wait, I send a quick text off to Dad.
Me: Message delivered—might’ve put a little extra flair on it
Almost instantly, I get a response.
Dad: What did you do?
Me: There was no cake.
Dad: What? I don’t understand.
Me: There was a yogurt parfait bar…and dirt cookies.
Dad: Are you at the right wedding?
Figures. He assumes I’m the one who made the mistake. I send him a picture of the wedding invitation and the sign outside the reception hall.
Dad: I see. Do I need to send a cleaner?
Me: No, I didn’t hurt anyone…I wished the bride a lifetime of discomfort when she pees. And you’re getting your money back.
Dad:…What?
Me: Over a hundred grand on a party, he can afford to pay his debts.
Dad: You showed remarkable restraint. Proud of you.
Aw…my cheeks burn a little from the inner glow. He’s proud of me. I never thought I would hear those words for not turning a groom into a widower.