Chapter 4 Carlo
Carlo
Two years later
Hot, dry and brutally sunny, Las Vegas is unforgiving to those with hangovers today. “My eyelids feel like they’re made of sandpaper,” I mutter outside the cathedral.
“We could skip the ceremony and return to the hotel, no?”
I shake my head at my younger brother, Luca. “You were the one who insisted we go out last night.”
“I wasn’t the one who took two girls back to my suite this morning.”
I shrug. “What was I supposed to do, leave one of them feeling undesired after you passed out?”
Luca frowns at the reminder. “My last drink was spiked with some shit.”
“I think you just can’t hold your liquor; the same way you can’t hold your temper.” He loses his temper too often for my taste. It only causes problems. “Fix your necktie. Father will be pissed if you walk into this wedding resembling something the cat dragged in. The De Lucas and Morellis-”
“‘-will always look to New York as their example.’ I swear you sound more like him every day, Carlo. It’s annoying as fuck.”
Perhaps I do. Though we’ve managed to keep it quiet, it became apparent after my father’s massive coronary last year that I would be succeeding him as Capo de Capi, the Don of New York years sooner than expected.
As the oldest, my entire life has been a dress rehearsal for that day.
And while many may covet my power, every setback will be laid at my feet as well to be dissected by the whole of the Trio until the day I die, something my younger brothers have never quite appreciated the weight of.
As we walk inside the church together to witness the union between Alessio De Luca and Caterina Morelli, my brother is caught off guard when asked if we’re for the bride’s side or the groom’s. “Neither.”
“Both,” I correct.
Peace within the Trio is best upheld in such ways.
We soothe over old resentments, settle conflicts and form strong new alliances through arranged weddings as much as business deals.
That’s how it’s always been, and no one ever marries outsiders.
Even connections with other organizations are ill-advised considering how disastrous Beatrice De Luca’s union with the rat Donnelly proved to be.
My phone begins to buzz as we take our seats. “The devil’s work is never done,” Luca jokes.
“It’s Giulia,” I tell him, flashing the screen to show our youngest sister’s smiling face. “Be useful and hold my phone.” He does, reminding me I’ll need to do the same for him. The tele-typewriting app is easier, but she loves video-calling when she can.
“Ciao, bella,” I answer, signing the greeting and asking about her day. She replies immediately with questions about the bride and her dress, her hands moving so quickly I can barely keep up. “I’ve not seen her yet,” I sign back.
A brief explanation of the time zone difference has ensued when my father appears by my side. “Carlo, now is not the time,” he whispers, angrily. “Where. Is. Your. Nurse?” he enunciates slowly for Giulia through the screen.
Her puzzled expression is short-lived. She reads lips well. Particularly Father’s as he’s never bothered to learn sign language. No sooner than she’s pointed toward someone off-screen, he ends the call without so much as a farewell.
“The ceremony is about to begin,” he says, sensing my rage. I nod curtly, pocketing my phone and trying not to grind my teeth while Luca seethes beside me.
Giulia was born deaf. My parents had hopes that she might be a candidate for a cochlear implant a few years ago but no amount of money or threatening could change the fact her inner ear didn’t develop properly, rendering that option impossible for now.
Since then, they prefer to keep her out of sight, as if a little girl who cannot hear is some shameful secret to be hidden away.
Even my other two sisters have begun to avoid spending time with Giulia for fear of displeasing Father.
A lonely child with only hired staff for company, it’s no sort of life for her.
I know how the more traditional men in the mafia, my father included, view any sort of disability, but it makes me absolutely furious.
Mother joins us as music begins to play, and I spot my fiancée at the back, ready to walk down the aisle in her powder blue bridesmaid’s gown. Noticing me, Sofia gives me a radiant smile which I return.
When the marriage pacts were being made, I recall Father saying I was to choose one of Silvio De Luca’s girls. For one bemused moment, I nearly said his niece’s name before remembering myself. Such an odd thought to race through my mind, especially after Beppe died behind bars.
I’ve not seen her in years now - Francesca, who prefers Frankie, with her red hair, bare feet and pert mouth, staring wide-eyed out her kitchen window or sitting at a piano and hiding a black eye.
I suppose she’ll be here today. Not that it matters.
But why is it, when I recall her and that black eye, I feel so much anger?
An irascible temper is my brother’s weakness, not mine.
“Your fiancée grows more beautiful every time I see her. Dante Morelli can’t stop staring at her,” Luca says, the fucking shit stirrer.
“Dante Morelli can look and nothing more,” I reply, unbothered.
Sofia’s age meant I could delay marriage a while longer.
That suited me; thus, I chose her over her older sister.
We should have a peaceful union. It's certainly no love match, no matter what her mother has reportedly tried to convince her of. Sofia is poised and polite. She knows what’s expected of a Capo’s wife, and she’ll enjoy spending my money.
She is na?ve, as I would expect with her age and sheltered upbringing, and she is keenly aware of her own beauty, but she’ll mature into a bitter, gossiping schemer like my mother in time, no doubt.
I turn to look behind me where the flower girl and ring bearer impatiently wait for their music cue. Is she not here? “Are you looking for the redhead?” Luca asks, surprising me. Have I mentioned her lately? I don’t think so.
“What redhead?” my mother chimes in, suspiciously.
“The Donnelly girl, their cousin,” I answer her, feigning disinterest. “And, no, I wouldn’t be looking for her. I was just surprised to see Senator Bailey dared to make an appearance.”
“Donnelly,” my father repeats with cold fury, ignoring a politician for once.
To this day, his hatred runs deep. As does mine.
Beppe’s death is on that man’s hands along with the imprisonment of several loyal men.
If I ever find him, I’ll take immense pleasure in tearing him apart with my bare hands over several days.
A door to the side of the sanctuary opens the next moment and Francesca Donnelly walks out, dressed in a dark blue dress that compliments her fair skin.
Her curly red hair is swept up in an artfully messy bun with tendrils hanging loose around her ears.
There’s a glint of silver hiding among those gorgeous red tresses.
The corner of my mouth tips upward, simply from seeing her again, but an angry buzz ripples through the assembly as she’s recognized by some and pointed out to others.
She looks nervous.
But she looks good.
Too fucking good.
Three years since I last saw her. She’s eighteen now. Time has banished the childishness from her features. A grown woman, taller than I remember and far more statuesque. Beautiful. Bold. Red. Why is she standing up there?
Alessio’s Best Man walks toward her, handing her a microphone.
Ah, I recall she was singing to Beppe that day.
I barely heard her before my interruption ended the performance.
Alessio is ballsy, allowing her to perform at his wedding while knowing many will be offended by her very presence, but I admire him for it.
The Best Man… Armando is his name, I believe, whispers something in her ear.
She smiles at the soldier, a sight that strangely makes my fingers itch to crush his throat.
The hum of gossip stirs louder from the conclave, and her nervousness is evident again. I’ve sometimes wondered how shame and sorrow over her father’s actions may have affected her. I have my answer a moment later when she resolutely lifts her chin, full of spirit just as I recall.
Rays of sunlight stream through the stained glass setting her auburn hair ablaze, and she begins to sing.
There are devils walking this land. I should know.
I’m one of them. Yet, it never occurred to me there might be angels, too.
Francesca’s voice would make even the deepest cynic a believer in such things.
I have never been moved by music this way.
I have never felt a shred of resentment toward my expectations or responsibilities until now.
I have never wanted anything the way I want this divine creature, the seductive siren singing in front of the altar.
I have never been so… fucked.