Chapter 32 Santino
I kiss my wife, Liana Marcello.
The woman who's now legally and completely mine in every way that matters—and the thought fills me with a joy so overwhelming and complete that I can barely process the magnitude of what just happened.
Weeks ago, I thought I was getting a business arrangement and a convenient wife. Today, I married the love of my life, and the difference between those two realities is so vast that I can barely comprehend how I got from there to here.
When we finally break apart, Liana is laughing with her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed pink and her lipstick smeared, but I don't care because she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"We did it," she whispers against my lips.
"We did," I confirm, stealing one more quick kiss because she's my wife and I'm allowed to kiss her whenever I want for the rest of our lives.
Father Parisi clears his throat, gesturing for us to turn and face the congregation that's still applauding and cheering our union with an enthusiasm that speaks to how much everyone here has invested in our happiness.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces with the authority of someone who's married hundreds of couples but still manages to sound genuinely excited about each one, "I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Santino Marcello!"
The applause somehow gets even louder, filling the sanctuary with a wall of sound that's almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Liana takes my arm with a smile, and we walk back down the aisle together as husband and wife, past our families and friends.
As we pass the rows of familiar faces, I catch glimpses of reactions that make this moment even more perfect—Mama crying openly and not even trying to hide it anymore, dabbing at her eyes with the lace handkerchief she's been clutching since the ceremony started.
Dominic looking proud in a way I've never seen before, like he's watching his daughter step into the future he always wanted for her but didn't know how to give her.
Elena beside him with her own tears flowing freely, one hand pressed to her heart like she's overwhelmed by the beauty of this moment.
Bruno and the rest of my crew are grinning like idiots, probably already planning some ridiculous toast for the reception that will embarrass me in front of everyone while also being weirdly touching because that's how they show affection.
And there, in the front row in a place of honor that befits the matriarch of our family, sits Nonna—ninety-two years old and tiny enough that the church pew seems to swallow her small frame, but with eyes so sharp and alert that I know she's missing absolutely nothing of this ceremony.
When she catches my eye as we pass, she nods once with a small smile that carries more weight than a thousand words, her blessing given freely and completely. That single gesture from Nonna means everything, because she doesn't give her approval easily and never without meaning it.
We make it outside into the golden afternoon sunlight, the kind of perfect weather that makes you believe the universe is celebrating with you.
"I can't believe we're actually married," Liana says, turning to face me with wonder written all over her face, like she's still half expecting to wake up and find this was all an elaborate dream.
"Believe it, Mrs. Marcello," I tell her, pulling her close and kissing her again. "You're stuck with me now. For better or worse, in sickness and health, until death do us part and probably beyond that too."
"Good," she says with that wicked smile I've come to love more than breathing. "Because you're stuck with me too, and I plan to drive you absolutely insane for the next fifty or sixty years."
"I'm counting on it," I murmur against her lips. "Wouldn't want it any other way."
The photographer appears with his overly cheerful demeanor, asking us to pose for what turns out to be hundreds of pictures—us alone on the church steps, with our families grouped around us in various configurations.
I don't care. I'd stand here all night if it means I get to hold Liana and call her my wife and see that happy glow on her face that makes her more beautiful than any professional lighting could achieve.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we're released from photo duty and directed to the reception venue that's only a short drive from the church.
The ballroom is breathtaking—the kind of perfection only Mama and Elena could pull off. White roses and peonies fill every corner, their scent subtle but impossible to ignore. Twinkling lights stretch across the ceiling like a sky full of stars, and the tables gleam with crystal and fine china.
And at the head table, positioned where she can see everyone, sits Nonna in her place of honor.
I bring Liana over to her immediately, because paying respects to Nonna before doing anything else is both expected and the right thing to do, a tradition that matters in ways that go beyond mere protocol.
"Nonna," I say, leaning down to kiss both her papery-soft cheeks, breathing in the familiar scent of the lavender powder she's used since before I was born. "Thank you for being here. It means everything to me—to us—that you're part of this day."
"Where else would I be?" she asks, her voice still strong despite her age, full of the sharp wit that's defined her entire life. "Missing my favorite grandson's wedding? Never. Though I notice you made me sit through that endless ceremony when my back is aching."
I smile, because complaining is how Nonna shows affection. "I'll make it up to you by making sure you get the best food and as much wine as you want."
"See that you do." She looks at Liana with an assessing gaze that's probably intimidating if you don't know her. "You made my grandson work for it instead of just handing yourself over like a prize he won."
Liana doesn't flinch under Nonna's scrutiny, meeting her eyes directly with a confidence I admire. "Yes, Nonna. I made him work very hard for it. He's probably still recovering."
"Good," Nonna says with satisfaction, taking Liana's hand in both of hers and patting it with surprising gentleness.
"The Marcello men need to work for what they get.
Keeps them humble and reminds them that women are not property to be acquired but partners to be earned.
My own husband had to court me for two years before I agreed to marry him, and he spent the rest of his life grateful that I finally said yes.
" She looks at me with knowing eyes. "You're a lucky boy, Santino.
Luckier than you probably even realize yet. "
"I know, Nonna," I say honestly, glancing at Liana and feeling that surge of gratitude and wonder that's been constant since she showed up at my poker game. "I know exactly how lucky I am."
"Don't mess it up," Nonna warns, her voice taking on that edge of steel that reminds everyone why she's been the true power behind the Marcello family for decades.
"Don't take her for granted or forget what you had to do to win her or think that marriage means the work is over.
The work is just beginning. Every day, you choose her again.
Every day, you earn the right to be her husband. Understand?"
"Yes, Nonna," I promise, meaning every word. "I won't mess it up."
She studies my face for a long moment, then nods with satisfaction.
"See that you don't." She pulls Liana down closer, kissing both her cheeks with the kind of warmth she reserves for people she's decided to love.
"Welcome to the family. And thank you for the offer to move in with you, but I’m happy living alone.
Now go dance with your husband and let an old woman watch you and remember what it felt like when she was your age. "
I lead Liana to the dance floor, which is currently empty and waiting for us to begin the celebration properly with our first dance as husband and wife. The band starts playing something slow and romantic, a classic Italian love song.
I pull my wife—my wife, I'm never going to get tired of thinking that—into my arms, one hand on her waist and the other holding her hand, our bodies finding the rhythm together as naturally as breathing.
"Your Nonna is wonderful," Liana says as we sway together, moving in perfect synchronization like we've been dancing together for years. "Fierce and loving and completely terrifying in the best possible way."
"She likes you," I tell her, watching the way the candlelight plays across her face and makes her eyes sparkle. "That's high praise that she doesn't give lightly or often. She doesn't like anyone who doesn't earn it, and she's made grown men cry with her disapproval."
"I'm honored to have earned her approval," Liana says, resting her head on my shoulder in a gesture of contentment that makes my heart squeeze. "And maybe a little terrified of losing it."
We sway together in comfortable silence for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of being this close, of being able to hold each other without pretense or fear.
"How are you feeling about all this?" I ask quietly, my lips close to her ear. "About being married and starting this new chapter of our lives?"
"Happy," she murmurs, her breath warm against my neck. "Incredibly, impossibly, ridiculously happy in a way I didn't think was possible for someone like me. Happy in a way that makes me understand why people write songs and poems about love."
"Me too," I admit, tightening my hold on her slightly. "So happy it's almost frightening."
"And terrified," she adds, pulling back slightly to look at me with those dark eyes that see through every defense I've ever built.
"Terrified?" I repeat, studying her face for signs of doubt that might make her regret this decision.