Milan
Sicily was volatile. Her behavior required her to be involuntarily evacuated from certain situations, especially those involving my brothers.
I had not spoken to the Feras since I was twenty and Brenno was fifteen. He had just killed his father to become the Capo of the Philadelphia mob, and I had been required to take precautions to ensure he did not ruin New York in his emotional outbursts.
Hatred was an emotion I could not feel, but my past actions invited the question of whether or not I was capable of despising myself, because it certainly appeared that way.
One day had ruined everything.
I had ruined everything.
I was defective.
The Feras meeting Sicily had not been a part of the wedding agenda; I had planned to invite them to avoid conflict, then avoid them all day and keep my new wife away from them, but Sicily did not appear to believe in quiet conflict or staying out of business that was not hers.
She had said the word ‘fuck’ twice in the same sentence as the word ‘asshole.’
She had defended me when I did not require defending.
I could not breathe as I pulled her onto the church’s outer balcony, not even when the air became cold and free.
The space was a small, unkept brick landing with rusting black iron fencing and green algae-like structures spewing from between the bricks. Somehow, I still found space to pace around it, aware of Sicily staring.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
“Milan.” Her voice was stern, like Adriano’s was when he was worried. “Stop doing that with your hands.”
I looked down. My hands were wringing again, scratching at my knuckles. I halted in place and said, “You do not behave when you are required to.”
“Behave?” Sicily made a sound that resembled a cough, but she appeared to be stunned. “I don’t know what era you think this is, but I do not need you to set rules for how I act.”
“The rules are not mine; they belong to society.”
“Fuck society!”
“Stop saying that word!”
Sicily stepped beside me to lean over the metal balcony with her head hung low.
A few strands of her hair had come loose from the tight fixture throughout the day and were coiling around her head in the wind.
I felt the strong urge to keep looking at her, so I did, and when I looked closer, I noted that her skin had prickled.
She was shivering. It was late, and the wind had picked up, so it was unsurprising that she was cold.
I untucked my arms from my jacket, draping the long material over her shoulders instead.
Her face scowled like Adriano did when he had accused me of eating the last of his ice cream.
I had done that. He had exhibited signs of anger, so I had bought him some more.
I did not know how to rectify this situation because I had thought giving her my jacket to prevent further chills was the solution.
Humans were so complex. It made my chest hurt.
“How can you be such an ass and, like, every girl’s dream at the same time?”
I did not understand her question. “I have not committed acts to be deemed those titles.”
“Forcing me to marry you is pretty ass title-worthy.”
I leaned my forearms against the banister beside her. “I required a wife. It is not uncommon in the Famiglia to require a wife. In fact, it is the social norm.”
The wind carried her scent toward me. It was sweet and also rich, but no longer unpleasant. When she was quiet and limiting her crude vocabulary, Sicily appeared more symmetrical than she had at the altar. I found it easier to hold her eye contact like this.
“I didn’t want to marry you.” Her swallow was rough, painful even. “What kind of a marriage will we have?”
“You will have your own wing in my estate. If your presence is not required at social events, you are free to partake in hobbies. I will also allow you to seek sexual gratification elsewhere, but you must be discreet.”
Sicily stepped backward once, and then twice. “Is that a joke?”
I frowned. “No.”
“Why do you look so confused?”
Typically, I would be disturbed by this emotional outburst, but I noted that this one did not make me want to exit.
“Why do you speak like that, with no emotion at all?” Her scoff was illogical; she could not disagree because I had merely told the truth. “God, I bet you were a fucking nightmare to grow up with. Is that why your brothers hate you?”
“That is a wise assumption to make.” I nodded. “My father did label me a nightmare too, so I can conclude that your bet is accurate; however, my brothers do not reject my presence because of my upbringing—that is false.”
Her lips remained parted as she looked over every part of my face. “What?”
I narrowed my eyes. It was uncomfortable. “Do you require—”
“Yes, repetition. Why did your father call you a nightmare?”
That was not repetition, that was expansion and it made my body ache, namely my chest, but it was a sensible request for her to make after hearing a statement such as that.
So, I cleared my throat and said, “Because I was a defective heir and did not comply with his attempts to fix the failures within me.”
“Defective?” Her eyes appeared to widen at that word. “What—what do you mean?”
“I have several diagnoses such as…” My words trailed off as I squinted, a beam of light hitting me in the eye. As it drifted away from me and my sight returned, I followed it to my chest, and then to my new wife’s shoulder. It appeared unsteady, or rather, untrained.
I traced it to the opposite building.
In the shadows, perched on a hotel balcony, was a sniper camouflaged in black, barely visible.
I lurched forward, snatching Sicily into my arms, pressing one palm to the back of her head and the other around her waist to prevent damage as we toppled to the ground.
The shot rang through the air, splitting through the brick wall behind us, barely missing us. The crack of the bullet sprayed us in a shower of dust and shards of stone, and I almost missed how her breath hitched like she wanted to scream but didn’t.
Almost.
“Milan,” she breathed, clinging to my collar.
There was no time to understand her emotions, and also remember how I had learned to console Adriano.
I held her to my chest, yanking the gun from my waistband, and pulled the trigger at a second assailant who had begun to climb up the balcony with weapons of their own.
It was too dark to make out who they were, but it did not matter.
I had to protect her. As her husband, that was my duty. As a man, that was my responsibility, and I would not fail again.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
The assassin stumbled off the balcony when my second bullet struck his chest, making room for more, four if I counted correctly, until the balcony was swarmed with thick black tactical outfits and balaclavas.
Their identities were hidden, but their guns were disguised in erratically patterned wraps and colors, and that was a telling sign that our gunmen were Camorra.
The Camorra was a lawless cluster of people from Naples who spent more time infighting than posing a threat to any of us, though they were pirates, always seeking money, women, and property to steal, especially at high-profile events like this one.
They had strong egos, so they thought they had the strength to fight anyone and everyone, even me.
They did not follow a typical structure like the Famiglia, rather there were dozens of clans, each with Dons and their own rules and expectations.
We did not consider the Camorra a problem; it was agreed amongst Dons, and would be enforced under my rule, that the Camorra deserved to be wiped out entirely for convenience purposes, and after this attack on my wife, it would be my priority.
I pushed quickly to my feet, one arm wrapping tightly around Sicily to keep her securely tucked between me and the shattered wall, the other grasping my gun firmly to fire round after round at the shadowy targets shooting back.
Some bullets narrowly missed me, lodging into crevices in the wall behind me, some demonstrated just how untrained their aim was and flung far from my body, becoming lost in the darkness of the night, but none got close to touching Sicily.
There was not enough space to properly hide, not with parts of the tall walls shattered and the stone floor becoming speckled with blood and debris, but I backed us around a slight bend in the wall, nudging her as far away from the Camorra as I could get her.
“Milan—”
“Be quiet.”
Sicily’s heart was pressed against my spine.
It was beating fast. That indicated fear, or perhaps adrenaline.
She wasn’t trembling, but she was clutching my shirt with tensed fingers.
She trusted that holding onto me would keep her safe, but not only was that implausible because I was made of the same vulnerable flesh and bone as she was, it was na?ve.
I had known her for all of eight hours; trust could not be earned that quickly.
The remaining Camorristas were shouting in rapid-fire Italian, blocking off every exit from the balcony that I had mapped in my mind as a way to get my wife out of this situation.
I edged my head beyond the wall but instantly reared back as a bullet smashed into the stone of the building, almost catching my skin.
“Sicily,” I whispered, feeling her tiptoe to barely reach my shoulder. “Do you have a phone?”
“No, Fiore took it before I walked down the aisle,” she whispered back. “Where’s yours?”
That was a reasonable question to ask because I should have had it. Never again would I allow Adriano to remove what was required.
“I left it in the hotel. Adriano told me that was polite.”
“Milan,” one of the soldiers sang like he was performing in the opera. “Capo dei Capi. Give us that sweet wife of yours, and we’ll forget the rest.”
They wanted Sicily for reasons that did not make logical sense. The Camorra may have known of my marriage to Sicily and my bid for leadership, but Naples had no affiliation with the Bianchis.