2. Luca
Luca
Giuseppe Lombardi vanishes behind the altar while his guests dive under the pews. I fire once at the man covering his escape. The bullet catches his shoulder and spins him into a row of white flowers. Giuseppe reaches the side door and disappears into the sacristy.
“Dario,” I call.
Dario vaults the altar rail and goes after him with two soldiers. Mattia plants a boot on the fallen man’s gun and kicks it away. “Down. Everyone stays down.”
The last loyalist with a weapon takes one look at the rifles aimed at him and sets his pistol on the stone floor.
Gun smoke burns the back of my throat. Women cry beneath the organ loft.
Men who entered this church certain of their strength now kneel between the pews with their hands on their heads.
At the altar, the bride hasn’t moved. She stands where Lombardi left her. Her veil has slipped sideways. She pinches the skirt of her dress while her other fingertips tap against her thumb in the same order, over and over.
Her father isn’t in the front pew anymore. “Rafinelli?” I ask Mattia.
He scans the sanctuary. “Gone.”
Antonio chose his exit well. Giuseppe did too. The route was prepared before today. They expected trouble, and we underestimated them.
Dario returns through the sacristy door. “Tunnel to the rectory garage. A car was waiting.”
Dante points toward the sacristy. “Lock down the rectory garage. Get me the car’s make, plate, and route.” He turns to Mattia. “Find Rafinelli. He doesn’t leave the city.”
Dante faces the kneeling loyalists and takes stock of what remains.
We came to seize Giuseppe Lombardi and deepen the insult by taking him on his wedding day, at the altar. We accomplished half of it.
Fuck. Lombardi will call this an attack on a holy ceremony. He’ll turn escape into survival and survival into victory.
Dante won’t give him the chance. His attention moves from me to the bride, then returns to me.
“Marry her,” he growls.
I stare at him.
I’ve served at Dante’s side for years. He’s given me orders that ended lives and orders that saved them. This one binds mine to a stranger’s.
“Quickly,” he adds.
The purpose is plain. The Rafinellis brought their daughter here to bind their house to the Lombardis—two traitorous families uniting.
If the Rafinelli daughter leaves as my wife, every fucker in this church will carry the story across Chicago before nightfall.
Giuseppe loses his bride along with his claim to strength.
Antonio loses the alliance he sold her to secure.
Obedience has kept the Corsinis alive. Dante gives an order, and I carry it out.
That doesn’t make it fair to her.
I holster my pistol. “Father.”
The priest raises his head from behind the altar. His face has gone gray.
“Come here,” I tell him.
He rises and retrieves his book from the floor. Giada’s eyes move from Dante to me. Her lips part, but she says nothing.
I stop an arm’s length from her. She’s younger than I expected. Her dress, jewelry, and elaborate veil mark her as a daughter raised for this world and displayed for a useful marriage.
She’ll want the name, the house, and the protection. Women from families like hers learn early to measure a husband by status. One groom exchanged for another shouldn’t matter to her as long as the second has more money and power.
Her fingers keep tapping. “What’s your name?”
“Giada Rafinelli.” Her answer is strong and clear, but her eyes stay on my tie.
“I’m Luca DiCenzo.” I remain where I am. “Your groom escaped. Your father ran. You’ll marry me instead.”
She checks the pistol at my hip. “Are you going to shoot anyone else?”
“Not unless anyone gives me a reason.”
Her attention settles on the knot in my tie for several seconds. Rifles surround her. Her father abandoned her. The man she came here to marry used her as cover while he fled. Nothing about this altar offers her a free choice.
“All right,” she says.
It’s the safest answer in a church controlled by my men.
For a moment I actually sympathize with her.
So much so I make an internal vow. I’ll obey Dante and take this woman—young woman, Christ, she must be in her early twenties—as my wife, but I won’t demand obedience from her in private.
Marriage may require her presence beside me in public.
It gives me no claim to her body. She’ll share my bed when she’s ready. When she chooses it.
The priest opens his book with shaking hands.
“Can I have a minute?” she asks.
I nod once to give consent.
Her gaze travels across the overturned flowers and the guests kneeling between the pews. “How much time can I have?”
“As long as you need.”
Giada takes several deep breaths.
Whispers pass through the pews. Mattia silences them with a stare.
After a couple of minutes, she faces the priest. “I’m ready.”
The ceremony is short. The priest omits the homily and rushes into the vows.
Giada fixes on the second button of my shirt when she says, “I do.”
The priest pronounces us husband and wife.
Dante steps beside me. “Get her out of here. Mattia and Dario will handle security. I’ve radioed in extra guards for your home. I’ll call when we have a route on Lombardi or Rafinelli.”
I offer Giada my hand. “We’re leaving through the main doors. There are armed men outside. They’re mine.”
She stares at my palm, refuses it, and walks ahead through the wreckage of her wedding day. I can’t blame her.
An armored sedan waits at the curb with its rear door open. My driver checks the street while I help Giada gather her skirt into the car. She takes the far seat and arranges the folds of silk over her knees.
I sit across from her. The locks engage, and the church recedes behind smoked glass.
And here we are, the underboss of the Corsini crime family and his new bride.
I’m married. Fuck.
I never considered marriage off the table.
I rarely considered it at all. I assumed that one day, I’d choose a suitable woman from the scores of mafia daughters eager to become a Corsini wife.
I’d provide a respected name and a protected home, and she’d attend dinners, manage the social duties expected of her, and remain loyal in public.
We’d do our duty, and produce heirs. Beyond that, I’d give her every material comfort, and our private lives would stay separate where possible. Not unlike a business arrangement.
That’s marriage in the mafia.
Love has no place in the agreement. It makes people careless.
The fact that my marriage happened today. That it’s been thrust upon me with no forewarning is…well…fine. I suppose.
I’m sure Giada meets the requirements as well as any mafia daughter. The Rafinellis would have prepared her for the role.
I’m not sure how she feels about all this.
I look over to see her pressing herself into the corner. A horn blasts beside us, and she bunches the silk of her dress in her palm.
I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve spent most of those thirty-nine years learning what armed men can make people agree to.
“We’re going to my home,” I say, to make conversation. “It’ll take about twenty minutes. Security will meet us at the gate, armed guards.”
Her attention remains on the fabric.
“This morning didn’t go as planned.”
She says nothing.
I imagine a sudden groom-swap is odd. Maybe even frightening.”
Still nothing, but her eyes have moved to my shoulder.
“But just because this was unexpected—for both of us—doesn’t mean we can’t build a productive marriage.
I’ll provide everything you need, and I’ll treat you well.
I won’t permit anyone in my home or outside it to disrespect my wife.
We will make the best of the situation.”
Silence.
Her fingertips resume their pattern against her thumb. I’ve given her the plainest promise I can. She may not believe it yet.
“Can you just say something? Anything?”
She meets my eyes at last. Hers are dark brown. “Tardigrades can survive for years without food or water when they enter cryptobiosis.”
“Is that right?” I don’t know how else to respond. I’m not sure if she’s making a joke or if she’s just nervous. I know nothing about this woman—my wife.
“Yes. They reduce their metabolic activity to almost nothing. They aren’t dead, although people used to argue about whether they were.”
“I see.”
She turns toward the window. I have no idea what any of that has to do with our marriage, but I asked her to say anything, and that’s what she did.
The gates open ahead of us. My house rises beyond them in glass, white stone, and dark steel.
The car stops beneath the covered entrance. Lombardi will be furious and ready to retaliate. Two guards stand near the drive as I escort Giada inside.
She pauses in the foyer and takes in the pale walls, black staircase, and windows overlooking the winter garden.
I didn’t think things could get more awkward, but here we are.
What now? A tour? Maybe she wants to shower or nap or eat. She probably wants to be shown to the guest room so she can change out of that wedding dress.
Fuck. I run a hand down my face.
I left this house a bachelor, with no plan to change that. I return five hours later, a married man with a wife in tow.
A wife who’s probably half my age.
Fuck.