CHAPTER FIVE
MINA
I get married in the same dress I wear to difficult funerals.
Black crepe. Long sleeves. Pockets deep enough for a phone, two pens, and the chapel key. Jo adds a narrow ivory ribbon at my waist after I tell her three times not to make the outfit festive.
“It is not festive,” she says, pinning the ribbon. “It is visible in photographs.”
“So is blood.”
“Blood dries brown. Stand still.”
The ceremony takes place in the old Bellaforte Social Club because Port Mercy City Hall is closed on Saturdays and Gabe refuses to wait until Monday.
The club has marble floors, a bar older than I am, and oil portraits of men whose philanthropy improved in direct proportion to the expiration of witnesses.
Forty-three guests attend.
Jo’s estimate was unsettlingly close.
Gabe stands beneath a carved wooden crest with Felix on one side and Victor Sarto on the other. His suit is black. His tie is charcoal. The only color on him is the bruise forming along his left knuckles, probably from learning patience against a wall.
He watches me cross the room.
Not my dress. Not the ribbon. Me.
I look away first because I have a lawyer waiting and standards to preserve.
The officiant is a retired judge whose retirement appears to include selective memory. He clears his throat when I stop beside Gabe.
“We are gathered—”
“Efficiently,” Gabe says.
The judge nods. “Yes.”
I lean toward my future husband. “If you rush the kidnapping, people question the craftsmanship.”
“You arrived six minutes late.”
“I was considering escape.”
“And?”
“Parking is terrible.”
The corner of his mouth shifts, so briefly I might have imagined it.
The judge works through the civil language. No poetry. No obey. No promise beyond legal intent. Gabe says I do as if authorizing a shipment.
When my turn comes, the room listens harder.
“I do,” I say.
It is not the first lie spoken in this building. It may be the shortest.
Felix hands Gabe a plain platinum band. Mine is narrow, old, and gold.
I recognize it before Gabe takes my hand.
“That belonged to Bianca,” I say.
His fingers stop around mine.
“Your aunt gave it to me.”
I look at Jo. She lifts her chin, refusing apology.
Bianca wore the ring on her right hand after our grandmother died. We found it in a dish beside her bed after the fire. I have kept it in a locked drawer for five years because memory can be damaged by use.
“Another one,” Gabe says quietly.
The judge pretends to review his notes.
Forty-three people pretend not to watch.
I take the ring from Gabe and thread it onto the black chain beneath my collar. It rests against my sternum.
“This is fine.”
His eyes stay on the place where it disappears under the dress. “It goes on your hand.”
“Section four specifies exchange. Not anatomy.”
Victor makes a sound behind us. He is smiling, but his eyes are not.
Gabe takes his own ring from Felix and slides it onto his finger.
“Satisfied?” I ask.
“Not remotely.”
“Something to build on.”
The judge signs. We sign. Felix signs as witness. Jo uses her own pen and presses hard enough to emboss the page beneath.
Then Gabe places a hand at my back for the photographs.
Warmth moves through the fabric. I hate the immediacy of it. My body has no interest in the circumstances entered into evidence.
“Move your hand,” I say without moving my mouth.
“The photographer asked us to stand closer.”
“The photographer has not read section eight.”
“My hand is above the restricted area.”
I turn my head. “You annotated it?”
“My attorney did.”
“Fire him.”
The camera flashes while Gabe looks almost entertained. It will probably be the only convincing photograph of the day.
Dinner follows because Port Mercy can forgive extortion but not an unfed guest. Round tables fill the club. Wine appears. Conversations divide into grief, speculation, and people discussing me as if marriage has removed my hearing.
Elena Corso sits beside me.
She is smaller than both her sons, with dark hair cut at her jaw and Paolo’s habit of touching the edge of a glass before speaking.
“He would have made a terrible joke,” she says.
I know which he she means. “About the wedding?”
“About the funeral director becoming family. He would have used the phrase repeat customer.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
Elena’s eyes fill. She looks down at her plate until the moment passes.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. It sounded like him.”
Across the room, Gabe is speaking to Ruggiero. He stops in the middle of the man’s sentence and looks at his mother. He checks her face, then mine.
I give him a small nod.
His shoulders change by less than an inch.
Elena notices. “Gabriele has always believed vigilance is a personality.”
“That explains the cameras.”
“There are cameras?”
“Only where I approved them.”
“Then you are already ahead of most of us.”
Victor takes the empty chair on my other side. He smells of cedar and a cologne that arrived before he did.
“Mrs. Corso,” he says.
The name is a test.
“Temporarily,” I answer.
“Most conditions are.”
Elena places her napkin beside her plate. “Victor, I would like to speak with Rosa.”
He rises immediately and pulls out her chair. Respectful. Rehearsed.
When Elena is gone, he sits again.
“Your father would have appreciated this room,” he says.
“He appreciated rooms with multiple exits.”
“A sensible man.”
“Is that why no one can find him?”
Victor studies me. His face carries age well because it has never done unnecessary work.
“Salvatore loved his daughters.”
“Past tense is a dangerous choice.”
“Five years is a long time.”
“Not to the dead.”
His gaze moves to the chain at my throat. “Bianca’s?”
I cover the ring before I can stop myself.
“You remember it?”
“She wore it often.”
“Did you see her the week she died?”
The pause is correct. Not too short. Not too long.
“Everyone saw Bianca,” he says. “She enjoyed being noticed.”
He means it as dismissal. My sister did enjoy being noticed. She also noticed everything back.
Before I can ask more, Felix appears beside the table.
“Car is ready,” he says.
“For whom?”
“You and Gabe.”
“I have my own car.”
“It’s been moved to the funeral home.”
“By whom?”
“An enthusiastic cousin.”
I stand. “The clause was supposed to discourage you.”
“It gave me branding.”
Outside, rain has begun, a fine cold sheet silvering the club’s front steps. Gabe waits beneath the awning. People are still inside, but the street is nearly empty.
“You moved my car,” I say.
“Felix moved it.”
“That defense is covered in subsection B.”
“Your rear brake line was cut.”
The answer stops me one step above him.
“When?”
“During the ceremony. Security checked before transfer.”
“Who had access?”
“We’re reviewing video.”
“My car was in the club garage.”
“It was.”
“Your garage.”
“My garage.”
A crack splits the rain.
Gabe moves before I recognize the sound.
His arm locks around my waist and drives me behind the stone column. A second crack hits glass. People scream inside the lobby.
Felix draws his weapon and shouts toward the street.
Gabe’s body covers mine. His cheek is beside my temple, breath even, one hand braced against the stone.
“Are you hit?” he asks.
“I don’t think so.”
“Check.”
I run my hands over my ribs, stomach, thighs. “No.”
A server has fallen near the door. Blood spreads along the white cuff of his shirt.
“He is,” I say.
Gabe tightens his hold. “Felix has him.”
“Felix is shooting.”
I slip beneath Gabe’s arm before he expects it and crawl the short distance to the server. The man is conscious, pale, gripping his upper arm.
“Look at me,” I tell him. “What’s your name?”
“M-Michael.”
“Michael, take your hand away for one second.”
The wound is through-and-through, lateral upper arm. Bleeding, but not arterial. I press a folded linen napkin against it and guide his hand back.
Gabe crouches beside us, furious in a way that makes his face calm.
“Ambulance is ninety seconds out.”
“Hold this.” I place his hand over Michael’s. “Firm pressure.”
He does it without argument.
Sirens rise from the next block. Felix returns, rain on his hair.
“Shooter’s gone. East service alley. Knew where the exterior cameras turn.”
Gabe looks at him. “Only staff had the plan.”
“And three security leads.”
Michael breathes too fast. I keep him looking at me while paramedics enter.
When they take over, I stand. My knees work. That feels like a useful luxury.
Gabe’s hand closes around mine.
Not my wrist. My hand.
“We’re leaving.”
“Michael—”
“Will keep his arm.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The medic told me.”
I glance at the paramedic, who nods.
Gabe leads me toward the armored sedan waiting at the curb. He opens the rear door and checks the interior before I enter.
“Someone knew your route,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Someone knew the camera gap.”
“Yes.”
“And somebody cut my brakes inside a secured garage.”
“Mina.”
“Your house leaks.”
His gaze moves over my face as if checking again for blood.
“Then we find the leak,” he says.
“From my house.”
The sedan does not drive directly to the funeral home. Felix reroutes us through the county hospital garage while another car continues east.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Vehicle check and medical documentation.”
“I am not injured.”
“Michael’s blood is on your sleeve.”
I look down. He is right. A dark smear crosses my cuff where I held the compression cloth.
“That does not become my emergency.”
“No. It becomes evidence.”
At the secured hospital bay, Anika meets us in a coat over evening clothes. She examines the fabric, photographs the pattern, and bags my dress sleeve after giving me a surgical scrub jacket to wear home.
“Romantic,” I tell Gabe.
“It has pockets.”
“You understand women.”
Anika checks my pupils and the reddening place on my hip where Gabe drove me behind the column.
“Tender?” she asks.
“Only politically.”
“Medically.”
“Two out of ten.”
Gabe watches from beyond the curtain, visible through the gap and making no attempt to enter.
Anika lowers her voice. “Do you want him removed?”
I consider the question seriously. “No.”
“Do you want me to document the marriage as coerced?”
“Yes. Contractual threat to property, no physical or sexual coercion at this time.”
She writes exactly that.
“He knows you are doing this?”
“He will.”
When the curtain opens, I give Gabe a copy.
He reads it. No objection. No wounded pride.
“Keep the original,” he says.
“Anika keeps the original.”
“Better.”
The response irritates me because it is correct.
Felix enters with the first camera review. “The shooter’s position was the roof of the tax office. Access door opened with a maintenance code assigned to Bellaforte security.”
“Who knew the code?” Gabe asks.
“Six staff. Victor’s driver requested it yesterday for delivery access.”
“Name?”
“Account request came from his office. Driver listed is dead.”
Anika looks between us. “That seems inconvenient.”
“The dead are being overworked,” I say.
Gabe sends Felix to preserve the access server before anyone updates it.
“And Michael?” I ask.
“Surgery to clean the wound. No nerve or artery damage. Bellaforte is paying.”
“Corso is paying,” Gabe says.
“The club’s insurer—”
“Corso.”
He is not performing for the room. He has already opened the payment authorization on his phone.
Another small action with a cost attached.
I file it where I do not want to file anything good about him.
The rear door closes behind us. Rain draws lines down the tinted glass.
For the first time since I signed the contract, the forced proximity does not feel like Gabe’s strategy.
It feels like somebody else’s.