“You’re the cutest thing,” he replies.
I redden, then scoop up the rest of the fabric and carry it as I hurry on.
“You’re scared of getting your train dirty?” Massimo asks incredulously.
“Well, yeah, haven’t you seen all the dead bodies lying around?” I reply.
He glances at my bodice. “You know your dress is already covered in blood, right?”
“No point adding more blood,” I tell him. “Besides, I don’t want it to snag on anything!”
He shakes his head, still smiling.
I try not to look at all the aforementioned dead bodies lying around. It sucks that they all had to die, but it’s not my fault that their twisted mafia don bid on me. They brought this upon themselves. I’m through blaming myself for everything bad that happens. The Rizzos could have surrendered when the attack came. They could have traded me back. But they chose to fight. And The Cleaver almost killed me…
We reach my father’s SUV and load into the back. I set my crumpled train down on the floor beneath my seat and Massimo shuts the door. Father sits in the front passenger seat while Leonardo takes the wheel.
Salvatore arrives with the priest.
“Put him in back with our two lovebirds,” my father commands.
Salvatore shoves him inside next to me and Massimo, then shuts the sliding door. My brother hits the exterior twice with his palm and Leonardo accelerates.
“For a while there, I thought you killed everyone,” Massimo tells my father.
“I’d never hurt a priest,” Papa explains. He looks at the holy man, and seems doubtful for a moment. But then he gives the order that sends tingles down my spine. “Marry them.”
“Excuse me?” the priest asks.
“You heard me,” my father replies. “The vows. The quick version.”
The priest looks at Massimo. “What is your name, young man?”
“Massimo Moretti,” my husband-to-be replies.
“Do you, Massimo Moretti, take this woman to be your wife, to live together in holy matrimony, to love her, to honor her, and to comfort her, through sickness and in health, for the rest of your life?”
Massimo’s eyes glint with joy. “I do,” he says without hesitation.
“Do you, Angela Amato, take this man to be your husband, to live together in holy matrimony, to love him, to honor him, and to comfort him, through sickness and in health, for the rest of your life?”
“Yes!” I blurt out. “I do! With all my heart.” My eyes are wet again. Silly eyes.
“Having heard your intention to be married, I now ask you to declare your marriage vows,” the priest says. “Groom, please repeat after me. I, Massimo Moretti, take you, Angela Amato, to be my wife.”
Massimo repeats it, seeming to relish every word. He holds my hand and I squeeze it.
My turn comes, and I repeat my vow fervently.
The priest then asks. “Do you have the rings?”
“Cacchio!” Papa curses. His expression grows crafty, and he scans the buildings on either side of the street.
“Turn right!” Papa says suddenly.
We take a right at an intersection.
Papa points. “Pull up there!”
