As everyone disconnected, Sorcha called out, “Fee, there are already a few dresses on the way to the farm for you to try on, and I have ideas for Meghan Emily’s and my bridesmaid's dresses as well.”
“Just pick something for me.”
“Don’t be silly. A woman only gets fake married once, I think, you should feel like a princess.”
Then Alastair disconnected before I could retort.
Alec and Grandad came to a temporary detente at the idea of me as a princess, both taking a fiddle laugh until I reminded them that as the bride I could see them both in powder blue tuxes with ruffled shirts and they’d have to like it. That sobered those hysterical fuckers up but quick.
No sooner had that happened than a van pulled up containing said gowns. A few dresses my ass.
There were twenty-seven.
And she hadn’t mentioned the shoes.
Alec and Da helped me carry armfuls of silk and taffeta, lace and satin, into the house, throwing them on to my bed. They took up so much room it was like a horde of ghost women had decided to invade.
Alec stretched out on my bed, arms behind his head, and grinned. “I suggest starting with the one that has the velvet blush roses on the train and the pearl tiara to hold the veil. That seems you, princess.”
“Are you expecting a bit of show then, Mr. Davies? And if you call me ‘princess’ again you’ll be taking a mobility aide down the aisle.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Only one or two of them, please? Or seven?”
“Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding? I think we need all of the luck we can get.”
“Hmm… maybe so.” He sat up, looking serious. “Just one, please? The most princess-y ridiculous one of the bunch. I have such filthy thoughts of despoiling you in one of these virginal get-ups.”
“Well, if you’d only said so first. Turnyour back, then.”
Eventually he had to use the lace veil to gag me, otherwise Grandad would have killed him before the Bonadonnas had the chance.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In which all of the guests arrive for the wedding, and bring gifts even though Fee and Alec forgot to register.
An improvised landing strip in County Mayo…
The Bonadonna Family and the few members of the Lee Ville Industries security force that would be part of the mission traveled separately. They would start from their two points from opposite directions, meeting at the Cassidy Farm at roughly an hour before sunset.
If James Elkins had his way, the whole matter would have been left to the Bondonnas, his presence would be simply to confirm the Davies kill and to make certain that no one was left to talk about it after the fact.
Actually, if he’d had his way the kill would have happened quietly the night before the wedding, but Enzo Bonadonna, the patriarch of the Bonadonna family, was adamant that they make an example of the Davies’ and their friends and allies. There were several members of at least one other prominent crime family that were scheduled to attend, so this would be a way for the Bonas to write a warning to their other enemies in blood.
Signore Bonadonna and Mr. Ville hit it off immediately. Mr. Ville was delighted to finally have a proper in with a real, Sicilian mafiosi and Signore Bonadonna was more calmly pleased that he had a connection to a major American corporation that had factories in need of employees all around the globe.
None of that was James’ business or interest. Until, SignoreBonadonna started waxing nostalgic about when he was a younger man, when he was healthy and hale like Mr. Ville. “Back then, even five years ago, I would go and kill thismaledetto bastardo,Davies myself. While my men took out all of those weak, tea-drinking soldiers of his, I would force him to his knees, meet the coward’s eyes, and blow his brains out all over themerda di polloon that farm. But now, alas,” he gestured to the oxygen tank he was connected to, “I live only long enough to see this enemy dead on a fucking iPhone video.”
Which gave Mr. Ville an idea. One that James could not dissuade him from.
“Lot of empty land in this country,” Mr. Ville said, descending the steps of the small, luxurious jet that had brought them to within twenty miles of the Cassidy farm.
He wasn’t wearing spurs on his cowboy boots currently, a subtlety that James was grateful for. “Yes, sir.” His suit was expensive, yet somehow looked cheap on him, as if no fine wool, no designer styling, no number of fittings could make Mr. Ville look anything other than shady and venal.
“I bet land around here is real cheap. Real cheap. Keep it in mind for later,” he said to his assistant, a young man who very much wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Smart boy.
“Can’t believe how chilly it is here,” Mr. Ville said, “wouldn’t think it was summer. You have mypistola, Elkins?” His accent slid from Boston right down the eastern seaboard, cut west, and landed in the middle of Texas. Or rather, a Hollywood approximation of Texas.
“Yes, sir.” James’ success when he was in the trade hinged as much on acting as ruthlessness and skill with firearms and knives. Mr. Ville had no idea of the level of disdain he held him in as he handed him the case containing the Desert Eagle that he had insisted he had to have.
