The taste of her still on my tongue, the feel of her soft hands on my balls, and the solid love of my family—reminders of what I stood to lose if I didn’t play this game right.
47
Brando
A flow of gondolas moved in and out of the private “water gate” connected to the floating palazzo.
The sun was close to setting, and golden halos shimmered over the water, evening lights starting to burn.
It didn’t escape me that Luca had chosen operatic music to be played as the women sashayed down the steps in sweeping gowns. It made their arrival more dramatic.
As Margherita made her way down the steps, most of her face hidden behind an elaborate mask, he met her at the end of the steps, bowed to her, then took her hand, placing a soft kiss on it.
“A man must wait in hell until an impossibly beautiful enigma, who goes by the name ofwoman, falls from heaven to save his soul,” Luca announced to the room in Italian. “Let us enjoy the night with our wives, our own enigmas.”
The end of his speech was met by applause, like a comet had flared across the sky.
Luca and Maggie Beautiful’s gondola was the first to move toward the night’s festivities.
Flashes went off outside in constant pops of white, voices raised, calling out, as photographers lined up in their own taxis to take pictures.
A flotilla of gondolas arrived not long after to take the rest of us.
Going in backward order, Romeo was next to greet his wife, Dario after him, and then Rocco, who patted me on the shoulder, a grin on his face, his mask in his free hand.
Luca insisted that all our masks match, for form’s sake, and to also drive home the point that we were a solid unit. We were instructed to keep them close, not wear them until we entered the gala.
Our suits matched as well. They were all raven black with satin lapels and bowties. Our flowers were the only difference. A red rose was pinned to top mine off.
Lifting my arm to check the time, I remembered that I’d taken the watch my wife had given me a while back off and had nothing to check the time with.
The eighteenth century didn’t seem to be big on clocks.
Patience. Anything good in this world is worth waiting for.
Ten minutes (a lifetime) later, though, and Luca’s logic became word.
Scarlett had me waiting in hell, just like she’d done before our wedding.
It made me anxious to have to wait for her. Stopping myself from going into our room to retrieve her became a living beast hovering over me in the room—it made it seem much smaller, almost claustrophobic, its attempt to push me closer to her.
In the name of chivalry, I tamed it down.
If she were beside me, I could take my time with her, savor the suspense, the drawn-out moments between us, but the separation made me impatient, close to madness.
The vital parts of me that belonged to her couldn’t stand the distance.
I glanced out of the window as I headed to the wet bar. Our gondolier waited patiently for our arrival, singing to himself.
Pouring a glass of whiskey, it belatedly dawned on me that the women’s dresses were all over-the-top. All custom-made and shimmering, most of the material sheer, not something seen every day, and apparently made by the same designer.
I had no fucking clue about clothes—when it came to these kinds of events, Scarlett orchestrated my wardrobe, and all I had to do was get dressed—but still, I knew that much.
The thought alone, of what my wife might be wearing, almost set me off. Straight up the stairs, down the hall, right into our room to find out what the hell was going on. I wasn’t sure how much longer Pavarotti could go on, but Fausti was about to reach his crescendo.
Instead of giving in to the impulse to throw her over my shoulder like a caveman, ready or not, I slammed back another shot of whiskey, sighing long and hard after.
Just as the tenor came to an exceptionally passionate part of the song, I looked up as her soft voice cut through the song, but somehow floated down before she did.
