I don’t.
I take my pleasure where I find it, with men who don’t know who I am, or don’t want to. That’s what makes Finch so infuriating with his insistence that he somehowknowsme. I have a reputation for getting a lot of tail, and that’s earned me respect in the Family, even if they still hate me for being queer.
But I just give Tino a nod. I’d resigned myself to a loveless and mostly-sexless marriage with some hapless Mob princess down the line anyway. I always assumed we’d have a few unsatisfying fucks so I could knock her up for the next generation, although we would never have the thirteen kids of a good Catholic family. I figured as long as I did that familial duty, I could take my pleasure with rent boys. It’s what the rest of these fools do, after all: have their whores on the side. Except Frank. He worships the ground his Celia walks on.
I’m under no illusions, though. I might have talked Tino into saving Finch, but this marriage will be a joke to Fuscone and his allies, and more than that, the target on the back of my head just got bigger. I’ve never hidden who I am. What kind of tough guy would I be if I pretended to be something I’m not? But it’s always been a reason for hatred and mistrust from others in the Family. Tino broke with tradition when he made me, but at least I have my Italian surname. Now I won’t have a wife or family to tie me any closer to the rest of them.
I give my soon-to-be-husband a glance. He’s swaying on his feet, clammy. Frank is holding him up by the waist now. I try to think about the fact that I’m being shackled to a druggie slut, but I can’t make myself feel the contempt I normally would. All I can think about is that face appearing out of the crowd in a nightclub, five years back.
My guardian angel.
Now he’s my flightless bird. I’ll have to keep his wings clipped, at least till I’ve dealt with the Fuscone problem, because Fuscone still means to do murder. I can smell it on him.
If forone momentFuscone suspects I don’t hate this situation, he’ll break ranks to kills me—Tino or no Tino.
“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” Fuscone brays. He’s gone from fury to delight. “I want a nice white wedding, and I’ll walk you down the aisle, D’Amato. You’ve always been like a son to me, after all.”
“I’llbe walking Luciano down the aisle,” Tino says mildly, and it wipes the smile off Fuscone’s face. Tino’s presence will lend this whole thing legitimacy.
Maybe I’ve read him wrong. Maybe this really will be my chance to take the next step. Tino prefers family men in his Family, although he never married himself. “I’ll organize the license with our favorite judge. We don’t want to have to wait. Frank, perhaps your lovely wife would like to arrange a small ceremony, and extend the invitation to the Donovan family? And you boys—” Tino gives me and Finch another glower. “I mean it. This will be until death do you part. If you’re in, you’rein.”
There’s a silence in the room. I nod.
Then from my right: “What if I say no?”
I close my eyes. Finch and his fucking mouth.
Tino gives him a sympathetic look. “Mr. Donovan, let me be clear. I will be extending an invitation to your father. Whether that invitation is to your wedding or your funeral is up to you, but you are of course welcome to decline the offer of marriage.”
I blow out a long breath as quietly as I can while we wait for Finch’s reply.
Finch laughs his dangerous fuck-the-world, death-wish laugh and I want to strangle him myself.
“Do I get to wear a big white dress?”
Chapter Nine
FINCH
Idon’t get to wear a big white dress, but Idoget to wear a white Dolce & Gabbana tux with a vest the same color as my eyes, or so Brother Frank’s wife Celia squealed when we picked out the material.
Celia D’Amato has been lumbered with organizing the whole shindig, but you’d think it was the only thing she’d ever wanted to do in her whole damn life. She’s had me fitted for the tux after consulting with me on which designer I’d prefer, gone over wedding invitations with me, brought cake after cake for me to test out, and bless her fucking heart, slipped me all the benzos I could handle and then some. She’s worked miracles to get it together in one week: the deadline Augustino Morelli set for the wedding.
It’s a literal deadline. Either Luca and I are married by the end of today, or I’m dead.
Frankly, I think Luca might kill me himself if Tino doesn’t get round to it. The day my bachelorhood died a quiet death, we left Tino’s lush home in a black-windowed car, driven by some guy called Mikey, with Brother Frank in the front with him, and Luca and me in the back, although I still wasn’t used to calling him Luca then. In fact, the first thing I said after he put the privacy window up was, “So it’s Luciano D’Amato, huh? Or can I still takeGeorgieas my awful wedded husband?”
“Lawful, not awful. For fuck’ssake.”
I just laughed. “Lawful is not a word to describeyou, sugar. Are you ever gonna tell me where ‘Georgie’ came from?”
“No. And it’s Luca. Tino’s the only one who calls me Luciano.”
“Suit yourself,Luca. You got a cigarette on you? I’m jonesing.”
“I quit.”
“Damn. Hm. So, where will we go for our honeymoon?”
