To all these goons, shuffling in their seats, nudging each other, whispering and mocking, this wedding is a sham. But the thing is, if Ihaveto get married? I can’t think of a better partner in life than the crazy, bleach-haired angel, who loves death so much he tried to take it in my place.
Besides, he has connections that might prove useful in the coming months and years.
Tino has been our Boss for many years, but his Underboss, Paul Marino, was jailed a few months back, and then wound up dead with a shiv in his throat. Tino hasn’t replaced him yet, or named an acting Underboss. I know he doesn’t want Fuscone to be so close to the throne. But Tino never married, has no heir; his extended family are estranged. So he has no blood relative to nominate as his successor.
But Tino has always been fond of me. I never knew my father and our mother died when I was just a baby, so we were raised by our maternal grandmother. Nonna never told Frank and me much about our father. She had no photographs of him. She told us once that Frank was named after him: Francesco D’Amato. Nonna had no other family in the States, and her husband was long dead. She died not long before I met Finch that first time, but she’d brought us up in strict Italian tradition, and Tino Morelli was a regular visitor during my childhood.
I loved Tino’s visits. Frank thought he was boring, but Ilivedfor his stories, tales of ancient Empires and the men who ruled them. For my first communion he gave me a book calledThe Prince. I read that shit from back to front for years like it held the secrets of the universe. I learned a lot from Niccolò Machiavelli, but most of all I learned that I was going to have to work goddamn hard to get where I wanted to go.
But despite all his interest in me, it took Tino a long time to accept me into his Family. Long enough for me to try other Families, take insults from them, beatings. It was after the Clemenza attack Finch saved me from that Tino finally gave in. Or maybe that was what he’d been waiting for: for me to make a spectacular splash so he had an excuse to step in and protect me. Because the Clemenzas were out for blood after Frank and I killed four of their guys, and it was only Tino’s intervention that kept us alive.
I’d like to think I’m a worthy protégé for Tino. Sometimes, with the way he delights in my achievements, I find myself wondering if there’s a hidden truth there.
Sometimes I wonder if Tinoisactually my—
The music changes.
I turn abruptly, almost startled.
Coming down the aisle on the stiff arm of his father is my angel. I’ve never seen him look so gorgeous, not even the night he saved my skin.
It takes me a second to remember that I can’t show any emotion towards him. Not now, not ever. It would be an instant death sentence for Finch if Fuscone and his allies ever thought I had real feelings for him, this Irish kid who’s supposed to be my punishment as well as my hostage. Even the threat of Tino Morelli’s wrath wouldn’t save us if Fuscone ever realized how I felt.
When Frank asked me why the hell I just stuck my neck out for the Donovan kid, I just stuck to my story about the debt of honor. Even with my brother I’ve had to keep it hidden, my true feelings.
The truth is, I’m not even sure what my real feelings are.
But…I’m not doing thisjustbecause I owe Finch for saving my ass. For the first time in years I didn’t do the smart thing and just kill someone like I was ordered. There have been plenty of murders I’ve committed that I didn’t see the point of, but I never hesitated until now.
Until Finch.
Frank knows me well enough to see when I’m covering up something. He also knows me well enough not to push it. He hasn’t asked again, but I’ve felt his eyes on me this past week, appraising, when the rest of the crew joked about my upcoming nuptials. I’ve acted mean, surly, contemptuous, angry.
The reality is, well. Quite different. But I’m still working it through. Emotions tend to be strangers to me. I still haven’t worked out exactly what it is I feel for the Donovan kid.
And now here he is at the carefully non-denominational altar with me, his father pressing Finch’s hand into mine with barely-concealed anger. I keep my face still.
Even when Finch stares at me, his eyes shining gold, I keep my face expressionless and cold.
The celebrant begins. Since we couldn’t have the Catholic wedding I’d prefer, I chose the closest cousin in vows. And as it happens, the old-fashioned vows from the Book of Common Prayer suited my plans.
“Repeat after me,” the celebrant says to me.
So in echoing words, I make my vow to Finch.
“I, Luciano D’Amato, take you, Howard Fincher Donovan, to be my lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death us do part.”
And then I add my own spin on it.
“In front of God and these witnesses here today, I vow that you are under my protection. Any man or woman who moves against you, moves also against me. Your friend is my friend, and your enemy is my enemy. “
There is dead silence throughout the chapel.
I take up Finch’s hand and jam the ring down on his finger. It’s a simple band of gold, and I got them to make it a little tight, so he can’t just slip it off and on with ease.
Once he’s mine, he’s fuckingmine.
The celebrant, a friendly-looking woman in her forties whose name I forgot as soon as she told me, blinks as we turn back to her. Now it’s Finch’s turn.
