“Repeat after me…”
“I, Howard Fincher Donovan, take you, Luciano D’Amato, to be myawfulwedded husband…”
I think I’m the only one who heard him make that substitute, and he breezes on as though nothing is wrong, innocent eyes looking into mine, repeating the celebrant verbatim until he gets to the sticking point.
The special request I made for his vows.
“To love, honor and—” He breaks off, glancing at the celebrant sideways, wondering if he misheard. Then his golden eyes fix back on mine, unreadable.
There’s a cough in the crowd during the long pause.
I squeeze his hands tighter and tighter, his wedding band cutting into my fingers as much as his.
Iwillhave him say it.
The celebrant looks nervous and clears her throat, but before she can say anything, Finch laughs. It rings over the heads of all those fucking thugs sitting there in the crowd, all those people who hate us and want us dead.
“To love, honor andobey,” he repeats loudly. And when he gets to the end, and takes up my hand to put the ring on my finger, he adds to his vow with traditional words. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
He pushes it to my knuckle, and looks back into my face for the next part as he slides it home: “With my body, I thee worship.”
A hushed, angry murmur rises from where the Fuscone faction are seated.
Finch ignores it. “And with all myconsiderableworldly goods, I thee endow.” Very softly, so that only I can hear him, he adds, “You lucky motherfucker.”
But I guess the celebrant heard as well, because she gives a startled gasp, and rushes through her final words. “By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husbands. You may kiss your—oh!”
I’ve leaned in for a chaste kiss, but I should have known better. Finch throws his arms around me, almost taking out the celebrant in his leap, and just about humps me in front of everyone. I hear a loud clapping and hooting, and when he finally lets me go, all our guests are on their feet.
Fuscone and his allies look like thunder, but Tino is the one leading the cheers, so there’s not much they can do but clap slowly and send me a collective death stare.
The ceremony is legally binding; Tino makes sure of it. We sign the register afterwards with Tino and Howard Donovan the elder as witnesses. Then a photographer tries to get us to smile for a portrait in a back room. I make sure he sees my guns when I tire of it, and he takes one last snap, says, “All done,” and hurries away, just in time for Celia and Finch’s sisters, all pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, to rush back into the room and scream their delight at us. All except one of them, the tallest and most beautiful of the sisters, who gives me an appraising look and a flippant, “Congratulations, I guess.”
It’s a strange thing to have a ring on my finger, golden and heavy. I can’t stop looking at it, because when I’m not looking at the ring, I can’t keep my eyes off my new husband, and if anyone looked at me they’d see stars in my eyes.
We don’t have a single moment alone, not the whole day. I’m happy about that. If I was alone with Finch, I might break down, might say something stupid and syrupy and emotional that I’d regret, because I need him unhappy.
I need him to bemiserablein this marriage, because one moment of joy in front of the wrong person will kill him.
Chapter Eleven
FINCH
Icould tell Luca was on edge for every second of the ceremony, but I wasn’t. And it wasn’t just the limo vodkas or the earlier pills Celia slipped me. No, today has been incredible. I’d go so far as to say it was the most amazing moment of my life so far when Luca leaned in to peck me on the cheek, but I grabbed him and jammed my tongue in his mouth.
I got cheered by atleasta dozen mobsters. Talk about living my best life.
The wedding feast was fun, or so I’m told. I don’t remember much, thanks again to Celia’s pills. I do remember Brother Frank giving a speech, and Celia and my sisters all cried, except for Maggie, who sat there with a furious smile on her lips for the whole night. Luca sat through the whole thing grimacing like he had a toothache, except for one time when Pops snapped at me that I was laughing too much and too loud.
Luca leaned over to him, across my lap so I could feel the warmth coming off him, and said, “I think a man should laugh as much as he wants on his wedding day.”
Pops was livid, but he didn’t say anything, just got up and walked off to the bathroom.
“Thanks,” I told Luca, surprised. “He fucking hates my laugh.”
“I like it,” he said, his eyes soft. I smiled, but then his eyes narrowed, flicking around the room, and he leaned back in his chair to put some distance between us. “Besides, you might not much feel like laughing much in the coming months.”
I didn’t believe him at the time. I figured at least we had bed that night to look forward to, and every time I thought about it, I couldn’t help grinning to myself again. Five years. I wondered how much he would have changed? How much of my memory of that incredible nightwasmemory and how much embellishment?
