I straighten in my chair and sip my whiskey, determined to imprint every rose, every laugh, every song, every face into my memory. I’ve heard that brides rarely remember their own weddings—how everything blurs into a haze of gratitude and obligation.
I refuse to let that happen.
Aurora places her hand on my forearm and nods with delicate grace towards a cluster of people at the table to my front and right. “Cassini,” she whispers. “See how they exchange welcome and warning in the same glance? The one dripping in gold and diamonds is Beatrice Cassini, from a shipping family, and she’s on her fifth glass of red. It won’t be long before she leaves her husband’s table and finds Luca Butcher. Happens every time.”
“Does she fancy him?”
Aurora taps her nose. “They all do.”
I watch Beatrice laugh as she leans back to air-kiss a distant cousin or friend I haven’t met who stops at their table.
Or have I met that one?
Yikes.
I can’t remember.
“Am I meant to remember them all?”
“You will, sweet Fawn,” Aurora says, voice soft and somehow dominant. “It’s your first night as Mrs Butcher. Give yourself time. You can pick the Made Men by their tattoos and rings. Though usually it’s obvious in their patriarchal posturing.”
I giggle. “Their general self-love?”
“Precisely.”
“How is that all going?” I dart my gaze from her to the table of Dons. “In Sicily?”
She smiles, hinting at secrets. “I am in Calabria now. And all is going as I plan.”
I beam at that. She will conquer them all one day. I can’t wait to see what it looks like having her at the head of the Mafia in Italy—a man’s world.
I glance towards the Dons’ table again. Clay sits, commanding the other Made Men who hang on his every word. His brows furrow above his cigar, cheeks hollowing, as his gaze coasts over the heads of the other Dons, cutting across the room. The moment his eyes find me, the tension—a tension I didn’t notice before—seems to soften in his eyes.
I don’t even turn to see if Aurora noticed too. I don’t need to, because she is following my line of sight. She watches Clay as I do, and in her silence there is a knowledge that stretches beyond this room, across cities and decades, to every woman who has ever watched her man build a legacy with her gently beside him.
“He is the Don,” Aurora says gently.
I nod. “I know.”
“He will always be pulled away from you. You understand that, sweet Fawn?”
“Yes.”
Aurora turns to me; I feel her eyes on my cheek. “He will always return.”
“I know that too,” I admit.
She angles her body, offering me her undivided attention in this moment, so I mirror her.
We look at each other, something meaningful passing between us. From her to me. “You have given him a place to return to, Fawn. You have given him a sense of home, a stable place. After it all, he goes to you. He didn't have that before. Hewent from boarding school to my father's side… to you.” She pauses, then goes on, “He is never going to be a normal man, but you—” She smiles smoothly, searching my face for a flicker of understanding. “You have made him a grounded version of that man. You should be very proud.”
“Thank you.” My eyes fill with tears. “For all your guidance, for always being so kind.”
Her whiskey-coloured eyes fill with warmth. “It’s soeasyto be kind to you.” She tucks a loose blonde tendril back into my elaborately pinned hairdo.
My lower lip wobbles hearing those words. I want to tell little Fawn that it’s not her fault when people are cruel to her. That there is nothing wrong with her.
Aurora squeezes my hand, and we return our attention to the Dons’ table. I watch the entire congregation lean in towards my husband. Clay’s words pull them closer into their rippling circle of power. I see their faces shift in the space of a few sentences. One man’s eyes widen, another’s mouth twitches, a third sits back and exhales as if some monetary or mortal debt has been called in and paid off all at once. Then there is one younger than the rest with a slight bounce in his gaze—I’m not sure I trust that one. Whatever Clay just told them, it landed hard.
