I feel myself smirk. Ever since she gave us the go-ahead to start trying for a family the four of us have been chasing her around non-stop. Doc says we’re acting stupid, that it usually takes months to get a girl pregnant, but that’s not slowing him down either. I hope we have daughters first, little girls with curls and big round eyes. We could use more girls around here.
“I don’t think you’re pregnant yet, my ruby,” Eli says gently. “And even if you are, you can still have a little wine.”
January shakes her head. “You shouldn’t drink before a performance. It’s not good for your voice.”
“Okay, darling.”
A louder knock on the door.
“Boys,” Gretzky calls. “It’s time to get moving.”
“Shit,” Doc says, echoing my thoughts. “Here we fucking go.”
It’s a bitterly cold afternoon, with dark rain clouds welling overhead: Bad luck for a wedding, as my mom used to say. But it’s notmywedding. We practically run to the limo and January sits shivering between me and Doc, rubbing her bare arms against our shoulders to warm up. Sal is driving and Eli orders him to turn up the heat before pouring everyone but Doc a whiskey from the minibar.
The alcohol goes down like melted gold warming my insides. January hands her drink to Adriano who kisses her forehead and then downs it.
“And I thought your wedding was freezing, Tits,” Doc says with a shudder. “What inspired Bianchi to tie the knot in this fuckin’ hellmouth?”
“There were so many delays he just wanted to get it over with,” Eli says, slinging a lazy arm across the back of his seat.
Doc snorts. “Romantic.”
“Very. Apparently, the theme is ‘Winter Wonderland.’”
We all groan. As Doc, Adriano, and Eli discuss the various assholes we’re likely to run into today, I take January’s freezing hand in mine.
“A few hours,” I tell her. “Then we can get in the tub and soak. Or watch a movie. Anything you want.”
She smiles, but I can tell her mind is miles away. I think about how good a day this would be if we were just going to a regular wedding. Able to hang out and enjoy the free booze and food and our girlfriend. I settle for imagining later tonight, the five of us on the couches in the Velvet House cinema, January sprawled in the middle, Adriano snoring after the first five minutes. All of us safe and together.
“Good,” Eli mutters to his iPad. I know he’s checking in with Bianchi’s security. We’ll be well protected for the entire time we’re away from Velvet House, a fact I remind myself of over and over as we cruise along the highway behind bulletproof glass.
We pull up to St. Ignatius Cathedral with ten minutes to spare.
“Surprised this is at a Catholic church,” Doc says as we climb from the limo. “I thought Yelizaveta was Russian Orthodox?”
“Fuck Russia,” Adriano growls.
“She must be converting.” Eli checks his phone. “We’re in the tenth pew. Hurry up.”
Despite the hundreds of people packed inside, the cathedral is cold as an ice box. Bianchi stands at the altar, surrounded by his ancient groomsmen. I wonder if the bridesmaids are getting liquored up right now. They’re probably young, hot Russians, like Bianchi’s wife and they’re gonna get their asses pinched all night by these ghouls.
We take our seats. January instantly starts shivering and is deposited between Adriano and Doc. The wooden pews are as uncomfortable as any chairs could be. I adjust my ass every five seconds and try not to think about my mom. I love her, I miss her, but when she died, I stopped getting dragged to church every Sunday and it’s hard not to be grateful for that.
Ten minutes tick past, then twenty.
The guests start shuffling, the talk getting louder and louder. Bianchi doesn’t look worried, but my nerves are spiking. The sooner we can get this over and done with the better.
“I’m fucking starving,” Doc mutters.
“Shut up,” I say, but I am too. I didn’t eat breakfast and the scotch has gone straight to my head.
“Any sign of Parker?” I ask Eli.
He shakes his head.
I watch Bianchi and his groomsmen laughing at the altar. His sons are there too, I realize. Three thickset Italians in their fifties. They look happy which seems kind of fucked up to me. If my dad remarried after my mom died, I’d have shot myself through the face before I was one of his groomsmen. But whatever, maybe it’s different when your dad is a mafioso.
