When the song ended, everyone applauded. Quentin kissed me again, earning cheers and wolf whistles.
"Ready for cake?" he asked.
"You know it!"
We moved to the elaborate five-tier monstrosity Carlo had insisted on. It was covered in sugar flowers and probably cost more than a small car.
"That's a lot of cake," Quentin observed.
"Carlo doesn't do anything small."
"I've noticed."
The DJ announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom will now cut the cake!"
Everyone gathered around. Phones out, cameras ready.
We took the knife together, our hands clasped around the handle. Made the first cut into the bottom tier. Perfect angle for photos.
"Don't you dare smash that in my face," I warned.
"I would never."
"Quentin."
"Okay, I was thinking about it."
We lifted the slice onto a plate. I broke off a small piece, held it up to his mouth. He took it, perfectly civilized.
His turn. He broke off a piece, brought it toward my face—
And then someone shouted.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!"
The room went silent.
I turned, fork halfway to my mouth, and my heart dropped into my shoes.
Because sitting in his wheelchair just a few feet away was my grandfather.
Nonno.
Nicodemo Russo.
Ninety-one years old and wielding what appeared to be a snub-nose revolver.
Pointed directly at Quentin.
He’d missed our rehearsal dinner last night because he’d been asleep and no one wanted to wake him. How had I forgotten that? He must have slept through the wedding ceremony as well. Now in a lucid moment, he remembered everything.
"That's him!" Nonno's voice cracked with fury. "That's the man who killed Sal!"
My stomach dropped.
"That snake murdered my son! And you're all just—just eating CAKE like nothing happened!"
Stone moved immediately, positioning himself between the gun and Quentin. "Everyone stay calm!"
