Papa appears at my door. Opens it. The cold hits me full force. I gasp.
He extends his hand.
I stare at it. At the fingers that signed away my future. At the palm that held cards instead of his children. At the hand that gambled everything we had.
Everything I had.
I exhale.
Take his hand.
His fingers close around mine. Warm despite the cold. He helps me out of the car.
I straighten. Adjust my veil. Look up at the church.
The guards haven't moved. They watch us with the same flat expressions. One of them speaks into a radio. His lips move, but I can't hear the words.
Oliver's car pulls up behind ours. He steps out. His eyes find mine immediately. He nods once. I'm here. I'm not leaving.
I nod back.
Papa still holds my hand. His grip tightens.
"Antonella."
I turn to face him.
His eyes are red. Wet.
"I'm sorry," he says.
My throat burns.
I can't cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the guards and the church and the man waiting inside.
I swallow the tears down. Force them back. Lock them away in the same place I've locked everything else for the past two years.
"I know," I say.
It's not forgiveness. It's not absolution. It's just acknowledgment.
Papa's face crumples. For a moment, I think he might cry. But he doesn't. He pulls himself together. Straightens his spine. Lifts his chin.
"Let's go," he says.
He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm. We turn toward the church.
The guards step aside. One of them pulls open the heavy oak door.
Bruno
Twenty minutes earlier
Valentino stands beside me near the altar, his posture relaxed but his eyes constantly scanning. The pews sit empty except for a few of our men positioned at strategic points.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," Valentino says.
"Felt that way once. Didn't end well."
