Nerves flutter as he has us recite our vows. While Damiano speaks with his usual confidence, I struggle to get the words out. I glance over my shoulder toward the door. Riccardo pulls his jacket back just enough to reveal the gun sitting at his hip. Message received. I dutifully promise to love and honor my husband until the day I die.
As we reach the moment to exchange rings, Damiano reaches into his pocket. He produces three rings, one a plain gold band, which he passes to me. The others are a simple gold band and a beautiful engagement ring with a large emerald at its center.
It's the precise green of the dress I wore the night he claimed me at his bedroom window for all the world to see. He takes my hand and slips both rings onto my finger. They fit perfectly.
I don't manage to put Damiano's ring on his finger because my hands are shaking, so he takes it from me and does it himself. I look up at his face, hoping something in his expression will tell me everything is going to be okay. There's nothing there for me to hold onto. His public mask is firmly in place.
By the time I know what's happening, the ceremony is over and we're married. Damiano kisses me, a soft, chaste brush of his lips across mine. The judge passes me a pen and I sign the paperwork. Damiano does likewise and his henchmen add their signatures.
Just like that, my life belongs to Damiano Volante. I guess it did from the moment I interfered in his business. "Congratulations." Bernetti shakes Damiano's hand. "May you soon be blessed with an heir."
Horror at that prospect must show on my face because Damiano's lips twitch.
"Thank you, Flavio," he says to the older man before grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the door.
With Elio and Riccardo walking a pace behind us, we head back outside to the car. The Piazza della Signoria is buzzing with tourists. Several cameras are aimed at the building. As Damiano steers me to the back seat of the car, Riccardo moves through the crowd with quiet efficiency, ensuring nobody has captured an image of us.
Elio jumps in the passenger seat and when Riccardo is finished intimidating innocent tourists, he gets in to drive. As we move off, I twist the ring on my finger. The emerald catches the light. If it didn't represent a new life I didn't ask for, I'd find it pretty.
"Do you like it?" Damiano asks.
"It's beautiful. Where did you buy it?"
I hide my resentment that the ring is one more choice he took away from me. If he'd asked, I'd have told him how I always pictured myself browsing the goldsmith shops on the Ponte Vecchio for my engagement ring. Of course, in that scenario, I was hand in hand with the man I loved.
"I didn't. It belonged to my grandmother."
"Oh." I'm not sure what to make of that. I examine the ring again, wondering if it holds some sentimental value for him. "Were you close to your grandmother?"
Damiano nods. "For a time. She died when I was fourteen."
I don't press him on the topic. Even if Elio and Riccardo weren't in the front of the car, I doubt he'd open up to me. I'll just soothe myself with the idea he loved her and that giving me her ring means something. The alternative, that he simply couldn't be bothered shopping for one, is far less romantic.
While I look out of the window to watch familiar streets slipping away, Damiano turns his attention to his phone.
"Mila's ready to move against the Albanians," Damiano says suddenly. It's safe to assume he's not speaking to me.
"Our men are already on their way to Marseilles," Elio replies.
"Good. And how are things looking in Athens?"
I should be pissed that Damiano is so casually discussing business while I'm wrestling with my emotions, but I'm sort of glad of the distraction. The inner workings of Damiano's world are a mystery to me and I want to learn what I can.
"Timofey Lenkov and Sev Baranov are dealing with the Makris family. Niamh Donnelly is providing support. Everything's under control."
From the corner of my eye, I see Damiano nod, apparently pleased by what he's hearing.
"And Andriano Martelli?" he asks.
That's the first name I've recognized in their conversation.
"He's laying low for now." It's Riccardo who answers. "But we're keeping an eye on him in case he decides to pay Signorina Lazaro a visit."
"Good. I don't want him near her."
I furrow my brow at the protective tone in his voice. "Who's Signorina Lazaro?"
Half-expecting him to tell me to mind my own business, I'm surprised when Damiano turns to me.
