His clipped words pop those bubbles inside me, making me wonder if he thinks I’m incapable or stupid, but I force a smile as Don Vicini and Francesca approach.
While the men are busy discussing business, Frankie whispers in my ear. “Are you prepared for tonight? Do you have questions? Tell him you need to pee if you want to talk, woman to woman.”
Gratitude over the offer is mixed with trepidation, and this is an awkward time for a hushed discussion. “I grew up on a farm.”Frankie’s expression reflects horror on my behalf, and I feel like a silly goose for pretending it’s the same for people as animals. “I am prepared,” I amend.
Frankie doesn’t appear convinced, but her husband steps forward to kiss my hand and offer his congratulations.“Auguri, bedda signura.”
“You speak Sicilian, Don Vicini?” I ask, surprised.
“Se, la me famigghia è di Sicilia.”
I can’t help smiling when he continues stumbling through as best he can, asking about my home and such. But Nico is displeased for some reason. He probably still hates it when I speak anything but English.
“And I thought it was sexy when you spoke Italian, Carlo,” Frankie teases. “But it’s not fair of you to speak another language when I’m just getting decent at that one.” She’s barely older than me, but she’ll make the Don an excellent wife, easing the silent tension between the men so naturally.
“What did he say?” Nico asks curtly as soon as they move away.
“He asked about my family farm, that is all. Are you angry?”
“No, I… I don’t speak Sicilian. I didn’t like not knowing what he said to you.”
My lips twitch. He sounded almost jealous.
His frown deepens as Antonio and Cosima Barzetti arrive. “Giacomo has the flu, or he’d be here,” Antonio explains.
“Your son wasn’t invited,” Nico replies, his chilly tone hanging icicles in the room.
I may be young and less experienced in mafia politics, but it feels like Nico's pulling the cat's tail with these two when he's usually socontained from what I've witnessed. "We are happy you could be here," I offer, trying to sound like a gracious bride.
Cosima leans in to kiss my cheek. “I imagine your mother would be amazed at how high you’ve climbed, my dear.” Giacomo knows Maddalena and I are sisters which means many more now know who and what our mother was. I don’t want to feel shame over that.
“I hope she would be happy for me,” I reply.
“I’m sure. I was good friends with the previous Mrs. Morelli. Perhaps we should have tea sometime.”
I nod even if that sounds horrible to me. I don’t like tea, but I am curious what Nico's first marriage was like.
"Are you ready for tonight, sweetling?" she whispers next. What is it with women asking me that during our reception line? "Based on what Margareta shared with me, tonight may be rough for you."
I stagger back from her words, and Nico's head whips 'round, ignoring whatever Antonio is saying. He gives me one of those looks like an x-ray machine, but the thought of admitting what she said, and possibly having him shrug it off, has me plastering a fake smile back on my lips.
“Mrs. Barzetti was dressed in black,” I muse once they’ve moved on. “My stepmother always said it was bad luck to wear black to a wedding unless you are in mourning.”
“Maybe Cosima is mourning her son’s finger.”
I stare at my husband’s harsh expression, reminding myself of the sort of man I married.
Another set of well-wishers has passed when Nico speaks again, out of the corner of his mouth. “I like your dress. I like that Lucia’s dressmatches it. The ivy. I should’ve got you a ring. An engagement ring. I was…”
“You are a busy man, and this happened fast.”
Our eyes meet once more, and the fizziness inside me returns when he gives me a guarded smile, more special for its rarity. “Thank you. For agreeing.” His hand brushes mine, and despite Cosima's dire words, it’s like a spark catching kindling, burning me up in an instant. I don't know how tonight will go, but I can be brave. Nico's even said he admires that about me.
***
After Nico and I share the traditional first dance, he spends time with several other Trio men, mostly his uncles and cousins, many of them underbosses or captains in other important cities. It’s clear they respect him, but there are a few men from Chicago who seem a little less enthralled with their Capo, not that it deters Nico’s iron will.
When I’m not dancing with the men brave enough to ask me, I stand by my husband, struggling to remember all the new names and wishing I possessed the unflappable aura generally associated with a Capo’s wife.
