Maybe it’s because they’re a little older, in their forties and fifties, so they’re past the bullshit displays of wealth and extravagance that seem to color most Italian weddings. Maybe it’s the fact Augie is simply a cool son-of-a-bitch who doesn’t let aesthetics dictate what’s meant to be the happiest day of his life.
Whatever the reason, this wedding is small and perfectly formed. The ceremony and reception take place at a small, exclusive vineyard on the North Fork. The bride eschews the traditional bridal gown in favor of an ivory jumpsuit, which, if the oohs and aahs of the Castellano sisters is anything to go by, is apparently a good fashion choice.
The canapes served so far have been unpretentious and theguns largely hidden. All in all, a respectable affair. Even though the majority of guests would be deemed by the rest of humanity as thoroughlyunrespectable.
I stand beside my brothers at the edge of the outdoor space, watching Augie Zanotti stand at the altar looking relaxed and so happy I wonder if someone painted that smile on his face.
Beside me, Remo shifts impatiently, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. If an event doesn’t provide some sort of opportunity to negotiate a black market deal or make a new, darkly profitable connection, it’s a waste of his time.
The girl on his arm is young, pretty and blonde. Very much a stereotypical mafia catch. Her enormous sunglasses are perched on her head and she’s pawing at Remo’s arms like she’s acting out a part inThe Godfather.
Remo hardly glances at her. If she wasn’t clutching at him possessively, he’d probably forget he even brought her. He’d certainly forgotten her name when I went to introduce myself.
Cassio stands off to my right, his date quietly composed, her eyes a touch too wide. At least she looks like she understands where she is. She’s hardly spoken a word since she arrived, which is probably how Cass likes it. He’s too chaotic and too ambitious to let a woman into his thoughts, let alone his conversation.
Brando, on the other hand, has gone straight for the jugular, bringing a fucking supermodel as his guest. He’s the better looking of all of us but the most fucked up. Girls seem to be drawn to his ‘edge,’ which is fine if you like being largely ignored, fucked with zero emotion and then dumped like a sack of moldy bread.
And me?
I’m here with Vivienne, who is making her way back from the bathroom, as ever a picture of calm composure.
She’s used to coming along to these things as my plus one. She’s old enough to be my aunt, but she knows this world inside out and, importantly, she’s not intimidated by it. I can prettymuch leave her to any conversation and she’ll hold her own—and report back.
But for the first time in my existence, I wish someone else was standing in her place.
There’s no way I could have brought Pfeiffer here. Not while my brothers still want to see her broken into pieces on my bedroom floor. And not while I’m trying to come to terms with why I don’t want to do that anymore.
I’m falling too fast.
I think about her every waking minute. I check my phone without realizing, just to see if she’s been in touch. I find myself wanting to feed her, clothe her and parade her around New York so that everyone knows she’s mine and anyone who touches her will die a slow, agonizing death.
I’ve thought about subletting the Fagan’s little outhouse so I can carve up any man who dares to look, let alone touch.
It's all very over the top.
And all highly inconvenient.
But I don’t give a fuck. Not when it comes to her.
The ceremony ends and the guests shift en masse. People stand and wipe tears of happiness from their cheeks.
The reception is also decidedly un-messy. A crooner sings love songs in the corner of the lawn while wait staff hand out endless glasses of champagne.
Remo has his head down at a high table with a guy I vaguely recognize as one of the Di Santo associates based in Florida. They’re probably figuring out a coke route to supply our casinos in Atlantic City. His date wanders around clutching two glasses of champagne, her heels wobbling precariously with each step.
My gaze roams the garden landing on Brando. He’s seated at one of the tables, silently flipping his blade, his staggering beautiful date trying—and failing—to gain his attention.
Cassio saunters up to me, nodding to Vivienne who gracefully slips away.
He leans beside me at the bar, and orders a drink.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“I’d rather besomewhereelse,” I reply.
He glances sideways. “With her?”
Each of my brothers is perceptive. Cass is the only one who demonstrates any compassion. So I tell him the truth, not only because he might get it, but because I need to tellsomeone.
