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My eyes trail over the ballroom around us, the security cameras overhead, the doors that didn’t open—I give him a look. I don’t have to roll my eyes for him to know what it means, earning me that maddening signature smirk I have missed so much.
A car waits outside. Two men accompanying us to take Donny into their custody, and the exchange is smooth, if tense, guns pointed until the moment the car is speeding off into the city.
The silence rushes in. Marcel sits in the passenger’s seat. Salvatore and I are in the back of a car. I am dressed up, sprawled on his lap. We are going to his house. I feel as if I have been catapulted through time, landing right back here, right where it all started.
This time, when Salvatore kisses me in the back of the car, as if he is claiming a part of my soul, I kiss him back, and claim a part of his.
26
Contessa
Five months later
I always imagined I would have a springtime wedding. Budding flowers and warming sun, the world brimming with the promise of life and possibility. But a fall wedding—it suits Salvatore. The inevitable necessity of death, unable to have growth without decay. I can see the beauty in both.
We plan for an October wedding. Salvatore is too impatient to wait for seasons and weather and vibes. I think if the ceremony weren’t important to the family, he would have already had us eloped by the nearest priest he could get at gunpoint.
My old room has been turned into a little studio for my artwork. His bedroom has become our bedroom, where I have complimented his dark wardrobe with a sea of bright dresses and scattered jewelry. The pistol I used that night is now displayed next to Salvatore’s in the weapon case. A long line of tradition is broken by our guns—his pistol the only one that has a twin, sitting side by side with mine. My initials have been added to the little gold plaque underneath our weapons.
Though I don’t need the reminder of that night, I appreciate being included in the tradition.
Ava welcoming me back home has, apparently, been one of the few times she has spoken since she lost Vinny. She even hugged me. Often, I find myself going to her room now, sitting with her in the quiet, as we pass the time again. I brush out her hair, and between Marcel and I, we make sure she gets at least one solid meal a day. I hate how our roles feel reversed. She’s invited to my wedding, though I promise her she doesn’t need to feel pressured to attend. I have no idea if she will be there or not. I hope so.
Well-wishes and welcome home sentiments are gradually offered to me. More and more, the family has gotten used to seeing me around the house and at dinners, which I now attend with Salvatore and the immediate family.
There is one final person who calls upon me in the days leading up to my wedding.
Cecilia Mori is the last person I expected to ask for me. She invites me for lunch in her little corner of the house, the sunroom, with its many exotic plants and carefully arranged antique furniture.
Now that I have made the connection, I see Cecilia’s influence over this warm little space, where she keeps herself bundled up and watches the outside world from her wheelchair. I glance toward the glass door that I absolutely obliterated once; it probably didn’t do anything for her opinion of me.
Cecilia has never called on me since I returned to the house. Not once.
I wonder if I am going to be given the shotgun talk, or maybe she will try to pay me off to leave and give up this mad dream of marrying Salvatore right before I sign myself over to him.
As if I am not already his, as much as he is already mine, in ways that neither of us can undo now.
But there are other ways to stop a marriage. I sniff my tea for the scent of almonds, just in case.
Instead of poison, Cecilia offers me an old necklace box with scuffed edges. I’m unsure as I take it, feeling its age. Inside, I find a vintage necklace—the Mori family insignia in white gold, set with diamonds, with the heart of a gorgeous gem. The stuff of heist movies—the kind of jewel that should have its own name.
“This heirloom is passed down among the women in the family. It is formally held by the don’s wife. My sister was the last to have it, and until such a time that someone else came along to claim it, it has stayed in my safekeeping. I have been holding out for too many years to pass this along, Miss Lovera. God forbid it have to go into Vera’s charge,” she adds, snippily. I bite back the smile at that familiar, surly judgment that was once directed at me. “I admit, when I first heard of Salvatore’s choice, I had no intent of handing this down. Over my dead body is not much of a threat, for a woman of my age, but that was my sentiment.”
“Then why are you giving this to me now?” I ask, not understanding. Cecilia and I have hardly spoken, even now that I am moved in. I thought she would be much happier that way.
“No one raised Salvatore Mori up to be what he is. What I have wanted in this family, for many years, is a sense of honor. Tradition. Stability. My only ambition was to secure him a good match. A don needs a very specific type of wife. Someone who would strengthen both the family and the man.
Salvatore was never dismissive, but you could always tell he would do things his way, one way or another.”
I know that all too well.
“You have gotten through to him in ways that the elders cannot, and by all accounts, I believe you have good instincts for this role. God knows where you got those from, perhaps your mother. So, while your bloodline may be…unusual,” she just barely swerves around the word unsavory, “I do see some of the old ways in you.”
I bite down my smile again. Maybe it would be unfair to expect the old woman to change completely.
“Take it, and wear it to your wedding, if you can. It’ll do you good. The men may not see it for anything special, but what do men know? Among the women in this family, it means something that you have this. They’ll respect you. Consider it, if you will, my blessing to your union with Salvatore.”
I am briefly floored. I thought this woman hated me.
