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The last war between the Italians and Russians, New York and Chicago, had been a long and brutal one. It was known as ‘the black summer’ as it raged on from June to the following August. The five families of New York had come out on top, the war marshalled by Paolo Falcone himself. The masterstroke, Paolo killing the heir of the Bratva. The details of the event were clandestine, nobody cared how he did it, they were just focused on the victory. Since then, both sides had carefully tiptoed around talk of another war, but I knew the Bratva were slowly building steam, partnering with the Triad to acquire territories out in the West. If Damon is correct, then it seems like the Russians are looking to make a move soon.
I stare at myself in the mirror at the wedding shop, hardly believing where I am and what is happening. Mama and Zia are with me, and Zia is sneakily drinking absinthe in a bottle disguised as water which she thinks nobody notices. Small bursts of excitement hit me, mixed with anticipation and anxiety.
What am I doing?
I know I have no choice in this, I know I would rather marry Rocco than Pietro, but at the same time, with Pietro I have no interest in him. He doesn’t make me feel anything yet with Rocco, I am terrified I will end up feelingtoomuch.
“How much?”
“Twenty-thousand,” the assistant states while she zips me up.
“Hmm,” I say, unsure, peering around at the several dresses sprawled out everywhere.
“I have one left, but it’s a little pricey,” she says, hesitantly.
“Let me see it.”
“It’s seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“I definitely want to see it then,” I say, smirking.
“It’s a custom Dior, the princess of Spain’s wedding dress was inspired by this one,” the assistant says as she helps me put on the dress.
“I think this is it,” I say, smoothing it down.
“I hope your husband has deep pockets,” she says, putting on the veil as well.
“He does.” I nod at her envious look.
“If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him, so why not you? If you don’t, you’re as dumb as he is.”
—Arnold Rothstein
THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY IS TONIGHT, THE DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING ARE WHITTLING DOWN QUICKLY.
I haven’t slept since papa told me I will be marrying Rocco instead, surprisingly mama has been over the moon.
She has been bragging to anyone and everyone about the engagement, although she doesn’t voice her pleasure to poor Carmela Rossi who has not been seen in public since the wedding rehearsal.
“What do you think?” I say, walking out to Mama and Zia. I can’t see them through the veil, and there is unfamiliar silence.
“Perfecto,” Mama says while examining the dress.
“Maybe take this bit out a little,” Zia says as she points at the chest area, which is corseted in tightly.
“No, I like it,” I say firmly, thinking of Rocco’s reaction to the shapely silhouette the dress provides.
“I think Zia is right,” Mama says while staring at the heaving bustline reproachfully.
“I like it. Besides, this is only the reception dress.”
“How many dresses do you need? Are you Princess Grace of Monaco?” she snaps.
“Why do you care? Croccifixio is the one paying.”
“What about your engagement dress? Where is that?”
“I had it custom-made,” I say, smiling to myself.
