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The priest behind me clears his throat just as the unmistakable sound of a gun goes off.
* * *
CHAPTERTEN
Marialena
If we were a normal couple, or if this was a normal wedding, I suppose there would be screaming, running, fainting. But we aren’t normal people, and this isn’t a normal wedding.
So when a gunshot blasts on my wedding day just as Romeo hands me off to Salvatore, the two men devoted to my protection spring into action. Salvatore shoves me to the ground as Romeo reaches for me, but Salvatore’s already got me in his grip and Romeo’s a fraction of a second too late. I lift my skirts and take out the small pistol I have in a thigh holster. Thanks to my brothers, I can shoot as well as any man here, and my low vantage point will come in handy.
I half expect my almost husband to growl at me and tell me to put it away, but he doesn’t. He takes one look at me and gives me a proud smirk. “Cover my back,” he orders, his own weapon poised. His guard rushes to find the source of the shot.
No one’s fallen to the ground. No one’s bleeding. There’s no evidence that anyone here at the wedding has been shot. I glance quickly at the priest, who’s pale but otherwise unharmed. I’m disappointed to see Salvatore’s mother also unscathed.
A few murmurs go up from the crowd. “Sit, all of you,” Salvatore barks, his voice like a sledgehammer. The entire crowd, every man, woman, and child, does what he says and hardly breathes, as if the entire group of them fears Salvatore’s wrath more than being shot.
Interesting.
“Scan the front entrance. Secure the gate.” I watch as he barks out orders and speaks into a mouthpiece. Men in suits run to obey, guns drawn. Still, everyone else sits, all eyes on Salvatore.
“You see anything by the ocean front?” he mutters. It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me. From where I am, I can see several boats just beyond the waterfront, but nothing out of place. “No, I don’t think that—no, wait. There are two men on a sailboat maybe ten yards from shore. They’re in some kind of a fight. I wonder if one pulled a gun on the other.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, turning to look at the ocean. “What the fuck kind of vision do you have?”
“Perfect,” I mutter. He gets grumpy over the oddest things.
I hazard a glance up at my scowling brother who isn’t amused there’s shenanigans at my wedding.
“I’ve got a team at the beach,” he says. “I can have them investigate.”
“Do it,” Salvatore agrees.
Romeo pulls out his phone and issues a few short commands in Italian. Wordlessly, Salvatore reaches for my hand and lifts me to my feet. “Sit and put your gun away.” He pulls over a vacant white chair and yanks me onto it.
I mutter under my breath but don’t make eye contact with him. Why doesheget to keep his gun out? I freeze when he leans down toward me, one hand on the back of my seat. The scent of his cologne wafts over me. I’m struck by the way his body moves with fluid grace, the stark blue of his eyes that pierce straight through me, the masculine scent of him that’s fucking erotic.
“I know you’re an excellent shot,” he says quietly. “And I trust you know when and how to make the call to shoot. But I don’t need everyone here to know that about you. Sometimes, a wild-card shooter comes in very, very handy.”
“Are you flattering me?” I mutter.
“Is it working?”
I note the heat in my chest and the way I’m oddly pleased he wants to keep me as a wild card. “Yes.”
A swift curling of his lips tells me he’s pleased before he turns away again.
I do what he says and casually slide my gun back into the holster. I like the familiar cold heft of it against my naked skin.
Ten minutes later, his men have given the all clear, and Romeo’s guard have indeed ferreted out the men near the shoreline. Ironically, the Rossi crowd manages to get local authorities involved and returns to the ceremony in record time. By the time they do, staff is pouring out glasses of wine in disposable stemware, as if we’re starting the reception early.
Don’t mind if I do. I take a glass of champagne in each hand.
Salvatore clears his throat. “Let’s have a wedding.” I down both glasses of wine and hand them to a nearby server.
My feet feel wobbly, my head a bit fuzzy, as I take my place at the altar with him. It passes in a blur, a jumble of prayers and well wishes and vows I’ve heard before. I say my part and he says his, though I stumble a bit over thelove, honor, and obeypart. Whereas modern weddings have struck the archaic language from their vows, my family and his still maintain them as a necessity.
I won’t love him. It’s silly to even take that vow. And that promise to honor and obey, which I knew was coming thanks to witnessing my sister and brothers’ weddings, is a huge pill to swallow.
