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“Wait,” he gasped. “Does this mean that you’ll marry me?”
“Yes. Yes and Yes, Marco DeAngelis, until you’re sick to death of me.”
“Never,” he said, and sealed his promise with a kiss.
Epilogue
BETHANY
Our wedding day came a month later. Vittoria had flown into a flurry of activity organising it the moment she had learned of my pregnancy.
“It must be soon,” she had insisted. “I cannot have my grandchild born out of wedlock. My ancestors would turn in their graves.”
My mom was in full agreement about us getting married sooner rather than later, and between the two of them, they took care of all the planning
Surprisingly, the two women got along like a house on fire. Mom was in Mountview now, where Marco had moved her to the moment a space freed up. When I went for my daily visits, I often found Vittoria already there, both women laughing uproariously about something, but they would never tell me what. Mom had even invited Vittoria to her hydrotherapy dance classes, which always had Vittoria in a cheerful mood whenever she came home.
Our wedding was being held in a small Italian church in the heart of London, and the day came faster than I could have imagined.
I stood at the entrance of the chapel, my heart fluttering with anticipation.
Before me, Amara bounced with excitement, ready for her trip down the aisle, a basketful of pink petals and tiny flowers clutched in her hands. She was beaming with pride and pretty in gorgeous pale gold.
Behind me, Chiara, in matching gold, straightened my long white train.
“Ready?” whispered Mom, in a wheelchair at my side, proud tears glimmering in her eyes. Bernie gave me the thumbs up, ready to push her when I gave the signal.
I took one more moment to breathe in the beautiful scene I could glimpse through the chapel doors ahead of me. The small church, with its high-vaulted ceiling and sun-dappled stained glass, held a delicate intimacy perfect for the group of close family and friends who had gathered to celebrate our day.
Vittoria was sitting so proudly next to all four of her younger sons. She had wept this morning when they had all turned up together, putting aside their rivalries for today.
We were all surprised Amara had agreed to climb down from her father’s arms to carry out her flower girl duties. She was bouncing with excitement now, eager to make him proud of her special role.
The closest of Marco’s large extended family and friends were here. Three of the girls from Bordello, who had been friends with me and Dolly, had come too, after we had reunited at her funeral. They’d brought me the borrowed shoes of delicate lace I was wearing hidden beneath the skirts of my gown, and Dolly’s delicate sapphire necklace, which nestled perfectly against my collarbone. I’d wept, recognising it as her favourite.
And most importantly, through the chapel doors, I glimpsed Marco, standing tall and proud at the end of the aisle, breath-taking in his fitted charcoal suit, his best man Sandro beside him, waiting for me to appear.
The chapel’s interior seemed to hum gently with love and warmth, welcoming me into a beautiful and bright future.
I took a deep breath, my eyes welling up with tears of joy, as I gazed down at my wedding dress. The elegant lace gown was fitted to perfection, with tiny pearls adorning the bodice and a long, flowing train. Vittoria and Mom had overseen every perfect stitch and pleat in the gown, making it the dress of my dreams, wanting me to feel like a princess.
As the chapel doors swung open and the wedding march played, Marco turned. He saw me and exhaled a held breath. His eyes filled with adoration and a touch of awed disbelief.
I smiled at him and he gazed at me, and time stood still.
I took a step forward, guided by Mom’s wheelchair and Bernie’s gentle touch at my elbow.
Amara traipsed ahead of us, scattering her rose petals and buds, her giggles echoing through the chapel. I glanced back at Chiara, with her smile radiating such joy.
Beside Marco, Sandro beamed his trademark smirk. He elbowed Marco, and whispered something that made Marco chuckle, then elbow him back.
After we exchanged our vows, the chapel erupted in applause. And many congratulations and photographs later, we all went home to Marco’s house, to the garden, which had been transformed for our celebration.
Braziers and gas lamps had been lit against the crisp early winter air, and cosy corners had been set up around roaring fire pits. Soft fairy lights were delicately draped among the tree branches, casting a romantic glow. Lanterns were strategically placed along pathways, and illuminated the dancefloor beneath its charming gazebo.
The long, rustic wooden tables for our reception were laid beneath white canopied tents, and adorned with lush garlands of lilies and roses and myrtle.
We dined and talked and laughed and danced, Marco always at my side. I suddenly realised that these past few weeks, the haunting loneliness I had so often felt since my teens, the gnawing fear that something awful would go wrong and life would crash out of my control again, was finally gone.
