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Chapter 11
I’ve attended at least ten Cosa Nostra weddings over the years. Most receptions were held in restaurants, fancy hotel banquet rooms, or luxury country clubs. The more expensive the venue and the production, the better. There is no grander way to show off your wealth and importance within the Family. So, I’m rather confused when Drago parks the car some distance from a three-story gray stone house.
I heard the music long before we reached the place, but this close-up, it’s so loud that it takes me several moments to adjust. An enormous white tent is standing in the middle of the big lawn behind the house. Drago must have missed a turn, because I think we’ve ended up in the wrong place.
“Why are we at a fair?” I ask.
“This is not a fairground. It’ssvadba. A wedding.”
I widen my eyes and look back toward the rectangular tent in front of us. Its sides have been removed, leaving a great canopy to drape over long tables set within. Each table runs the length of the tent and could easily sit about eighty. There are five tables. That’s four hundred guests, minimum. I don’t think I even know that many people.
At one end, a platform has been set up where a band is playing while a blonde-haired woman in a red dress walks among the tables, singing. Most of the guests are standing next to their chairs, dancing and singing along, but some have gathered around the singer and are putting money into her hands.
Kids—boys in cute suits and girls in pretty dresses—are chasing a dog around, running in and out of the tent through the open side panels. There are no grim-faced men talking business in the corners, no stiff-looking women sitting with their backs straight, worrying over moving a muscle for fear that their hair will come undone while they gossip about those not close enough to overhear them. Everyone seems genuinely happy. So different from the Cosa Nostra weddings.
It’s joyful, positive madness. I love it!
“Let’s go congratulate the newlyweds.” Drago wraps his arm around me, tucking me closer to his side as we walk through the crowd toward the head table on the far side of the tent pavilion. It’s set perpendicular to the rest, and more people are milling around it.
The bride is wearing an amazing white lace dress that features a voluminous, full skirt, and the groom is dressed in an elegant gray suit and white shirt. There are two more people at the table—a man next to the groom and a woman next to the bride. All four, however, have pushed back their chairs, and are dancing and singing at the top of their lungs right on the spot.
When the groom notices our approach, he rushes to meet us. Drago and the man exchange a few words, but their conversation is drowned out by all the noise, so I can’t hear what was said. The groom moves his gaze from my husband to me, his eyes as wide as saucers, then he composes himself and offers me his hand. I expect us to head elsewhere to sit down, but the groom starts waving at someone and shouts, “Drago’s wife!”
A moment later, I find myself surrounded by people—men coming to shake my hand and women kissing my cheeks three times—right, left, right. Everyone talks simultaneously. The whole thing would be a little overwhelming if Drago’s body wasn’t pressed to my back, and his arm wasn’t tightly wrapped around my middle.
“The bride’s grandmother,” he says next to my ear as the older woman approaches. He continues whispering small details to me about each person who comes forward. “The aunt from her father’s side . . . Aunt’s lover . . . The groom’s younger brother . . . And the older one . . . The bride’s mother . . .”
I can’t remember half of the names. It continues for ten minutes until my cheeks are tingling from all the kisses, and my hand feels like mush, but I don’t mind. In fact, I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. I never would have expected such a warm welcome from people who just met me. It feels like . . . I belong. It’s the same feeling I have in Drago’s home, like I’m part of a big family.
Once done with all the greetings, we head toward two vacant chairs at the end of one of the long tables. People previously occupying the spots have just left, taking their plates with them. Drago takes one of the seats and pulls me onto his lap.
“So, what do you think?” he asks.
I grin. “It’s crazy.”
The corner of his mouth curves upward. “I figured you’d like it.”
“Let’s take some photos.” I fish the phone out of my purse and lift it in front of us.
“Do we have to?”
“What kind of question is that?”
I snap a selfie, then look at the picture. “No. You need to wipe that glaring look off your face. Insta will censor my post for disturbing content. Again.”
I wrap my arm around his neck, press my cheek to his, and raise the phone.
Click.
“One more,” I say and smile into the camera. When I take a look at the new photo, Drago is brooding in this one, too.
“You’re not taking this seriously.” I reach out and take his chin between my fingers, then tilt his head so he’s looking at the phone. His gaze meets mine on the screen. “Now, smile.”
He rolls his eyes but smiles. It’s kind of sour, but I guess it’s the best I’m going to get.
Click.
I let go of his chin and lower the phone. That’s when I notice people looking at me strangely. Maybe you’re not supposed to take photos at Serbian weddings? I quickly put the phone away.
