The yard is packed.
There must be three or four hundred people sitting on white chairs in the freshly cut grass. A huge tent’s been raised with fans gently waving streamers and more flowers and cool air over the assembled people. I don’t recognize the majority of them, though there are plenty of Famiglia people in the mix, lots of Capos and lieutenants and important businessmen affiliated with our more legitimate operations. I recognize a senator, and a congressman, and holy shit, the mayor’s fanning himself and flirting with a girl half his age—probably his date, likely cost a nice chunk from his reelection fund—and I wonder how in the hell my father managed to get all these important people to show up with two days of notice.
But I know how. He’s Don Bruno.
“No pressure or anything, but there are like twenty guys in there that want to murder dear old Papa.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Gavino shrugs. “No reason. Figured you’d want to know.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Just teasing. It’s more like fifty people. Have a good wedding!”
The march begins and Gavino leads me outside. All the assembled people stand and their eyes light on me like laser dots from sniper rifles.
My father takes my arm when I reach the tent and Gavino winks as I walk down the aisle. He pats my wrist and plasters a smile on his face—and I have to admit that my old man’s good at playing the politics game. When we reach the front, he kisses my cheek and pauses to whisper in my ear, “Don’t fuck up,” before he sits in the front chair.
And there he is.
Nico, grinning at me, with Casso at his back. I wanted to have Elise on my side, but she couldn’t make it—and so Gavino and Fynn are filling in.
But I can only see Nico. His smile, the way the tux clings to his muscular chest, the tattoos that peek up at the edges of his cuffs and collar. His lips and sparkling eyes.
Nico. My Nico.
“You ready?” he whispers as the guests are seated.
“I’m ready. You’re not going to run?”
“No, princess. I’m right where I want to be.”
I grin stupidly as the priest begins.
“Congratulations!” Casso gives me a massive hug and I’m passed from person to person as they shake my hand, kiss my cheek, and remark on what a lovely bride I am. It’s a little much and I don’t know half these people, but Nico’s there the whole time, glued to my hip. He steps in when I falter and seems to know everyone intimately. He smooths over my mistakes. He makes me better.
We laugh and dance and drink. Champagne appears in my hand, disappears down my throat, and reappears in my glass not long later. It’s a lovely little cycle and it keeps me buzzed and happy. I let Nico pull me around as we thank the guests for coming and generally do the whole political mafia thing, making sure the important people feel important and our enemies don’t have more excuses to hate us. I’m exhausted and starving midway through the party, and he makes sure I get a chance to eat.
“Can I ask you something?” I lean toward him and kiss his cheek in a rare moment of privacy. We’re tucked down a back hallway as I’m sitting in a bay window with a plate of chicken tenders and a big pile of French fries. Not the healthiest or the classy plate of filet or salmon that I envisioned, but I’m tipsy and I don’t want to be too drunk for—well, for later. I figure I need something breaded and fried to help soak up the alcohol.
“Ask away. We are married now.”
“What’s your last name?”
He grins, eyes sparkling. “Farese. Nico Claudius Farese.”
“Huh. I guess that makes me Karah Farese.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”
“I’ll get used to it.”
He laughs and kisses my cheek. “It’s amazing your father put this together on such short notice. The entire villa’s like one massive party.”
“There are way more people than I ever guessed would show up. I don’t think any of them actually know who I am.”
“They do now. You’re the beautiful daughter of the Don. Nobody can forget you after having seen you in that dress.”
I blush slightly and look down. “Are you going to be nice to me now that we’re married?”
“Absolutely not. But just for tonight, I’ll give it a try.”
I laugh a little and shake my head as a tall man comes striding down the hall toward us. A girl lingers behind him with thick dark hair and dark eyes—pretty and very Italian.
The man has ice blue eyes and dark hair, and he stares like he’s searching Nico for weaknesses before offering a hand.
“My name is Maxim Novalov,” he says crisply and nods once. “Good to meet you, Nico.”