Gianni claps my shoulder again. “‘Course she will.”
* * *
String music. Pink and white flowers everywhere. Big hats and fancy dresses; three piece suits and shined shoes. Stained glass windows and high, vaulted ceilings and rows of antique pews. It’s all a bit fucking precious if you ask me.
“Nothing?” I address Gianni the second he rejoins me at the altar. That’s the fourth lap of the church I’ve sent him on, but he hasn’t complained except for a few sneaky grumbles. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down my spine.
“Nope.” My cousin crosses his arms, crumpling the weird little flower buttonhole some aunt pinned on him earlier, and turns to face the crowd at my side. “No snipers or bear traps. No bands of mercenaries or smoke bombs.”
No fiance either, but we don’t mention that.
“Yet.”
Gianni coughs a laugh. “Yet.”
This is good. If we laugh and joke up here, people won’t notice we’re worried. I’ll look less like a fucking idiot who’s being jilted in front of his enemies, and more like the confident, carefree kingpin I aspire to be.
Mia.
What the hell is she doing to me? I thought we understood each other that day on the boardwalk. Underneath my waistcoat, my chest is a lump of raw mincemeat.
When the Serpicos arrived forty minutes ago, something settled in my gut and I felt a whisper of peace. Because why would they turn up without the bride? This looks bad for them, too. I’m the jilted one, buttheyare delivering the insult. And I am not a forgiving man.
But now the musicians are getting restless, playing through their music for the third time, and even the priest is unsure. He’s bustling up and down, leaving the room and coming back.
Has he seen her?
I can’t ask. Fuck.
“Gianni,” I begin, and he gusts out a sigh.
“Don’t send me out there again, boss. They’re gonna think I’ve got the shits. Those Serpico girls—”
“Shut up about the Serpico girls,” I snap, before smoothing a palm down my front. Forcing my face to relax. “They’re dead to you,” I tell him through a smile. “None of them exists except Mia, and if she doesn’t meet me at this fucking altar, the ceasefire is over and we’ll be back to killing their fathers and brothers. Got it?”
“Got it.” Gianni tugs at his collar, clearing his throat. “You want me to go check on her? I could knock on the door to her little room.”
I blink once, slow and wretched.
My ears are ringing. My skin is too tight.
My next words are deathly quiet. “You haven’t knocked on her door yet?”
Gianni splutters. “It’s bad luck to see the bride—”
“Formeto see her, asshole. The groom. Me.”
My cousin scurries back down the aisle and I pinch the bridge of my nose, temples throbbing. This is it.
This is what I get for valuing loyalty over brains.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I stand beside Gianni in the bride’s dressing room. The door to the bathroom hangs open and a breeze blows through, ruffling my hair and cooling my hot cheeks.
The bathroom window is shoved open, a chair abandoned below. A scrap of torn white lace flutters from the window frame.
She ran. Mia Serpico left me at the altar.