Indebted to the Mafia King
Wedding Bells

Dante

I stretch my sore knuckles on the little stage that holds the altar at St. Michael's, a church I haven't set foot inside since Mom died. As Dad used to say, church is for people who confess their sins, and Saints aren't that goddamn stupid. But it seems like I am. Father Stefan's gaze follows the movement of my hands and snags on my split, bruised knuckles. He frowns. I thank God they built this church with the organ so close to the front that he couldn't nag me about them if he wanted to. He'd probably start with how many masses I've missed anyway.

God hasn't struck me with lighting yet, but Fyodor seems well on his way to trying, so I'll take my chances.

The doors open, and I jerk my head up, hoping for El. Fuck, I've missed her.

No dice. Tony and Gianna enter, arm in arm. Tony wears the same deep purple suit I do, with the same sprig of greenish flowers pinned to his lapel, but he manages to look a little less uncomfortable. Gianna looks like death warmed over in a floor-length, forest green cocktail dress. I don't think it's the dress's fault. No, I'd guess El actually had the blow-out, kiss-the-single-life-goodbye party that I didn't have time for in two full days standing in an abandoned bodega, beating the shit out of Teb, and her maid of honor is feeling the consequences.

I look out over the crowded pews and wish I recognized more of the faces. This is the problem with a Sunday wedding. The whole congregation is here, from babies to old men and women clutching walkers to balance through the long procession. Our guests dot the crowd, sticking out like sore thumbs. Pitch-black suits amidst the grays and browns and blues. Neon-colored dresses between soft florals and woven hats. But that doesn't mean the rat Teb mentioned couldn't have snuck in, hidden somewhere in all those regular faces.

Two fucking days, and we didn't get another useful word out of the bastard. At least outside of church, my failures don't still count as sins.

Maybe I should watch my tongue. There's still a chance for God to strike me down. Adri stands in one of the front pews, holding ten-year-old Mona's hand while sixteen-year-old Al watches the doors. No sign of Mikey yet, which means he's still dumping Teb's body. Maybe God has a sense of humor, and he's waiting until the deed is properly done.

I flex my aching hands again. Tony and Gianna reach the altar, split. Tony comes to stand by me, and we exchange a look. I know his knuckles aren't in a much better state. I also know he's thinking about blowing off the reception to go find out what Cal dug up in our absence. I haven't decided if I give a shit yet.

When I told Cal I had to go, he was pissed. Demanded to know what the fuck was more important than finding this bastard. With five of his guys in the room, I couldn't throw my wedding in his face like I wanted to. Inviting Cal-and I know he would demand an invitation-would be one thing. A whole pack of Irish Kings was another entirely. So I just told him that he agreed I could be the fucking boss, which meant I left when I said I had to leave, and then ordered him to keep chasing the lead of whoever the hell Fyodor is sleeping with now.

Hopefully, he comes up with something. Then, I won't have wasted my last night with El before our wedding on a few bruises and nothing more. I'm getting real fucking tired of chasing a ghost.

Bridesmaids and groomsmen seem to keep appearing forever. I swear, people start walking in that I don't recognize. Mikey arrives and hurries down to the front. From a side entrance, two more men in suits that I actually don't recognize hurry inside and take a pew in the back.

The hairs on the back of my neck raise. Who the fuck are they? Every man I have in this church is armed to the teeth, just in case Fyodor thinks this is his moment, so I'm not worried about two dickheads, but that doesn't mean I'm itching for a firefight at my goddamn wedding. I glance at the little nook with the stained-glass window of St. Nicholas, where a velvet kneeler hides enough guns for even this endless parade of groomsmen.

The hymn swells, and the main doors open again. Before I even look up, I know. El's finally here.

I meet her eyes down the aisle.

Instantly, I forget about everything outside of St. Michael's and most of the things inside it. There's no room for anything in my brain but her. She's stunning. Awe-inspiring. Something beyond that. Her dress strides the line between sexy and way-too-sexy for church. The glimpses of her arms through the long sleeves are strangely tantalizing, even pulling my gaze away from the truly impressive cleavage bubbling from the neckline. I can't see the back from here, but I begin praying for a zipper.

This is what the wedding's really about. Not the stuffed pews, not the hymns, not Father Stefan's wheezy homily. Making this beautiful woman my wife, and then taking her home to fuck the absolute shit out of her.

I don't realize she's arm-in-arm with Mama until they reach the foot of the little stage. Mama offers me Eleni's hand.

"I don't need to say it, do I?" she asks.

I shake my head. She's made her various threats more than clear, which I appreciate. With a small smile, Mama puts El's hand in mine and takes a seat in the front pew. Father Stefan raises his hands and begins the greeting, but I only have eyes. for Eleni.

She grins at me through the lace of her veil. I'd give almost anything to rip it off her without waiting a full mass. My wife, very nearly. Her smile fades a little as she glances at the pews, and I realize she's just as uncomfortable being here, in front of all these people, as I am. I take her hand, then start tracing surreptitious letters on her palm.

When I reach the end of elope instead, her smile returns. And for that, I'll wear the fucking purple suit and listen to the readings and stand here until my knees give out.

Finally, Father Stefan reaches the important parts. I nod along through all the "do yous," knowing I'll do anything for this woman. For worse? Check. In sickness? Already done. Poorer? Well, I doubt I'll ever have to prove that one, but I'd live with El in a cardboard box if she wanted to.

"I do," I say, proud and certain.

When El's turn comes, her voice wobbles with tears. I grin. We didn't have time for writing our own vows, but this is just as good.

Father Stefan blesses the rings, then hands hers to me. I went back to Louie for it almost as soon as she said yes, so the craftwork is incredible. Unlike the bold, distinct bands of gold and silver in her engagement ring, here the two metals are twined so closely together they almost look like wire, layered over itself a hundred times. An interlinked net of our lives, now impossible to pull apart. "With this ring, I thee wed," I say.

She smiles down at it for a moment. It fits perfectly, both on her finger and against the other one. Then, she takes my ring, which I've felt naked without all day.

"With this ring, I thee wed." She starts to put it on my thumb, a reminder of how long she wore it, then shifts to my ring finger when Father Stefan sighs. "You may now kiss the bride," he says.

I throw back her veil, and though she's made up like a Broadway performer, she's still my El. I couldn't imagine her being anyone else. When I kiss her soundly, only half aware of all those kids I saw in the audience, my mind drifts thankfully to the fact that we made it through the ceremony without gunfire.

Rare, for mafia weddings, but I will absolutely take it.

Once Father Stefan finishes his endless mass, I pick up my beaming wife and carry her out of the church, into the rest of our life.