Indebted to the Mafia King
Mrs. Cattaneo

Eleni

I twist the ribbon around my deep purple bouquet and look out over the reception. The wives rented a massive ballroom in a hotel close enough to the church that we all walked over when the ceremony ended, and if you'd asked me to guess what Nicky thought a wedding reception should look like, I would've described exactly this. There's nowhere in this place I can look without being confronted by something that sparkles or bears the exact "eggplant" and "pine forest" that are apparently our colors. Above every table, something that looks like a baby mobile made out of twinkle lights and strings of crystals hang. On the purple and green tablecloths sit the most ridiculous place settings I've ever seen. The gilt-edged china sports crossed flowers, a dusty green spring of something that looks more like leaves to me but which she said grow around the Acropolis and a sprig of Italian lilac, both also lined in gold. Apparently, they symbolize the joining of our houses. But what really makes me laugh is the silverware. Not for a mafia wedding, the lowly regular knife and fork. No, Nicky ordered in custom flatware with swirled silver-and-gold handles like our rings.

I never would've picked this out for myself in a million years, but honestly? That's perfect.

On the dance floor, Dante swings someone's niece or daughter or cousin, no more than seven years old, around in a circle. Three other little girls stand around him, pulling on his pant legs and begging for their turns. They flocked as soon as my swollen feet grew too tired, and I fled to our glittering sweetheart table. His grin stretches his face, and his purple tie hangs loose around his neck. At the beginning of this summer, I wouldn't have picked him out for myself either. That Eleni seems so far away now. The good girl who just barely managed to squeeze a couple night classes in between shifts at the diner and making space for herself in the grief surrounding Christos. The one who hurried home, whose world basically stopped at the door to the restaurant, whose sexiest dress was the one she wore to funerals. She found Dante Greek-god handsome but dangerous. Not worth the price of entering his world. She had no idea what it was like to hold a gun, to take a life, to even want someone dead.

I put a hand on my slightly squashed stomach. She also didn't know what it was like to protect someone with her life. Or to love like I do. She was a naïve girl, and I think I'll always miss her a little, but I'm glad I've become the woman who chooses to become Mrs. Cattaneo, even if she doesn't choose anything else about her wedding.

Past the dance floor, next to the towering white wedding cake we haven't yet cut into, a large, round table overflows with laughing, smiling women, nearly all of them over the age of forty. The older wives and nonnas, with Mama smack dab in the middle of them, holding court. Just as soon as we got out of the church-which, she made certain to tell me, was "okay" for Catholics but could've done with a few more spires-she bloomed into a glowing mother-of-the-bride. Maybe even more glowing than I am, between my late night and baby trying to figure out if they hate the lasagna I scarfed for dinner. Now that they can't fight over wedding plans anymore, all the wives seem obsessed with her. The nonnas keep circling her and calling her beautiful, asking if she's sure we're not sisters like they're lecherous old men instead. I haven't been able to pry her away for hours, but watching her smile like this is more than worth it.

My gaze slides back to Dante, now on little girl number two. He said we had time to make our decision, together, but now the wedding's over. What are we waiting for, really? A chance to kill Fyodor, whom he hasn't even gotten close to yet? A sign from God bigger than me suddenly getting pregnant? All this waiting and dragging our feet seems silly. We both know what we want. It's just that neither of us will ask it of the other.

I stand. I'll take the plunge. I'll walk right out onto the dance floor and tell Dante, right here and now, that I want-

Gianna appears like magic and grabs my arm. "Hey! I was just coming to get you."

I blink. "Uh, hey. You look better."

She giggles, and the sleeve of her dress shifts to show a dark hickey one of the many purple-suited groomsmen must've given her. "Hair of the dog."

"You're lucky you don't have a job right now." I shake my head. "Are you getting me for a reason? I was kind of in the middle of something." "Yes, I definitely am." She glances over her shoulder, her brow furrowed. Then, her face lights. "Yes! It's time for the dance. The circle one?" I laugh. "Zorbas?"

She nods. "Exactly!"

This has to be Mama's doing. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd been over there teaching the ladies to dance and convincing the band to play her favorite old folk song. The singer taps his mic as Gianna leads me down. "Alrighty, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for a classic Greek tradition, the Zor-bash!"

Mama scowls, but I can only laugh. Dante grins when I reach him.

"I don't know how to do this!" he says in my ear.

"Follow my lead." I take his hand.

Mama takes my other, and one of the little girls holds onto Dante. Slowly but surely, a circle of people forms, and the band of twenty-something New Yorkers who look like they took this gig to score cigarette money lurches into a version of Mama's favorite song. We blunder into the dance.

Some people stay on the outside of the circle, just clapping. Many of the nonnas, which is good because I don't really want to end my wedding on a broken hip. More of the men than at a Greek wedding. Tony stands nearby, his arms crossed, and I decide to make fun of him when I pass.

The circle drags me closer, stumbling through the kicks and all laughing. I'm two people away. One. I realize Tony's spooky, ice-blue eyes are trained on something specific behind me.

I twist. There, at the edge of the room, stand two men I don't know. That's not surprising, with how many guests Nicky invited. But their drab, ill-fitting suits do stand out. This wedding is a lot of things, but drab, it is not. One of them checks their phone, then nods to the other. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Together, they begin slicing through the crowd.

Tony's hand lands on mine and Dante's. "We have to move. Now."

"What?" Dante blinks, his eyes hazy with the couple whiskeys he's had.

"Now," Tony hisses.

I release Mama, and start to pull Dante away. The dance falters as people start to realize something is happening.

"Excuse me," one of the men bellows over the song.

I'm not fast. Between the dress, the heels, and baby-I spit in my mind I'm not going anywhere. So I release Dante and shove him toward Tony, then plant myself in the path of the men. "How can I help you?" I ask.

In unison, they reach into their jacket, withdraw what look like wallets, and flip them open. The bold, blue letters are unmissable.

FBI.

Organized chaos breaks out. The music cuts off on a sour note. Armed capos flock to the nonnas and take their arms one by one, protecting them and giving themselves the plausible deniability of helping an old woman. I watch dozens of hands go to belts where I know guns wait, then shrink back. The rest of the wives start to form up at my sides, Mama included.

"Apologies, miss, but we have a warrant for the arrest of one Dante Federico Cattaneo." The one on the left looks over my shoulder, where I suspect Dante is. "If you'll come in quietly, we won't prosecute the hundreds of weapons charges in this room."

"No!" I shout. "It's my fucking wedding! You can't have him, not tonight."

The other one shrugs past me, and the click of handcuffs echoes through the suddenly silent ballroom.

"Apologies," the first says again. "Have a good rest of your night, Mrs. Cattaneo."