Carlo
I stand in front of the hotel mirror and tie the bowtie on my tuxedo. I checked into the honeymoon suite before the wedding to bring up our suitcases and put the 1988 Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon on ice for later.
I pick up the boutonniere-a pale pink rose-and pin it on my lapel. Summer chose pink roses as her wedding flower because that’s what I always bring her. Not wanting to disappoint, I had the suite filled with dozens of them and petals scattered on the bed, across the counter of the sink and in the tub.
I check my phone. It’s early, but there’s nothing left to do. I might as well head to the church where I can greet the early arrivals. I pick up my keys and head to the elevator. We were lucky enough to nab a reception hall at the Ritz Carlton, thanks to a last-minute cancellation. Normally the hotel is booked nine months out.
Carmen was disappointed about the short engagement, but Summer was perfectly serene in facing down her mother. Actually, she’s perfectly serene in general. Any last misgivings I had about her not really loving me, only needing me, evaporated as I’ve watched a quiet happiness bloom in her.
Not even the stress of wedding planning bothered her-she approached it all with enthusiasm. Carmen wanted things big and fancy, and Summer had her own ideas, but they found ways to compromise.
Her career shifted, too. All on her own, she picked up several teaching gigs, working mostly with children, and she plans to finish business school and then to apply to a Master’s program in Dance/Movement Therapy at Columbia.
In the car, I remove my gun and holster and stash it in the glove box. I’ve worn a gun in church before, but at my own wedding, it seems wrong. My bride shouldn’t have to be reminded of the danger in my life on the day she commits to make a life with me.
Mario
It’s cold in New Jersey in November. My two capos and I sit in the rental car with the heat on full blast outside Alberto LaTorre’s house. There’s been a lot of activity-vehicles coming and going. People carrying boxes out to cars. Carrying hair dryers and curling irons inside. Now a white limo sits out front. Must be a big occasion-a wedding, maybe.
I tracked my Uncle Junior’s grappa exports to the LaTorre family in the Newark area. Forest Hill, to be precise. The don is some kind of relative of my Zia Maria-a nephew, maybe.
This might be a wild goose chase-I have no evidence that Carlo’s in America-but I had to come check it out for myself.
The door swings open again, and I lift the binoculars, feeling more like a cop than the don of the most powerful crime family in Sicily. Several people exit, getting into the various cars parked within the gated property. Sure enough, a beautiful girl in a merengue of white tulle emerges, flanked by an older couple who must be her parents and three young womentwo of them twinsin bridesmaid’s dresses.
I put the car in drive and pull away, turning down a side street, where we won’t be noticed. If Carlo’s part of the LaTorre Family, he’ll be at the wedding, and my men and I can probably blend in, unnoticed. There will be no better place to get a bead on my baby brother.
I idle until the limo passes and let two more cars follow before I pull out to stay on their tail. They weave through the suburb with its towering trees, the branches glittering with a coat of ice. Snow begins to fall-big wet flakes that melt on my windshield as soon as they land.
The limo pulls into a parking lot of a Catholic church bearing the name St. Mary’s Cathedral. I accelerate and drive past, taking a trip back to the main street to get a coffee. Better to show up late to the wedding than be noticed as early arrivals.
An hour later, I drive back. Good thing we always dress sharp, so we look ready for a wedding.
We head in and sit on the bride’s side in the very back, just as the wedding march music begins.
The bridesmaids file in-twins and another young woman, all about the same age as the bride.
Two little flower girls giggle and throw pink rose petals which catch in the froth of white skirts.
And then the groom. I stop breathing for a moment when I realize the groom is Carlo. So my baby brother is marrying into the LaTorre family. He always was smart and ambitious. He knew exactly how to secure his place.
Carlo looks older and yet unchanged-still the same proud face, our mother’s hazel eyes looking out with cool appraisal, even on his wedding day.
I shift behind Tony, who Carlo doesn’t know, to block the view of my face.
Carlo walks to the altar, drops to his knee and makes the sign of the cross. When he straightens, he has eyes only for his bride, who’s walking down the aisle on Alberto LaTorre’s arm.
I assume the marriage is political in nature, not that I doubted my brother would play the part of doting husband to a “tee”, but Carlo’s stoic mask crumbles as he watches the beautiful young woman walk toward him. His eyes redden, his nostrils flare. The two stare at each other, and she, too, grows teary, then giggles a little and leans on her father.
I didn’t doubt Carlo would find success wherever he landed, but seeing him in love makes my chest tighten. His life hasn’t been a complete misery, then.
An older woman sings Ave Maria, and the ceremony proceeds in Latin. Carlo’s focus remains on the priest or his bride until he kisses her like she’s the most precious treasure he could hold, and they turn to their guests. Only then does his gaze land on me and his body goes perfectly still.
His new wife smiles tearfully as he walks her down the aisle, but Carlo’s face is made of stone.
My aisle is the first to exit, and we’re handed little plastic bottles of bubbles with the instructions to wait outside the church and blow. I toss mine in a frozen flower bed and walk to our rental car and lean against it. I have no doubt Carlo will find me here.