42

Callahan
I consult my watch, adjust my cuff link.
She has four minutes.
It’s cooler today than it’s been, a storm slowly rolling in. I watch the clouds as I think about the afternoon. My uncle is pissed I wouldn’t tell him where the wedding would take place.
I don’t want him there for a stupid reason. I don’t want him to see my mother’s ring on Portia’s finger.
Lenore must have mentioned that Father Michael would be performing the ceremony. He thought that was dramatic and unnecessary.
I told him I needed it to be done right. In a church with a priest. No city hall. I told him I didn’t want the cartel thinking it’s not a real marriage. Not that I really think they would. We’d be legally married in a ceremony at civil hall too.
The men have secured the chapel, sir,” Dante says to me.
I nod and the roof door opens.
“Still not sure why a justice of the peace wouldn’t have done it,” Antonio notes.
I don’t comment. He doesn’t like Portia simply because she is an Esmeralda. I understand.
Nathan steps out first. He’s dressed in one of my old suits. It’s got to be at least ten years old, but he looks better than he did a few days ago.
He smiles and nods to me. He’s not a bad kid. I only spent about an hour with him, but no one would believe he was cut from the same cloth as his two older cousins.
Then again, Portia only shared one parent with her brothers. Portia’s mother was Manuel Esmeralda’s mistress-turned-second wife. He left his first wife, Vincent and Gregory’s mother, for her. I have a feeling that had something to do with the bad blood between them.
I gesture to the pilot that we’re ready to go as Nathan pushes the door wider and Portia steps onto the roof. She’s huddled into a heavier coat than I’d expect for the temperature and is hugging it closed.
When she sees me, she quickly averts her gaze.
Lenore steps out after her.
“Thank you, Nathan,” I say to him as they approach, then turn to Portia. “You look nice,” I tell her. “As always.”
She looks up at me, her lashes thicker for the mascara accentuating the soft caramel-brown of her eyes.
“You don’t look like a Neanderthal yourself,” she says.
“Well, that’s something.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t one.”
I grunt.
She shivers.
“Are you cold?”
She looks around anxiously. Shakes her head no.
Once the others are on board, I gesture for her to climb on.
Her expression grows weary at the chopper, the blades whirring overhead growing louder as they kick up the wind.
“It’s safe,” I tell her and help her in.
“Why can’t we just get married here instead? It’ll save everyone a lot of stress.”
“We need a church.” I close the door and when we lift off, Portia grips the edges of her seat. I reach over to strap her in.
For the duration of the short flight, no one but Nathan speaks.
Lenore doesn’t much care for the chopper and it’s obvious how Portia feels. Nathan, at least, is excited. Exactly as I’d expect a boy his age to be. He’s asking all kinds of questions, eyes bright and exhilarated.
It’s a short ride and once we arrive on the mainland, everyone unloads. The SUVs are waiting to take us to the chapel. A small and mostly unknown place in a village just a little too far out of the city to become trampled by tourists.
It’s always strange to me how throngs of people can be in one place. Everyone literally overrunning each other, and call it a vacation. As if crowds are remotely enjoyable.
Meanwhile, if they ventured just a mile farther, they’d find undisturbed, quiet beauty.
“Where are we going?” Portia asks me as I lead her to one of the SUVs.
“You’ll see.”
I climb into the SUV beside her and our procession starts its drive along the coast to Santa Elena, a tiny fishing village where Father Michael awaits our arrival at the chapel known to the locals as the Blue Chapel.
Portia keeps her gaze on the water. “It’s pretty out here.”
“It is.”
She turns to me. “Why did you give me your mother’s ring?”
I’m surprised she knows, but I guess I shouldn’t be. One look at my mother’s portrait and she’d recognize the ring.
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s an honest answer. I’m tired of going around in circles trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense. That’s all I seem to run into with her.
“I won’t take it. When it’s over, I mean. I’ll give it back to you.”
“I told you it’s yours. I have no use for it.”
“It’s your mother’s ring, Even you have to have more feeling than that.”
The words are a blow. “It’s yours, Portia.”
“I’ll wear it as long as we’re married, but I won’t take it from you. It’s not right.”
We’ll see. I don’t say it out loud and she shifts her gaze back out the window.
“Are you ever jealous of them?” She gestures to the couples on the beach bundled up against the cool evening, taking in the last of the sun. “They look so happy.”
“I don’t think about it.”
“You don’t think about a different life?” she asks, looking at me again. “Where you’re not you?”
“Do you?”
“What do you think?”
I glance beyond her momentarily, taking in the colors of the sunset on the water before meeting her eyes again. That’s when it happens. When I have that brain rattling moment again. When a flash of memory sends a shock of electricity straight through me.
Us on the beach. That photo. Sunset. Mom and dad young and laughing. My brothers playing. Me tickling Elizabeth’s tiny, pudgy feet after burying her in the sand. Her giggles like all little kids, are filled up and bursting with joy. Just giggling and wiggling her toes.
I exhale. Blink to find Portia watching me intently, her left brow arched. I close my eyes and run a hand through my hair, looking away from her eyes.
“I think you shouldn’t waste your time fantasizing about things that can’t be,” I tell her just as we pull into the town and I see the chapel. Before she can open her mouth to reply, the SUV pulls to a stop and I climb out. I close the door behind me and take a deep breath in, grateful for the cooler temperature.
Diamente comes toward me.
“Callahan.” We shake hands. “I finally get to meet your bride.”
“Thanks for coming.” Diamente will stand as my witness since Antonio refused. He doesn’t agree with the wedding in the church. He understands the necessity of it but won’t accept the rest.
Incense hangs heavy in the fresh salty air.
I walk around to Portia’s side and open her door.
She ignores my hand and slides out on her own. She looks around quickly but her eyes land on Diamente who smiles wide at her.
“I see why you’ve kept her locked away,” he says.
She gives me the side-eye and I have to wonder at his choice of words.
“Diamente, this is my fiancee, Portia Isabella Esmeralda. Portia, Diamente Lombardi. Family friend and my right-hand man.”
She looks at him again, shifts her gaze to his outstretched hand. She reluctantly slips her hand into it but only momentarily.
“Very nice to meet you, Portia,” Diamente says. “An honor to bear witness to your wedding.”
She just studies him in silence, and I can almost hear the things she’s telling him on the inside.
“Christ,” I mutter.
Diamente just gives me a wink. “I’ll see you at the altar, Cal Boy.”
Her gaze follows him to the chapel door where he disappears inside.
It’s a small wooden structure and doesn’t look like much from the outside. Our small group makes their way to the doors, Portia and I at the back, Nathan near us. No one speaks.
Once there, Dante opens the door. The place has been secured already. Even though no one knows we’re here as opposed to the very public charity event, I’m not taking any chances.
My uncle thought we’d be married at the church in Naples where my parents had their ceremony. He sounded a little bitter when I wouldn’t give him the details of our plans but seemed to accept it when I told him I didn’t want to marry her in the same place my parents had been married. He doesn’t know I invited Diamente.
This chapel, though, it’s where my mom was baptized.
Rain begins to fall lightly. Portia and I are the last to enter, leaving several soldiers outside.
Once we’re in the vestibule, I tell Nathan to wait inside the church and turn to my bride-to-be.
She’s looking at me, shivering a little. Raindrops dot her cheeks and two have fallen on her pretty, upturned nose. I wipe them off then brush her hands away from the coat in order to unbutton it and slip it off her shoulders. It’s then I realize why she’s been holding it closed all this time.
“Really, Portia?”I ask, shaking my head.
She grinned. “I thought black was more fitting.”
She’s wearing a black dress appropriate fora funeral not a wedding.
I adjust the lace collar which has fallen over and use it to tug her closer, taking in her paler complexion, her wide eyes as she waits for my reaction.
“You’re right,” I start, playing her game. Winning it. “Black is more fitting for a cartel princess become mafia queen.” I cup the back of her head, weave my fingers into her hair and tug when she pushes against my chest.
“I’m not your queen,” she says.
“Not yet, but before the night is out, you will be mine. All mine.”
Her expression turns into one of worry as she searches my eyes.
“Let’s go get married,” I tell her and shift my grip to her arm, bypassing her uncle to walk her to the altar myself.