Page 4 of She's My Queen

The musician blows into the trumpet.

My niece startles, her little arms shooting up, big blue eyes snapping open, tears instantly pouring out of them, accompanied by a bellowing cry. I chug the remainder of my whiskey and pull the stroller toward me so I can rub her perfect chubby cheek. She grabs my finger and holds it tightly in her fist, my touch slowly calming her down.

But the blood-curdling cry draws her parents, most of the security detail, and even a few seagulls. The concerned mob swarms my guard, who lets them through, scaring my niece even more. Now she’s bawling her eyes out, and I have to pick her up. Carefully. Very carefully so she doesn’t slobber on my suit.

My brother beats me to it. As he scoops up his daughter, he stares daggers at me as if I caused the unrest. I’ve been babysitting Corrado’s child most of the evening so he can stare at his wife’s tits without a little mouth attached to the nipple.

No good deed goes unpunished. I give him a death stare in return.

“Wait.” I lift a pink cotton cloth and hand it to my brother at the same time that my niece makes those cute little “grabby hands” at me and opens her mouth. She projectile vomits right at the center of my chest.

In that moment, the world stills as I process what I’ve tried and failed to prevent.

A situation I can’t control. Disorder. God, I hate disorder.

My brother recovers first. “Pity,” he says and takes the baby away.

His wife’s breast milk on my crisp white shirt isn’t a good look for me. I start to remove my soaked red tie. Busy cleaning up, I don’t notice that one person stayed behind after everyone returned for the cake, until she speaks.

“You aren’t very good with babies,” she says.

I look up to see Cristina, my uncle’s almost bride. She’s as beautiful as a bride can be on her wedding day. Long dark hair drawn back at the sides into an elaborate hairdo that holds a tiara. Small, straight nose. Large, rich chestnut-brown eyes framed in unnaturally long eyelashes. Voluptuous lips painted in salmon lipstick and clear gloss.

A cute island princess.

“Not for lack of trying, I assure you.” I pull the tie from my collar and shrug off my suit, then fold it over the bench before I start to unbutton my shirt, my fingers soaked in vomit. “What a mess,” I mumble.

“Nothing less than you deserve.”

Hateful princess.

I shrug off my shirt and use it to wipe my chest. As I do that, the wind lifts the hem of Cristina’s dress, revealing her cute toes painted in pink and white. A French manicure, I believe it’scalled. Thinking she won’t understand, I compliment her toes in French.

“Merci,” she says.

Surprised, I look up. “You speak French?”

“Only enough to get by. You?”

“I live in Paris.” I grab my suit, debating if I should just take her with me back to the villa now, since I have to leave to change my suit. She’s already here, and the wedding ceremony is over, even though her last name is still Capone and not Mancini. I check the clock. “How long before the fireworks?”

“As soon as I return.”

“What if you don’t return?”

All the blood drains from her face.

“Jesus, I’m joking.” I did say I’d claim her tonight, not this afternoon.

“That’s not funny, Mr. Mancini.”

“You may call me Severio. We’re almost family.”

Her eyes narrow at my taunt.

I give her a once-over again, now looking for hints of fear. She’s wringing her gloved hands in front of her, but that’s indicative of nerves, not fear. When I try to assess her expression, I find her gaze on my abs and chest. A pretty blush colors her cheeks, and she swallows as she looks away.

If she finds me attractive, which she does judging by her appreciative glance, she might even enjoy our evening.

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