Page 15 of Unholy Union
Our clientele is the richest of the top one percent. Celebrities, royalty, politicians.
But while we’re doing business in trade, we’re also importing—and sometimes exporting—all sorts of things that would put us on the FBI’s bad list.
Weapons in shipping containers for auto parts. Money laundered through so-called collector vehicles. Drugs hidden at the bottom of crates of imported wine. High-priced art or stolen artifacts worth millions of dollars.
I’ve spent my entire adult life shadowing Papà, learning the ins and outs of our front business. I’ve taken over the day-to-day operations as capo behind the scenes. As the son of a savvy businessman to the public.
This marriage with the Corsinis gives us access to their various resources we didn’t have before. Corsini Construction is one of the biggest construction companies in the country. Soon, they’re going to be another vessel for our trade business.
“We’re going to be using the Corsinis for their resources,” I explain. “All those construction trucks, all those loading docks…you could smuggle a fleet of Ferraris across the bridge in broad daylight.”
Lazaro nods, arms folded over his chest. “It’ll cut down on our timeline.”
“And increase profit,” adds Cassian.
“That’s the tip of the iceberg. Don Corsini is handing us his key to the city. It’ll all be ours within the first year. Including a spot on the board at Corsini Construction. Once we get rid of Rinaldo, of course.”
A mischievous grin spreads onto Cassian’s face. “And here I thought weddings were a waste of money. You really figured out the fastest way to bankrupt a rival: marry his daughter.”
“Rinaldo is old. He’s past his prime with no viable successor. His bloodline died with his son. If Sabrina learns to adapt, then maybe she’ll enjoy some of the spoils of our success. Otherwise, the Corsinis are as good as gone.”
Lazaro juts his chin at the grandfather clock in the far corner of the parlor room. “Ceremony begins in half an hour.”
“The moment of truth,” Cassian says, raising both brows. “Time to say I do.”
I drain the bourbon in a single swallow, then set the glass down on the nearest table. “Let’s get this over with.”
Every pew in the cathedral is occupied. The fifteen hundred plus people we’ve invited have arrived, eager to watch the spectacle live. A few paparazzi attempt to slip inside, but security’s on it the moment they do, escorting them right out.
The nave is split into two very distinct fractions. The Corsini guests and the Valente guests.
Mobsters on both sides. They’ve come in custom suits, their wives glittering in diamonds in the seats next to them. Associates and acquaintances of both families that are happy to make appearances at these kind of events. And then there’re the guests who were invited out of good will, like the mayor (courtesy of Don Corsini), and a few of Papà’s prestigious trading partners.
“Full house,” Cassian mutters for my ears only. “Nervous yet, brother?”
Standing up front at the altar, I ignore him. I’ve never been nervous a day in my life, but there’s something to be said about being the center of attention on a stage like this.
Especially for a reason I never imagined.
I’m about to pretend in front of a live audience of fifteen hundred people that I’m in love with Sabrina Corsini. That I’m honored to be her husband and will cherish her as my wife.
These things couldn’t be further from the truth, but most of our guests don’t know that. As far as they know, we’ve had a short whirlwind romance and have fallen sickeningly in love.
I stare ahead and spend the time observing the people in the room.
On the right, the Valentes. Papà is seated in the first pew alongside Mama, his jaw tight and his hands folded in his lap. For her part, Mama looks bored, though she’s made sure to be one of the most impeccably dressed women in the cathedral, wearing a custom creation courtesy of Carolina Herrera. Sergio De Rossi and Giada are on the other side of Papà. She keeps staring hard, as if she hopes to lock eyes with me.
I ignore her like always, shifting my gaze to the Corsini side. The seat in the front pew where Rinaldo will sit is empty. He’ll walk his daughter down the aisle before he sits. But I do recognize many of his men in the pews behind his. Others seated seem to be relatives, like cousins and aunts and uncles.
The pipe organ echoes through the room. The discordant sound reminds me more of a funeral than a wedding.
Or maybe more like a nightmare that I unfortunately won’t be waking up from.
Golden light spills through the stained-glass saints overhead and gives the nave an almost surreal tint. It makes the moment feel more like a dream than it already does.
After the first few jarring notes, I recognize the song the organ player’s playing as Schubert’s “Ave Maria”.
The flower girl appears, to my knowledge, a niece of Rinaldo’s, throwing rose petals everywhere as she prances down the aisle in her frilly dress and flower crown. The ring bearer isn’t far behind his little sister; Rinaldo’s nephew is looking sharp in his tux and bowtie as he marches toward the front of the room. Both kids can’t be older than six or eight and have got the same olive skin and freckles Sabrina has.
