Page 89 of Mafia Fire

There he is.

It’s…him?

His jaw is cut from stone, his eyes as dark as his soul. His lips, though full, rest in a line, a near scowl. There are a few strands of early silver woven through his thick, chestnut hair. He holds his shoulders as if he’s going into battle.

An icy tremble runs through me, a chill running down my spine.

I remember him.

I was working the store, my nose stuck in a book when he first walked in with his posse. He was buying a bouquet of purple roses. For a special lady, he said, his accent a blend of Italian and American, like mine.

His eyes lingered on my face. He brought his finger to my cheek, running it down the curve of my face, leaving a line of fire behind from his touch. The move was so exciting, so possessive, I felt a welling in my chest.

But this was a stranger. And judging by the men in dark suits that flanked both his sides, a dangerous one at that.

When I went upstairs to our home that night, I found the roses in a vase on my front steps. No note. No sign of him.

I took the flowers into the apartment, leaving them on the center of the table. When my father saw them, his face blanched. He scurried from the room without a word.

I figured the gift had made my father uncomfortable, a case of him not wanting his little girl to be all grown up, receiving gifts from strange men. I gave the beautiful roses to a neighbor, but kept the vase.

My father said nothing in the morning, but acted strangely for days. Then the money ran out, our suppliers no longer making deliveries. He confessed his lifelong gambling addiction.

And I forgot about the man with the purple roses.

That was weeks ago.

Now, I stand before him, realizing his gift of flowers was simply a prelude to him claiming me as payment. I want to turn, to run. But I think of my father, and do the only thing I can to keep him safe; put one foot in front of the other and close the final distance between us.

I reach the front of the church, and I stare straight ahead past his looming presence, focusing my eyes on a bouquet of white lilies resting on a table just behind the priest.

The mass is in Italian. The Russo family has ties to Italy as well as America, and like me, are bilingual. I let the words flow around me, unable to focus. Vincent stands beside me, his arm a hand’s length from mine. I feel heat emanating from his body, making my spine rigid, my muscles tense.

The priest drones on. My feet pinch in my shoes. Dread creeps through my body, weighing heavy in my stomach. My heart thumps in my ears. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes.

I will them away.

Do not cry, Felicity.

The language changes to English, I assume for the benefit of Vincent’s friends who have flown in from the states. They will want to hear the words, to understand what is said as we bind our lives to one another for all eternity.

Only there will be no exchanging of vows today. My hands shake as I realizeI can’t do this.

His dark eyes lock on mine.

And he begins to speak.

He’s saying the words by heart. He’s taken the time to memorize them.

"I, Vincenzo, take thee, Felicity to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith."

For one bizarre, fleeting moment, I’m touched.

Then, I remember the monster in the man that stands before me.

The priest turns to me. “Now Felicity, please repeat after me. ‘I, Felicity, take thee, Vincenzo, to be my wedded husband…”

The priest awaits my response, dewy perspiration forming above his brow.

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