Page 76 of Mafia Captor

There’s no church, no white wedding dress. No string quartet playing theBridal Chorusas I walk down the aisle. There isn’t even an aisle. I didn’t want one. I have no dad to walk me to the altar and we didn’t even exchange traditional vows or wedding rings. I’ve wanted to be a Bachman so long, all I needed was the family ceremony to feel complete.

No tall layer cake. I was just craving something… different.

I look around, holding back a laugh as I take in the astonished faces. Boston stands at my side. He leans down, whispering in my ear. “You fucking knocked it out of the park.”

“Don’t cuss,” I tease. “It’s our wedding day.”

He knows I’m joking. Other than putting him in a blue shirt every once in a while, I’d never try to change him.

“This,” he says with a grin, “does not look like a wedding reception. It’s ripper, but Ma’s gonna kill me.”

“No, she won’t. She’s the one who ordered the painted ladies,” I giggle, watching the shock ease into his face.

“No fucking—sorry—freaking way.” He glances over at the beautiful naked women, their bodies painted like landscape art pieces. They stand in front of a matching mural we had painted on one of the stone garden walls.

“Yes. It was her idea. She said she did this once when she was younger, painting her body at a friend’s party in the financial district of Boston.” The women’s bodies almost disappear into the painting. Then they move, turning around so their painted backsides now face the crowd.

“God, I don’t need to hear that.” He grabs a cream-filled shot glass off a passing tray. He takes it and knocks it back, licking his lips. “This is delicious. What is it?”

“It’s a buttery nipple. Butterscotch syrup and Irish Cream.”

“You weren’t kidding when you told me you were creating a sexy wedding.”

“Weddings are about sex and love. Why not celebrate it? And you love art and I love color, so I threw in a little bit of that too.”

“You surprise me. Every day.” He leans down, kissing me, leaving the taste of butterscotch on my lips.

Another waitress walks by, dressed in a full body suit modeled after Van Gogh’sStarry Night, the material shimmering as she moves. She pauses, offering me a Hot Shot. I let the delicious coffee-flavored drink slide down my throat.

She takes the now empty glass back, staring openly at my gown. “I love your dress. It’s exactly what I would want for my own wedding.”

“Thank you.” I look down, admiring my dress. It’s black, to match my man, with some gold for me, a classic asymmetrical, sleeveless, knee length black dress, with a fashion-corset around the middle for a bodice, golden flowers painted on the silk. I turn to show her the back, laced with gold ribbons that trail down to the hem of the skirt. “I’ve always dreamed of wearing something like this but never thought I’d be brave enough to.”

“Confidence. That’s what a good man will do for you.” She shoots an appreciative look to Boston as she moves on to the next guest.

“You hear that,” he says. “I’m a good man. And here you thought I was some kinda bad boy.”

“You’re both. And I love you for it.” I turn my face toward him for another kiss.

He’s wearing his own dream outfit. Black tux, black shirt, black vest, black bow tie, black Doc Martens boots on his feet.

I wanted him to be comfortable at our wedding. I’m hoping to get a dance out of him later. I thought I’d have a better shot if I gave him the okay to wear the Docs.

“Hey,” he says, pulling me off to the side. “I want to show you something.”

He holds out his left hand for me to see. On the base of his left ring finger, where a wedding band would traditionally go, is a tattoo. Beautiful angel wings, branching out from either side of a swirling letterA.

“Oh my gosh! You did that for me?” I grab his finger, bringing it closer. The wings have intricate designs on them. “It’s beautiful.”

“I wanted something permanent to show you’re mine. You should get a matching one.”

I look up to see if he’s serious. Luckily, there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. He knows I’d never get a tattoo. “It’s perfect for you. And I love it. Thank you.”

The enticing aroma of dinner hits us. “I’m starving,” he says.

“Let me show you the food.” I grab his hand, pulling him to the tent. As we go, we pass the various activities I’ve planned. Face painting, wine and design class, body painting with your partner. “You can create a five by four canvas of abstract art designed by your naked bodies rolling around in your choice of colors.”

“We’re doing that later,” he says, waggling his brows at me.

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