1. Weddings and funerals

Chapter 1

Weddings and funerals

Vittoria

There were only two ways to get made men to stop fighting for a day.

Invite them to a wedding, or force them to attend a funeral.

“Five-minute warning,” came from the doorway. A middle-aged woman I didn’t know popped her head into the room, taking care to block me from view of any nosey passersby.

My nod was subtle but my stomach clenched viciously in protest. The woman looked to me, then over to my sister, who sat draped haphazardly over a chair, scrolling away on her phone. I noticed a subtle look of disapproval sweep over her face as she took in Vincenza. The slight lowering of her brow told me she didn’t like the cool, casual manner in which my sister was taking this whole debacle.

Sadly, she didn’t know the half of it.

The woman offered me a thin smile that reeked of pity. Her sympathy was kind, but I didn’t have it in me to return that smile. Not today.

The door closed quietly and the snick of the latch closing in place felt awfully final. I think it was then that I realized that this was actually happening. My eyes closed in silent prayer, hoping some higher being would hear me, beseeching a deity who mightn’t have existed to intervene.

Please, God. Gods. Goddesses. Idols. Spirits. Anyone. Please.

I exhaled long and slow as I stare into the floor length mirror, shaking my hands out as anxiety fingered my spine, settling like a noose around my neck, tightening deliberately until I struggled to breathe and fanned my face, believing I might pass out.

I don’t want to do this.

My numb feet led me to the window and when I peered down at the street, I blanched. Cars were double and triple parked. The church he’d chosen wasn’t very big and I wondered where everyone would fit.

It seemed this tragedy – this catastrophe – would have a live audience.

Oh, God. I can’t do this.

My tongue swelled as I put a flat hand to the area under my breasts and choked out, “Enza, I don’t think I can do this.”

Vincenza, without a care for my disposition, still scrolling on her phone, scoffed, “Of course, you can.”

“No,” I started quietly, shaking my head. “No.” As I began to hyperventilate, my protest became rattled. Louder. “No. No. No. I can’t.”

Predicting a panic attack wasn’t far off, Vincenza finally put down her phone and rose up out of her seat. I was pacing when she took hold of my trembling shoulders, held me still, peered into my eyes and said, “We talked about this.”

I know we did, but that was yesterday, and that was just talk. Today was a whole different story.

Today made it real.