After all, not many people could shoot the capo of Malocchio and live to tell the tale.

4. The importance of traditions

Chapter 4

The importance of traditions

Vittoria

After our shared kiss, the evening wore on in a different bearing. The familiar sounds of chatter and boisterous laughter echoed through the hall. People drank and danced, and I yawned into the backs of my fingers.

I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I could sense it was getting late when a pretty woman approached, crouched between out chairs and said, “Okay, you two. You got through it. And believe me, there were moments I thought you wouldn’t so, you know. Good for you.” It was then that I noticed it was the same woman who had given me the five-minute warning before the ceremony. “Now, all that’s left to do is the smashing of the vase. After that, you can leave.”

My voice came out worn. “Smashing the vase?”

The woman blinked at me. “You don’t know? The two of you hold a vase together then throw it down on the ground, breaking it to pieces. The number of fragments on the ground are the number of years you’ll have together.”

My heart leapt. I straightened, looking between them and said, “Oh, we don’t have to do that. Do we?”

And the woman’s expression fell. “It’s tradition.”

God, was there anything I could do right?

I immediately backtracked. “Well, if it’s tradition…” the words faded out.

“It is,” she said excitedly. Smiling lovingly at Ettore, she leant in and pressed a kiss to his cheek before wiping the leftover lipsticks away with her fingers. “I’m proud of you.”

Ettore simply grunted, and the woman’s smile deepened before she stood and floated away. Not a minute later, she returned with a small vase in hand. Mic in hand, she asked us to stand and we did. I was hyperaware of Ettore’s hand burning a hole in my lower back as we stood front and center. She announced it was time, placed the vase in my hand and stood back at a safe distance, waiting expectantly for the magic to occur.

This wasn’t my tradition, so I looked to my husband for direction. The hand at my back slipped around to rest on my hip as he moved closer. I lifted the vase, waiting. His hand joined my own, gripping the vase tightly.

Our attendees started a slow clap. That clap gained momentum. Cheers of support began. And then, pandemonium. Men stomped their feet. Hands slapped down on tables. Cutlery jangled. High pitched whistles rang through. And when the encouragement turned deafening, I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.

“On three,” he muttered, then began to count. “One, two, three.”