The Name of Honor

by Susan Fanetti

  She spoke just as quietly. “You sit. They’ll do their turn to greet the elders, and you’re one of them. And I want people to talk when I do this.”

  He shook his head and glanced across the table. The gargantuan centerpiece blissfully blocked most of their view of Tommy, but she knew Enzo was looking at his nephew. “He’ll see.”

  “Let him. I can wave it off if he complains. I’m a woman alone, with no man to do these things for me. But I don’t think he’ll say anything. We’re still in the indebted phase.” After Giada cleaned up one of Tommy’s messes, there was a period of a few weeks, sometimes a few months, where he was practically obsequious with her. It wasn’t gratitude he felt; she didn’t delude herself about that. He simply understood, in that slender span of time, that he was beholden. He’d forget soon enough.

  With a worried sigh, Enzo took his hand from hers. “Okay. You’re smarter than me.”

  Giada rose, smoothed the silk of her gown—she could not wait to get this corset off—and strode to the head table.

  In many Italian weddings, there was a phenomenon called the ‘money dance.’ The bride carried a white satin or lace bag and danced with all the men who wished, and they paid for the privilege of dancing with her, tucking tens and twenties, or hundreds, into her little bag until it swelled like a balloon.

  Giada had grown up with the tradition, so it was simply a thing that was a part of weddings, like white dresses and cake that was prettier than it was tasty. She’d heard it called gauche, and sexist, and various other complaints, and those were probably all valid. But lots about traditional weddings were problematic, from ‘giving the bride away’ to stripping off her garter and sailing it into a crowd of men. Weddings were problematic. Everything was.

  But in her experience, in her world’s version of a royal wedding, when a don or his children were married, the money dance didn’t happen. Instead, court was held.

  Ilaria and David stood beside their chairs—thrones, they were actual thrones—and received their guests. The women went to David, who smiled and shook their hands and made small talk, while the men went to Ilaria and handed her an envelope, usually with a squeeze of her hand as she took it, often with a little bow, sometimes, if they were close enough, with a kiss to her cheek. Then Ilaria handed the envelope off to her maid of honor, who tucked it in a white satin bag the size of a pillowcase.

  Giada went to Ilaria, not David. She handed the bride her envelope, which contained five thousand dollars.

  Ilaria blinked—and Giada noticed that little crystals tipped her fake eyelashes. The bride clearly didn’t know what to do to be faced with a woman, so Giada took her hand, gave it a shake, set the envelope in it, and said, “Tanta felicità, Signora Bustamante.”

  “Uh ... thanks. Thank you.” Ilaria recovered herself and handed the envelope off.

  Her duty done, Giada smiled and turned away. The space around the happy couple had gone quiet, and now that she had caused the little stir she’d meant to, she felt self-conscious. That kind of insecurity was not a feeling she allowed herself, so she shook it off and strode confidently toward the bar.

  Angie Corti came up to her as she reached the bar. “That was ballsy.”

  Giada shook her head. “It shouldn’t be.”

  “Yeah, but you wanted it to be. Right?”

  She smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” To the bartender, she said, “Gin twist, please.”

  When the bartender looked at Angie, he lifted his drink—whiskey or scotch on the rocks—and said, “I’m good, doll.”

  Doll. He called women doll. Ugh.

  Well, he was still the most powerful single man in the Paganos, and all she had to do was talk to him for a while. On this night, with all the power players of New York and New England in attendance, all they had to do was get talk started and see what was said.

  Giada contemplated the man at her side. She’d known him for years, but not well. Somebody who attended the same weddings and funerals as she did, mainly. He was a vested member of a world she’d been barred from.

  Objectively speaking, on visual evidence alone, Angie was kind of a catch. Notably taller than she despite her sky-high Jimmy Choo stilettos, he was nicely broad across the shoulders and lean at the waist and hip. He wore a very nice, perfectly tailored, classic black tuxedo—satin peak lapels, white satin pocket square, crisp white shirt with onyx button covers, black silk bow tie. His pepper-with-a-dash-of-salt hair was fairly short and styled like he took some time with it, in an artful, moussed tousle. His face was good, with a powerful jawline and a rugged brow shadowing really gorgeous light brown eyes that glinted against the bronzy cast of his Sicilian complexion.

  Okay, actually, as long as he kept his mouth shut, Angie Corti was, objectively speaking, damn fine.

  That mouth had a dangerous shape. Like a slash across his face. And his nose—a good Roman nose—had a kink that had to have come from a break. In those features especially, she saw the button man he was.

  The bartender set her drink on the bar. As Giada took a sip, Angie stepped close and leaned in. With that slash of a mouth at her ear, he said, “You good with this, Giada? What Nick wants us to do?”

  What Nick wanted them to do? Angie thought this had been Nick’s idea? Which meant Nick had either said as much or had let it be assumed. Either way, he didn’t want Angie to know that she, Giada, had suggested it, and that Nick had actually resisted it at first.

  Huh. That was something to keep in mind and puzzle over later. The reason could simply be that Nick knew Angie was too much of a Neanderthal to accept the idea if it came from her. Or Nick could have some other, less obvious, possibly more troubling reason.

  She’d think about it later. For now, she got into her role and smiled at the man leaning so close she could smell his aftershave. Surprisingly subtle. Definitely expensive. Nice. “I am. Are you?”

  He grinned, and his mouth no longer seemed so dangerous. “Flirting with a pretty girl? That’s my specialty, doll.”

  Giada was proud of herself for not rolling her eyes. Girl. Doll. She was forty-fucking-five years old and ran the most influential property development company in Massachusetts—not to mention her grander ambitions, of which Angie was aware. He would never speak to a man of her status with anything but respect. And yet he was perfectly comfortable calling her girl and doll.

  This might be harder than she’d thought.

  ~ 7 ~

  This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

  Angie smiled at the beautiful woman beside him. He’d known Giada for years, in a vague sort of way. Somebody he’d seen at social functions like this. He’d had no other reason to be in her company. The Paganos and Saccos were allies, the way all the families on the Council were supposed to be allies, but they’d been at odds a few times, too. Since Tommy had taken the seat, things had been especially chilly between them.

  But either way, allied families weren’t necessarily close, or personally friendly. Nick’s friendship with Vio was an exception, not the rule. Angie barely knew most of the men in the Sacco Family, much less their women.

  He’d known Giada Sacco was an attractive woman, but damn, she was gorgeous. He’d thought of her as too old to be of interest—she was almost his age, and come on, everybody knew women didn’t age as well as men did—but this woman did not look her age. Her hair, for one thing, was a beautiful deep brown, showing no signs of grey. Sure, that was probably dye, but that was okay. It looked good. She had it styled up, in a twist on the back of her head, with a sweep of bangs over her forehead. It was classy as fuck and showed off a long, slim neck, around which sat a thick gold necklace, a solid piece that rested on her collarbones like armor.

  Her makeup was excellent, showcasing a pair of eyes a shade of green he didn’t have a name for. And that mouth—full, kissable, pouty lips tinted with deep red lipstick.

  Not kissable. There would be no kissing. They weren’t supposed to get that close. Nick d
idn’t want them to, and probably Giada didn’t, either. And fuck if there was any chance Angie was going to get up close and personal with a woman of the Sacco Family while he was still working out his current equipment issue. Fuck no. He did not need that information running around loose in their world.

  Still, though, he was going to have no trouble at all paying attention to Giada tonight.

  He let his eyes make their favorite journey and wander down her body. She wore a dark red dress that fit her like it was tattooed on, following the line of her body from her heavenly rack, along her sleek waist and firm, perfect hips, all the way to her thighs, where it puffed out in a swirl of silk and lace. Oh god, the swell of her cleavage. He could put his head down right there and never leave.

  “Angelo. That’s rude. Up here.”

  He looked up and met her eyes. They held a challenge, and no smile to soften it.

  “Sorry, doll. Is it rude to say you fill out red silk really well? That dress is something else.”

  At that, her gorgeous mouth quirked up at one side. “Thank you.”

  A few moments of awkward silence ensued. Without being able to flirt the way he was used to, with a particular objective in mind, Angie didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he’d ever actually talked to a woman just to talk to her, excepting those in his family. He could talk to Bev or Ari, of course. Or his sister and sister-in-law. But a woman like Giada?

  Shit. Somewhere in his life he must have had a simple conversation with a woman, right? He couldn’t have gone through forty-nine years never speaking to a woman who wasn’t family or fuckable, could he?

  If so, he couldn’t think of one.

  Behind them, the bandleader announced the first dance, and Angie and Giada both turned to face the room.

  The bride had so much bling on her wedding dress that she was almost impossible to see through all the weird sparkles the lights threw around. Vio Marconi’s little girl. She was older than Nick’s oldest daughter, Elisa, by about five or six years. There had been, he thought, an attempt to forge a friendship between them during childhood, but Ilaria was the kind of girl who held court and demanded fealty, and Elisa had always been a quiet, fretful little thing, so it had gone badly. Nick and Bev had not brought any of their children to the wedding, though both Elisa and Lia were grown and had thus been invited.

  “They look happy,” Giada said.

  David Bustamante was a Marconi soldier. Angie knew him a little. He was an okay guy overall, but nothing impressive. He probably would never have had a chance to make capo, until he’d married the don’s daughter. Now a promotion like that was likely, eventually. Angie wouldn’t be surprised to know that was the only reason he’d proposed. Because David’s dick had seen all of Connecticut and most of the other original colonies as well. He wasn’t the settling-down type any more than Angie was.

  “Yeah,” he said aloud. “Today would be the day they should be, if no other.”

  That made Giada laugh. “You’ve got a pretty bleak view of marriage.”

  He shrugged. Marriage was fine for other people. He was surrounded by happy couples, every damn direction he turned. But it wasn’t for him. “You’ve never hitched up, either, right?”

  A little spasm crossed her forehead, like a frown had tried to settle on it, but she pushed it away and smiled instead. “No, I haven’t. I’ve had other interests.”

  “Me too.”

  Giada stiffened, and Angie wondered what he’d said—but then he saw who was coming toward them. Her brother, Tommy Sacco.

  Tommy was a legendary bastard, and Giada had been chasing behind him, undoing his damage, for years. That was one of those open secrets, though few knew the full details of the messes he’d made.

  Angie was surprised to see something like fear in Giada’s posture. But by the time Tommy got to them, she was simply strong and prepared.

  “Giada.” Tommy grabbed her arm and gave it a hard yank. He cast a quick glance Angie’s way. “Hey, Ange.”

  “Don Sacco.” Angie let his shoulders fill out. Tommy was a don, but that didn’t mean he got to mangle a woman—his own sister—right in front of him.

  However, Tommy would think it meant exactly that, and so would all of his men and most of the others here. Angie tried to think what he’d do if Tommy actually hurt Giada right here, right in front of him. Could he fight a don? At another don’s daughter’s wedding? Jesus, the way that would blow up the Council.

  Would Tommy actually hurt his own sister?

  Well, why wouldn’t he? He had a rep for beating women. Why wouldn’t he beat the most convenient ones?

  Angie was going to have to fight a goddamn don.

  But Giada pushed Tommy’s hand away, and he let her do it. “What do you want?”

  “Give us a minute, Angie,” Tommy ordered.

  “No,” Giada said—and reached out to grabbed Angie’s hand. “Stay.”

  Tommy scowled. “What the fuck is going on, Giada? What are you up to?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tommy. What did I do?”

  Tommy had the same green eyes Giada did. They searched her face furiously. “Everybody’s talking about you giving Ilaria the envelope. Why didn’t you give it to me? Or Enzo?”

  “Because it was my money.”

  “No, it was mine. I’m the head of this family. You have what you have because I let you have it.” Tommy threw another look at Angie, but Giada’s hand was clamped on his, and he wasn’t about to go anywhere while she so obviously needed him to stay put.

  Despite Angie’s presence, Tommy grabbed Giada’s chin. “You embarrassed me. Don’t think I’ll forget it.”

  “I don’t forget either, Tommaso.”

  Wow, the subtext was like a nuclear bomb between them. Tommy glared at his sister. Giada stared steadily back. Then Tommy let go of her, giving his hand a little twist so Giada’s head rocked. He glanced down at her clasp of Angie’s hand and then lased his eyes into Angie’s. “Tread carefully, Angie.”

  With that, he spun and stalked back into the crowd.

  “Is that what you wanted?” Angie asked, turning back to Giada.

  “It’ll do,” she said. She looked up, and the stubborn strength she’d shown her brother faded into a sweet smile, with a hint of sass. Oh, this woman was dangerous. “For now.”

  The first dance was over, and the bandleader was calling all couples onto the floor. Angie had been surprised at the music playing all evening—a lot of jazzy, crooning standards, which seemed an odd choice for the wedding of a girl in her mid-twenties. David was only thirty or so himself.

  Unfortunately, now that the dancing was on, the music had become predictably terrible. The kids seemed to like it, though.

  “Do you dance, Angelo?” Giada asked.

  “To this crap? No.”

  She cocked her head. “But you do dance?”

  Angie grinned. “We’re not gonna talk about that scene with your brother at all, are we?”

  “Why would we? It’s over.” She turned to the bar to order another drink, and Angie saw red marks on her upper arm, where Tommy had grabbed her. He’d reached out and brushed his fingers over that spot before he had a chance to think about whether he should.

  Her head swung around, and her pretty face twisted into a snarl. “Don’t.”

  Angie pulled his hand back. “Sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t—”

  “—What? Swoop in and save the day?”

  He didn’t know how to answer that. Because yes, that was what he’d meant. But he had no earthly idea what would have happened if he’d intervened, or if he should have. Between a don and his family? The first answer was of course he shouldn’t have. But a woman being hurt? Of course he should have.

  He rubbed at his suddenly tired eyes. “I don’t know. I’m just sorry, how about that. Apply it where you want.”

  Giada laughed as she sipped from her fresh drink. “That’s a surprisingly adequate answer.”

  An
gie noticed she’d ordered him one, too; it sat on the bar waiting for him. He put his dead glass down and took a big swallow from the new one. He hadn’t expected things to get this dicey tonight—and so quickly.

  “So you do dance?” she asked again.

  “I do. My ma made all us kids get lessons when we were little.” She’d insisted that they needed to know how to dance for when they grew up and wanted to fall in love. He’d actually liked the lessons at first, until he was old enough to realize that he wasn’t supposed to. Oh well. He’d never needed the knowledge, anyway. He’d never wanted to fall in love.

  “What, like ballroom dancing?”

  “Yeah, and ...” he paused, not believing he meant to say the next part out loud. But he felt like he owed her something for standing there like a lump while her brother marked her arm.

  “And what?”

  “Tap.”

  The grin that broke across her face almost made the embarrassment worth it. “You mean the pericoloso Angelo Corti can shuffle off to Buffalo?”

  “If you tell anybody, obviously, I will have to kill you.”

  “Oh, your secret is safe with me.” She gave him that sassy twist of a smirk. “For now.”

  “So it’s like that, huh?”

  She finished off her drink, took his empty glass, and set them both on the bar. “Come dance with me, Fred Astaire.”

  When she took his hand, he held back. “To this crap? What is it, anyway?”

  “Who cares? We’ll change it.”

  She led him through the ballroom, up to the stage, where the same band that had played jazz ballads and instrumental standards during dinner and the usual silly wedding rituals of cake-stuffing and flower-throwing was now shrieking some synth pop bullshit. One of the guitarists answered Giada’s beckoning wave, and they talked for a minute.

  Angie felt stupid just standing there, so he turned and took in the room. Over the dance floor and at the stage was a little light show, colors shifting softly to the beat, but once he saw through that, he realized that he and Giada had the attention they’d intended to draw. He hoped Nick was getting the information he wanted out of it.