The Name of Honor

by Susan Fanetti

Giada studied Bruno, and then Angie. “Okay. Bruno, it’s you. And have someone check on Tess and the kids. Angelo, amore mio, you have a previous engagement.”

  He grinned. “Okay, belladonna. See you on the other side.” With that, and a nod to Bruno, he slipped from the room.

  Bruno went to the door, too. “I’m sorry I’ll miss the Mass. I was going to offer to walk you down the aisle. I had a little speech planned and everything.”

  Giada risked her lipstick enough to kiss Bruno on the cheek. “Grazie, Bruno. You’re very sweet, but I would have declined. I don’t need an escort, and I don’t need to be given away. This life is one I’m taking and claiming as my own. I’m walking the aisle alone.”

  ~ 23 ~

  “Man, you two have not fucked around with this wedding,” Donnie said, coming up on Angie’s side.

  “Hey, man.” He opened his arms, and his old friend came in for a tight, quick hug.

  “Congratulations, Ange.” Donnie said and stepped back with a sharp clap to Angie’s shoulders. “All day, you’ve had a smile on your face like a kid on Christmas morning. It makes my heart big to see you standing straight and tall.”

  “Thanks, amico mio. For a while there ...”

  “I know. But all this, the way it worked out? Means it was right. In the end, things are as they should be.”

  Angie missed the Cove, and PBS. He’d worked with his best friends every day. That would always be a lack in his life. But that beautiful woman talking with his sister over there? She was a gain he’d never expected.

  He couldn’t pull his eyes from her. After the Mass, they’d taken photos at the church for about half an hour, then more photos here at Alden Castle, by the water, for another half-hour. She’d worn that awe-inspiring, star-kissed sex fantasy of a dress—very strapless, very tight, and literally sparkling, like a whole sky full of stars had fallen onto a blanket of new snow—until the photos were done. Then she’d gone up to some mysterious room here and changed. Now she wore shiny red silk, but she was still dripping diamonds and rubies and catching every eye in the joint. She looked like an Old Hollywood movie star, straight out of those romantic black-and-white musicals his mother had loved.

  That seemed to be an intentional association. Their reception room was decorated like a set from one of those old movies, with an actual big band, and small tables with little lamps at their centers, and red and gold glittering fabrics and doodads everywhere. The band was playing ballroom-dance music, torch songs, and Rat Pack numbers. It was like 1950 in here.

  “Yeah, everything turned out like it should,” he said, still enraptured by the sight of his wife.

  Donnie chuckled. “That look in your eye right now? That’s how you looked at her in New York. I knew you were done for then. Nick, too. We did not see that coming.”

  It was a complicated memory. Donnie and Nick had seen that night what he hadn’t, and he’d been in trouble from that moment on, even before he’d understood what was happening. But this was his wedding day, so he muscled the shadows out of the memory and kept only the truth that he’d started falling in love with Giada that night. He hadn’t known then what he was feeling, but he did now.

  “Well, look at her.”

  “Yeah, she’s quite a woman. Am I a dick to say I was surprised you’d fall for somebody like her?”

  He tore his eyes from Giada’s shapely ass as she walked away, and gave Donnie his attention. Donnie wasn’t one to dig at sore places, not in his friends, so Angie didn’t take offense. But he was curious. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s a woman with a lot of power. Even before she was don, she wasn’t easy to ignore.” Donnie studied her from across the room.

  “You thought it would crimp my dick to be with somebody stronger than me.”

  Donnie laughed. “Basically.”

  Angie still wasn’t offended. He’d thought that himself, once upon a time—the days when he’d sneer about ‘ballbreakers’ and ‘battleaxes,’ among other far nastier names. He’d thought he liked unchallenging women, who’d do what he said.

  Every last one of them, over thirty-five years of dating, had bored the absolute piss out of him. Giada had excited him every second he’d really known her. She’d also made him crazy and furious a few times, but even that had its freshness. To always be so charged up in whatever emotion he was feeling was a treasure he’d never known before her.

  Moreover, Donnie didn’t know how Angie had struggled after the shooting at Dominic’s, how twisted up he’d gotten thinking about all the people he hadn’t protected, the innocents they’d all pulled into their blast zone. That had made him feel powerless. Literally impotent. Being with Giada, shoulder to shoulder in the same fight, had given him his power back.

  “Maybe I’d’ve agreed with you not long ago,” he said now. “But you know what? A powerful woman is sexy as hell. She knows what she wants, she gets shit done, and she doesn’t flutter around about it. It’s a fucking rush keeping up with her. You know, I proposed in June. She put all this together in less than six weeks. All I did was stay out of her way.”

  “I’m not surprised. Giada seems to make things happen the way she wants them to happen. Even when they don’t look like they’re going her way. She’s like somebody else we know.”

  Angie laughed and scanned the room for Nick. He was talking with Vio Marconi, in obviously casual conversation.

  He saw Bruno coming into the room, walking behind Nick and Vio. Their eyes met, and Bruno nodded. Johnny B had been handled.

  “You got work going on today?” Donnie said. He must have seen that quick exchange and known it, at least on its surface, for what it was.

  But it was Sacco business, not Pagano, so Angie smiled and slapped his friend on the arm. “I miss my wife. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  Donnie gave him a knowing—and understanding—smile, and they went their ways.

  ~oOo~

  When the whole room was seated for dinner and the servers had filled all the champagne glasses, Nick, sitting beside Angie at the head table, tapped his glass with his knife. In the usual way, the room began to chime with silver on crystal until that was the only sound, and then there was quiet.

  He stood. Before he spoke, he set his hand on Angie’s shoulder and squeezed. Angie put his hand up and squeezed back.

  Just a few weeks more than a year ago, Nick had stood beside Donnie to make a similar toast for him. The memory of that day overlaid this moment like a transparency, and with it, Angie saw the changes in Nick more keenly than he had before. The little things he’d noticed—the greying of his hair, the thicker, pure white beard, the weight loss, the deepening creases between his eyes and at their corners—all came together at once, and Angie saw the true toll of that night at Dominic’s, almost exactly one year ago.

  In that year, Nick had aged ten.

  But he stood straight, still strong, and after he cleared his throat, his voice was rich and deep.

  “Most of you here know that there have been some changes recently in business and in life. My dear friend, Angelo Corti, no longer sits at my side in business.”

  A low rustle, hardly noticeable to anyone not sensitive to it, moved through this room full of people who knew many of the details of Nick and Angie’s parting. Holding Angie’s hand, Giada stiffened. Angie’s stomach twitched uncomfortably, but he trusted Nick not to hurt him again—especially not today. So he held his wife’s hand and tried to send her an encouraging vibe.

  “He found love,” Nick continued, “and he moved on. That wasn’t easy, on anyone involved. But the bonds of real friendship are strong and elastic. They might stretch, they might twist, but they won’t break.” He stopped and looked out the glass wall, to the night vista beyond. “Change is always painful. Maybe it’s most painful when it’s necessary, when old habits are too comfortable, and the roots are set too deep. As I get older, my roots are setting in deeper and deeper, I think.”

  Giada was cutting off the circulation t
o his fingertips. Angie didn’t know where Nick was headed, and he was starting to worry. How would he handle it if Nick cut him down in the fucking best man’s toast?

  Judging by the state of his deadening hand, he thought Giada would handle it with murder.

  But then Bev reached up and slid her fingers through Nick’s, and he looked down at his wife. They shared a moment in a glance, and Nick cleared his throat again. “We live in a dangerous world, where friendships and hostilities shift like sand. In a world like ours, real friends, the ones whose love and loyalty withstand even the changes that twist and stretch their bond, are precious, rare gifts to hold close and keep safe. Angie is just that sort of friend to me.”

  Giada’s hand relaxed, and Angie held off the urge to let go and flex his throbbing fingers.

  Nick continued, “He is one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known. And he found maybe the only woman in the world who can match him in strength and heart. Giada’s will and spirit are things to behold. She is an agent of change in a world that needs it. And I am deeply honored to be at their side to celebrate this day with them. Angelo and Giada, I wish you a long and happy life together, and a world that deserves you.” Nick lifted his glass. “Cent’anni.”

  As the room resounded with echoes of the Italian phrase, Angie stood and embraced Nick.

  No longer his don, but forever his friend.

  ~oOo~

  The bandleader announced the couple’s first dance, and the room lights dimmed. Giada snuggled under Angie’s arm and smiled up at him. “Do you remember our real first dance?”

  Angie skimmed his hand over the silk covering her sleek ass. “Oh, yeah. I was thinking earlier that I was already falling in love with you by then.”

  The delight in her eyes was something he saw only when she was looking at him. “I think I was, too, though I was still telling myself you were a Neanderthal.”

  “Most women I’ve ever known would say the same. I’m a better man with you.”

  She brushed her hand over his cheek. Her rings flashed white fire between them. This was a woman born to wear diamonds. “No, bello. I think you’re the man you’ve always been. It’s just that we get to be all of ourselves with each other.”

  The drummer was setting the jazzy tempo for their song, and Angie recognized it at once—‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ the song they’d first danced to. When one of the singers picked up the lyrics, Angie grinned at his wife. “So I guess we have a song?”

  “I think so. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s perfect.” He lifted her hand. “Wanna make a little show?”

  “I thought you didn’t perform.”

  “For you, today, to this song, I’ll show off a little.”

  “I’m game. I never have seen what you can really do, Mr. Astaire.”

  “Well, I won’t shuffle off to Buffalo, but I bet I can sweep you off your feet.”

  “You already have.”

  In a dark room full of nearly everyone they knew, under a waiting spotlight, Angie kissed his wife.

  Then he spun her onto the floor and showed her all he’d learned because his mother had wanted him to be prepared when he found love.

  ~oOo~

  “What the fuck did you do?” Angie stood with the limo at his back and gaped. It was dark, but he saw plenty enough to be stunned. When they’d left Boston from the reception and ended up on Martha’s Vineyard, he’d thought Giada was surprising him with a weekend getaway.

  Well, he’d been in the ballpark.

  He’d been in the cheap seats, and what she’d done was home plate, but he’d been in the ballpark.

  And he was definitely surprised.

  And he did not know what to think. Part of him wanted to be righteously pissed, and on any other day in his life, he might have given into that part. But another part was bowled over by the gesture. Seeing as it was their wedding day, he tried to keep hold of that part.

  Giada crossed her arms. “Look, amore mio, you know I detest feeling insecure, so if you’re pissed about this for some reason, be straightforward, and we’ll work it out.”

  He gave himself a little internal shake and reached for her hand. “Sorry, G. I’m not pissed, I’m just speechless. You’re telling me this is my wedding present?”

  “No, not really. It’s for us. But I liked the idea of surprising you with it.”

  “Surprising me with a house you bought.”

  “Not a house.”

  He made a flourishing wave at the structure before them. “Well, I’m fairly certain it’s not a puppy.”

  “I mean, it’s not our main house, where we’ll live. We’ll find that soon. This is a vacation cottage.”

  Again he considered the big, two-story, shake-shingle ‘cottage’ with the wraparound porch, surrounded by a wide expanse of lush lawn and fragrant trees. With a private beach. On Martha’s Vineyard. “How many rooms in this cottage?”

  “Nine.”

  Angie laughed. “That’s more than my house in the Cove had.”

  “You hate it.”

  “I don’t. And I’m not about to ruin our wedding night having heartburn about it. But you bought a house without me, G. I’m a little stunned.”

  “A vacation cottage. And it’s not bought yet. The deal is contingent on this next week. It’s furnished. This is our honeymoon—we’re close enough to home if something comes up, but Bruno and Caitlyn both know to field anything not crucial and leave us alone if they can. A week on the Vineyard, and if we love this place, it’s our getaway. If we don’t, we have a nice vacation, and we’ll find another getaway.”

  She tugged on his shirt—he was still in most of his tux, though Giada had changed into another, more casual dress before they’d left the reception—“Angelo, listen.”

  When she closed her eyes, he understood she meant him to listen to the night. He did.

  It was quiet. Night birds, and water lapping. Crickets. A breeze through leaves.

  Nothing else.

  And he understood.

  He opened his eyes. She was watching him, and he saw her worry. He knew what it cost her to be vulnerable, even with him. “You gave me the Cove.”

  “I know the Cove itself will always hurt a little now. So I found another place. This one is ours. Just ours.”

  “I love you, Giada. This is perfect. Thank you.”

  She grinned, and suddenly looked like a young girl. “You haven’t seen inside yet. It’s really something.”

  ~oOo~

  It was really something.

  The house had been owned by the same family for sixty years, and hadn’t been updated in almost as long. Pine plank paneling in every room, even the bathrooms, late-Seventies fixtures all over, a hodgepodge of furniture cast off from obviously different main houses in the family, owned by relations with wildly different tastes.

  Angie loved it. It was just what a vacation ‘cottage’ should be. They were definitely keeping it.

  Even Giada seemed to like it, and that shocked the hell out of him. But she’d left the penthouse powerhouse in Boston. Here on the Vineyard, though they still had a security team in place, Giada wasn’t Donna Sacco, and Angie wasn’t her consigliere. Nor were they real estate executives. They were newlyweds. Mr. and Mrs. Corti.

  They slept in, ate as much as they wanted, fucked whenever they wanted, anywhere they wanted. They swam and fished and sailed. They wandered around the Vineyard. They lay in the grass and listened to the quiet.

  And no one called from Boston.

  Not until their honeymoon did Angie meet his wife as a woman fully at ease. She was magnificent.

  On the fourth day, a summer storm, the soaking kind that sent opaque sheets of grey rain down in a steady pour but didn’t throw a tantrum, settled over the island, and they spent the day indoors, snugged together on the deep, screened-in part of the porch, playing gin for sexual favors.

  Angie had grown up playing cards with his brother for chores. He was good, and naturally co
mpetitive, and highly motivated by the wagers. He cleaned Giada’s clock. That night, while the storm continued, he collected, until they dropped into mutual unconsciousness in a sweaty tangle.

  When he woke in the early morning, the rain was still going. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to the drone of water on the roof, and the plash beyond the windows, where puddles had formed on the sodden lawn. A confused loon hooted in the drear of the grey dawn.

  He was happy. God, he really was.

  Giada slept beside him, on her belly, diagonally across the bed, her legs sprawled across his. Her hair was a wild tangle. A few bruises, approximately the size and shape of his mouth, flowered like deep red roses on her shoulder and upper arm. Things had gotten a little wild last night; he might have gotten carried away.

  Today, what he wanted was quiet. Just them, the rain, this bed. Comfort and bliss.

  He brushed his hand over her thigh, her ass, the beautiful dip at her waist, but she didn’t wake. Until she was awake, he couldn’t get too frisky. She hated being touched anywhere really intimate when she was asleep.

  Her reaction when he’d once tried had been so strong Angie had assumed she had some bad shit about it in her past. Since then, he’d learned he was right. He remembered thinking that night in New York that Tommy had beaten her, and maybe that was also true. But Bruno had recently given him a different kind of insight. He didn’t have a lot of detail—Bruno hadn’t been comfortable talking about it, despite being the one to bring it up, and once he’d said a few words, Angie had cut him off.

  What he knew, slight as it was, was plenty. Tommy had fucked her when she was a girl. Her big brother had raped her. From the little Bruno had said, and what Angie knew of his wife, Tommy had raped her habitually. If he had to guess, he’d say the testa di cazzo had sneaked into her bed while she’d slept.

  When she was a child. A little girl.

  Angie didn’t know what to do with the kind of acidic hate he felt for a man he couldn’t hurt, but he sure as fuck wished he’d laid down some pain when he’d had the chance.

  Aside from her control issues in bed, which had settled down dramatically, and her need to be awake before anything got really started, Giada had never offered the tiniest hint about it herself, and he’d never pressed. Nor would he, ever. If she wanted to tell him, she would. But he’d be surprised if she ever did. It was obviously a secret she needed to keep.