Page 55 of Bitter Poetry

His three brothers are clustered around him. Cosmo is a fuckwit with a different mother and the youngest by ten years. Bosco is between Ettore and Cosmo in age and a capo, while Edoardo is five years older than Ettore. I have heard he will be formally announced as underboss today, and his son, who is a few years older than me, will take over from him as capo.

The last man in the cluster is Rocco. Informally adopted by the late Gallo Sr., he’s the least abrasive member of the family and has always handled Ettore’s finances. I heard he will become a consigliere today.

I have no issue with him, but he’s not consigliere material.

“This is a farce. I’m just expected to act as his best friend while he marries my woman. He hasn’t even trusted me with the rings.”

“My woman?” Leon muses. “Something more than a chat went on between you for you to adopt such a strong choice of wording.”

He’s not wrong.

“And to be fair, I wouldn’t trust you with the rings if I were him,” he continues when I don’t give him anything.

“Right. I’d have dropped them down the nearest drain.”

Her firsts belong to me.

I don’t want to be here. The memory of what happened between us, and her response to it, is both a balm and a wound. I’ve been able to convince myself he might not have touched her yet, but after tonight, I won’t have even that much.

Christian enters the door beside us. “Leon, you’re up.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Leon says, clapping me on the shoulder. “He’s got more security than the president. You’ll be dead and the wedding will still go ahead. Only then she will have blood over her dress.”

He heads outside. With Cedro’s health still so fragile, he asked Leon to walk Carmela down the aisle. The two families were close at one point, as were ours. But it’s not like he’s going to ask me to perform that honor. I’m surprised Cedro asked Leon, but maybe he sees him as neutral given he’s been out of the picture for so long.

I do the only thing I can, make my way to the front, standing to the right of Edoardo, who stands to Ettore’s right.

CARMELA

“My beautiful daughter.”

The tears shining in my father’s eyes are not only about me as he shakes Leon’s hand and tells him to take care of me during the short walk down the aisle. He’s thinking about my mother, his wife, and the woman he lost. One who will not get to see her daughter’s wedding day.

He goes ahead, with Rocco, soon to be consigliere, pushing his wheelchair to the front, leaving me alone in the entryway with Jessica, Helena, and her mini-monster, who is ripping petals from her bouquet and tossing them to the floor.

Leon’s eyes narrow on Peony. “Control your child, Helena.”

The look Helena sends his way is pure venom, but at least she calls the child to her side.

Jessica clutches my hand like a lifeline, or maybe I’m the one holding hers.

The ushers call us to take our places. Jessica, Helena, and Peony are at the front. Leon and I are behind. It has been three years since I last saw him, the occasion being his father’s funeral.

“You look stunning, sister of my heart,” he says.

He always called me that when I was little. Never having a big brother, I looked up to him in that way. He seems different—nothing I can put my finger on, perhaps a little harder… which makes no sense when considering his lifestyle has been one of indulgence over the last three years.

“Thank you… How is your mother?” I ask for want of distraction. “Sorry she couldn’t join us.”

“She sends her love,” he says smoothly. “And her apologies. She loves you dearly, but I’m sure you understand how difficult it was for her to consider coming back.”

“Of course.” After his father was killed, Leon left with his mother, younger brother, and sister immediately after the funeral. I thought I would never see any of them again. “And thank you for doing this.” My smile feels forced. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, little sister,” he looks away, his expression distant. “With hindsight, I wish I’d come back sooner.” His eyes return to me. On the surface, he’s the epitome of a handsome playboy, yet with his eyes on me, I see in them the source of his hardness. “Your father’s intentions are good, but he really screwed you over.”

His bluntness shocks me.

The music begins. It might as well be chalk scraping over a chalkboard.