Page 38 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)
CHAPTER 35
GAbrIEL
The day of the wedding dawns as perfect as any you’ll see in California. It figures that Roxanne Rochford would find some way to blackmail God for the perfect day, I think as I look out the window and brew my morning tea. But I have to smile. The estate will look amazing, and that’s really all that I care about. Yvonne and I spent the whole day yesterday setting up the flowers at the rose garden, and I want to get out there early to remove the protective tents I set up overnight in case the winds picked up.
The last few days have been…strange. I’m inexplicably happy, even though Nero and I have kept our distance from each other.
I miss him.
But I still feel good , a tingling anticipation like I’m—like I’m fizzing inside. Fizzing like shaken-up champagne, getting closer and closer to popping in celebration. But the wedding preparations have been a good distraction, and the whole estate is buzzing even at this early hour as I head over to the wedding location. I see Darian rushing to and fro, setting up the buffet trestle tables for the wedding supper. Elise is with him, and I stop to enquire about her niece.
“Oh, she’s doing really well,” she tells me, and the brightness in her eye tells me it’s true. I can’t help but think of how Nero was the one who made that happen. And I berated him for it.
I can’t even remember why now.
“I’m so happy to hear that!” I tell her. “And now I’d better get on—I want to make sure the flowers still look impeccable.”
“Yes, or Miss Snippy will try to have you fired,” she says with a roll of her eyes, but she’s laughing as she says it.
Darian, in earshot, doesn’t even bother to reprimand her, he’s so caught up in the preparations. “Oh, Mr. Carstairs,” he says quickly, as I turn to leave, “Mr. DeLuca said he was going to run some equipment around the wedding location to ensure there were no—” he lowers his voice “—bugs or microphones or hidden cameras. Not just because of the media interest, you understand, but...”
“I understand,” I tell him. I understand perfectly. “But I’m sure Nero will be doing the same,” I add. The look on Darian’s face is fleeting, but I catch it. “What is it?” I ask.
Darian glances around before leaning in closer to me so that no one will overhear. “I’m not sure how much longer Mr. Andretti will be staying with us,” he confides softly. “My understanding is that there may be a conflict of interest. That’s why Raffi—I mean, Mr. DeLuca—also wanted to run his own checks on the staged area. I’m telling you this not to gossip, Mr. Carstairs, but because I know that you and he worked closely on wedding preparations. I just don’t want you to get caught up in anything, and…” He hesitates. “Well, I’m not sure if you know how Family business can be.”
“I know how it can be,” I say automatically, but I’m completely taken aback. “Has Nero done something to displease the Don?”
“I really have no idea,” Darian says, in a tone that makes me feel I’ve asked something completely inappropriate. I suppose I have. “I’m only saying something because I know you don’t personally enjoy Mr. Andretti’s company—and I wanted you to know, you won’t have to put up with it much longer.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well…thanks for letting me know.”
I walk away with less spring in my step, because Darian has me worried. Are the Castellanis planning on sending Nero back to Italy? Or are they planning to…disappear him? Nero told me that murder made for bad business, but maybe not all of them feel the same way. Maybe it could be justified in their minds.
And that leaves me in a difficult position, because I do my best to avoid listening to or getting involved in Castellani business. But this is about Nero.
After the wedding , he said. So maybe he does know about this. Maybe that’s what he was talking about—that things would change after the wedding. In a bad way.
No, that doesn’t make sense. He asked me to trust him. He said it would be easier for us. Not…
Whatever’s going on, I still need to get up to the wedding area and make sure everything is as perfect as I left it yesterday. Raffi DeLuca is there already, as Darian promised, and he gives me a nod as he continues his work. Part of me wants to ask about Nero, make it casual, like, “Isn’t Nero Andretti supposed to be doing that?” The urge is strong, but I keep my mouth shut. It won’t help anything.
I do see Nero later that day checking the flowers, just as Raffi had, but by that time I’m working with the gardeners on last-minute beautification—all hands on deck—and all I can do is raise a tentative hand in greeting from a long way away.
But even from that distance, I see his smile, the one he reserves just for me, the genuine smile, and he raises his hand back suddenly, mirroring my gesture. It’s a warm day, but I feel even warmer sharing that quick moment.
After the wedding . I’ll hold on to hope.
I’ll trust him, like he asked me to.
The guests arrive right on time in the late afternoon, and the Redwood staff have situated them perfectly for Roxanne Rochford’s big arrival. Gino Bernardi is waiting at the flower arch in his white wedding suit, looking nervous and grinning at Leo Bernardi, his best man, who keeps nudging him with a similar grin.
I’m not even really supposed to be here, and I absolutely refused to smuggle Yvonne in for the ceremony no matter how hard she whined, but I can’t resist getting a look at the event that I have worked so hard on these last few weeks. There’s a specific place for Redwood staff to gather, and I’m standing with them. For some reason, Miller Beaumont and his friend Nate are also with us.
“I think this is the staff area,” I murmur to Miller quietly, just in case he didn’t realize.
He makes a pleading face at me. “Please don’t kick me out,” he begs. “I don’t want to have to watch this in close-up. Frankly, I’d rather not be here at all, but JJ had to come, so I did, too. I wasn’t going to let him suffer for the both of us. But my goodwill stops at actually sitting in the front damn row for this farce.”
I glance where he nods and see the back of Jack’s head, and the empty seat next to him, and I grin at Miller. “You’re welcome to hide in here as long as you like. Although the bride might not be happy that you’re not sitting in your assigned seat.”
“Roxy can sit and spin,” Miller scoffs.
The fragment of conversation I overheard the other night between Jack and Miller comes back to me. And there’s that unfortunate curiosity pricking at me once more.
“Ms. Rochford was close friends with your late sister, wasn’t she?” I ask tentatively.
Miller gets this strange look on his face. “Sort of,” he says, short and brief.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to remind you of loss on a day of celebration.”
Miller gives a humorless bark of laughter. “The only person celebrating today is Roxy. Haven’t you noticed the only blood relative of hers here today is her kid sister, the flower girl? The only thing this wedding is about is Roxanne Rochford.”
I look around the crowd and realize that Miller is right—almost everyone here is kind of familiar, either because I know they’re a member of the Castellani Family, or they’ve been a guest here—those must be the Bernardis. “Maybe they’re having a separate wedding for family only,” I suggest.
“No doubt,” Miller says. “Roxy will be the center of attention at as many wedding ceremonies as possible.”
But at that moment, the traditional string music over the stereo changes to the opening of a recent Delaney Harris hit song and everyone stops talking—even Miller.
The flower girl—Roxanne’s little sister, this must be, and about five years old—marches up to the beginning of the aisle between the guest chairs, and gives a big, bright smile. She’s wearing a soft pink satin dress that makes her look adorable, even though it clashes with the rest of the red, orange, and yellow decor. With a focused air, she reaches into her basket and throws a handful of red and orange rose petals in the air.
At any other wedding, I’m pretty sure a chorus of women would be cooing over the sight, as the little girl takes long, slow steps down the aisle, showering the grass with rose petals. But this is a mob wedding, and the silence at the flower girl’s progression finally drives that home to me. The vast majority of attendees are male, and the few women here are just as hard as the men.
This wedding was never about two people in love, I see at last. It’s not even about one narcissist having all the attention focused on her.
It’s about a Family crowning a new queen.
And Roxanne Rochford, when she appears moments later in the glowing light of the golden hour, certainly looks like a queen. She wears not so much a statement dress but a defiant scream: the cream silk hugs her close and the neckline plunges like a stiletto, just this side of inappropriate. She’s practically on fire as she walks down the aisle alone—her hair, the setting sun reflecting off her wedding dress, and her diamond and ruby tiara catching the light and reflecting across the rose petal carpet laid out before her.
I wonder if Gino Bernardi realizes it—that he’s just a figurehead, the man in the seat, behind which stands a beautiful and ambitious puppet master? And if he hasn’t yet, I wonder how long it will take…
As the ceremony starts and the celebrant begins to drone I let my attention wander, because the fizzing I’ve felt in the background for the last few days is growing stronger now. Something is going to happen tonight—I know it. And over in the shadows beyond the rose garden, where all the Castellanis on security duty are slipping through shadows, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face.
Nero Andretti. Watching me with a dark promise in his eyes.