Page 33 of Niccolo (Mafia Kings #7)

T he day of the wedding arrived.

It was a Wednesday, which was odd to me; I’d always thought of weddings as happening on weekends.

But I guess when you’re a rich mafioso – and all of your guests are rich mafiosos – every day was just like the rest. No need to wait for the weekend.

Fausto, Aurelio, and I piled into the Rolls-Royce, and the driver took off for the Rosolini estate.

Aurelio was still stuck on an asinine idea he’d had the week before.

“I still say we should call in Wagner on the wedding,” he argued. “Kill them all in one shot.”

“NO,” Fausto snapped.

“Why not?!”

“A bunch of rampaging mercenaries in a firefight against Dario’s foot soldiers – what could possibly go wrong?” Fausto said sarcastically. “What if they kill us?”

“We can send them in after we’re gone!”

“Once Dario and the others are dead, you do realize I have to stay on good terms with the rest of the Cosa Nostra, don’t you? Do you know how suspicious it would be if I miraculously left before the entire wedding party got slaughtered?”

“But – ”

“STOP ASKING!” Fausto yelled at him.

Aurelio sank into bitter silence.

Fausto turned to me. “We’ll introduce you as Aurelio’s date, obviously, but I’d rather stay away from your past as a chess master. No sense piquing their curiosity.”

“Fine by me. I’d also like to not give my real name.”

Fausto looked amused. “Oh? And why is that?”

“I don’t want to give my true identity to a bunch of mafiosos I’m trying to kill.”

“Not unreasonable,” Fausto said with a chuckle. “What should we call you, then?”

“Puttana,” Aurelio suggested maliciously. “Cagna. Lupa.”

All words for ‘whore’ or ‘bitch.’

“We can call you finnochio, then,” I suggested coolly. “Mezzasalma thought it fit you.”

Aurelio went apoplectic.

I was sure he was about to slap me when his father roared, “AURELIA, ENOUGH!”

“‘Aurelia’?!” Aurelio asked in confusion.

“I meant to say ‘Aurelio, Sofia,’ and misspoke,” Fausto snarled. “Now STOP IT, both of you.”

Aurelia.

The feminine version of ‘Aurelio,’ meaning ‘golden’ in Latin.

It was too close to ‘Aurelio’ to be believable, but there was another similar name –

And it had the benefit of being an online chess program.

“Aurora,” I said, smiling at my private joke.

“What?” Fausto said.

“When we get to the wedding, call me Aurora.”

“Aurora, Aurelio… catchy, but isn’t it a little too close?”

“It’ll be easy for both of us to remember, and it’s uncommon enough that I doubt anyone else will have the same name.”

“Fine… ‘Aurora,’” Fausto said with a smile. “Do you have a last name?”

I thought for a second, then said, “Dispenza.”

“That’s not your mother’s maiden name, is it?” Fausto asked warily.

“No. It was the name of my favorite teacher.”

“Excellent. Enjoy your time at the wedding, Aurora Dispenza.”

As we entered the Rosolinis’ estate, I could see why Fausto wanted it back so badly.

We turned down a drive bordered by symmetrical rows of tall cedars. The Rolls paused at a ten-foot brick wall, then drove through once the massive iron gates opened.

The road snaked through picturesque vineyards and orchards until it reached a massive open space. At the top of a hill was a gigantic mansion – centuries old, made of stone, with three stories and two large wings.

The Rolls pulled around to the side, where we got out. There was an old stone stable nearby that had been converted into a garage. Topiary gardens lay beyond that.

Out back of the house was an enormous lawn. A sapphire swimming pool sparkled in the distance. Between the pool and the house were dozens of white wooden folding chairs and ornate flower arrangements leading up to an altar.

A hundred feet from the wedding area, tables had been set up for the reception. Staff members rushed around, putting last- minute touches on beautiful displays of crystal glasses, gleaming silverware, and fine china.

Everything was beautiful and opulent. The wealth on display was mind-boggling while still remaining tasteful – exactly the opposite of Fausto’s McMansion.

I noted dozens of armed men in black suits and ties. Some stood at intervals around the house, while others kept up a steady patrol along the perimeter of the grounds. Given their pistols and assault rifles, I appreciated Fausto not wanting Wagner anywhere near here while we were present.

I noticed something else, too: the crowd was rather sparse. Small groups of guests huddled together, talking quietly as they sipped flutes of sparkling wine.

“I thought mafia weddings were big affairs,” I whispered to Fausto.

“They are, normally – except when the family is in bad odor with the rest of the Cosa Nostra,” Fausto said before shifting into mock sympathy. “Then, sadly, no one attends.”

The first brother we met was Roberto. He looked exactly like his pictures: ramrod-straight posture, an immaculate three-piece suit, and slicked-back hair.

“Uncle Fausto,” he said as they shook hands.

“Beautiful day for a wedding,” Fausto said jovially.

“Isn’t it?” Roberto agreed. “Too bad about the circumstances.”

“It’ll sort itself out,” Fausto replied. “I can’t tell you how many times there was bad blood between your father and other families. It’s all just a misunderstanding.”

“Tell that to Niccolo,” Roberto said dourly. “Aurelio, you cut your hair.”

“I did,” Aurelio said coldly.

“Almost didn’t recognize you.”

That was the point, I thought.

“Yeah, well,” Aurelio muttered, “it was time for a change.”

Roberto turned to me and smiled politely. “And you are…?”

“Aurora Dispenza,” I said, shaking his offered hand.

Fausto looked over at Aurelio in annoyance.

Aurelio sighed in exasperation, like he hated being bothered. “She’s my date.”

Fausto shot him a few eye-daggers for his attitude.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signorina,” Roberto said, then flagged down a nearby waitress. “I have to go check on some things, but please, help yourself to a glass of prosecco – it comes straight from our vineyards. Uncle; Cousin.”

Roberto gave a tiny bow at the neck, then walked off as we took glasses of wine from the waitress’s tray.

After the woman moved on, Fausto muttered angrily under his breath, “I think you mean my vineyards. Or, at least, they will be.”

I didn’t bother to comment on that.

But the wine was absolutely delightful.