Page 8 of Unspoken Ties

“Emilio!” I said, bolting towards him.

Emilio was my best friend’s husband. My opinion of him was no different than most men I encountered in the mafia - just average. But after spending a night with Ettore he looked like a saint shimmering in the sunlight.

“Good to see you,” he said, nodding his head.

I began to ramble, recounting every detail of the previous night and all that had transpired. He listened intently, his eyes locked onto mine, though I assumed he already knew everything. Every now and then, he let out a low grunt of acknowledgement, like a small animal stirring from its slumber.

“Well, Luciana would have been devastated if you died. I couldn’t have that,” he said.

Fortunately, Ettore hadn’t caught up to us. He had taken a call and was arguing with someone in rushed Italian.

“Emilio, what’s going on?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly. “Why am I marrying a man I barely know?”

“There had to be some concessions made. I couldn’t just ask Ettore to rescue you with no benefit to him. At the time, it would have served him better if you were dead.”

Frustration bubbled within me, threatening to spill over in a torrent of questions. Why couldn’t he have saved me? But I knew the answer before I could even ask. He was most likely preoccupied with a myriad of other pressing issues. The weight of this realization settled heavily on my shoulders.

It would have served Ettore better if I were dead. The end of the Alto lineage, the most powerful family in New York City for generations. It would make him the most powerful mafioso in the city.

I suppose this marriage was a small price to pay for my life.

“Well… alright,” I responded.

I watched Ettore angrily hang up his phone. I was very glad I wasn’t the other person on the other side, because from bitsand pieces of the conversation I heard, he was tearing them to shreds.

“Let’s get this done,” Ettore said flatly. He turned and looked at Emilio. “You were able to find it?”

Emilio reached into his suit jacket and produced a perfectly crisp, leather-bound folder. Ettore opened it and hastily searched through the documents. My curiosity piqued, I leaned in for a closer look, and my eyes widened in surprise. It was my birth certificate. The paper had only slightly yellowed with age and had an official stamp. Every detail of my existence was recorded on that small piece of paper; my name, my birthdate, my parents’ names. It was so perfect, I was convinced it wasn’t a fake.

I whirled my head and looked at Emilio. “Where did you get that?”

“I broke into your house. Oh, and some guys were there waiting to finish the job.” I must have looked horrified, because he continued. “Don’t worry, I took ‘em out.”

“Right…”

“Let’s go.” Ettore didn’t wait for our responses, instead choosing to walk into City Hall. Emilio and I trailed along behind him.

Inside, the grand hall was filled with a bustling crowd, all going about their various business. Businessmen in tailored suits huddled around discussing projects, while young couples waited nervously to get their marriage licenses. The ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast a warm light over the inhabitants of the room, creating an atmosphere that contradicted the coldness of Ettore.

He led us to a line labeled ‘City Clerk’ where people were waiting patiently. His presence immediately drew attention. Whispers filled the air and nervous glances were thrown ourway. Showing no signs of recognition, Ettore moved forward as if he was used to this kind of attention.

An elderly woman behind a counter finally attended to us. Her eyes widened when she saw Ettore, but she quickly composed herself.

“Marriage License,” he stated flatly, pushing our birth certificates and ID’s toward her. She scanned it and then looked at me with pity-filled eyes before typing something into her computer.

A few excruciating minutes passed as she worked meticulously, her fingers dancing over the keys with a familiar ease. A printer hummed to life somewhere behind her desk, and she finally handed over a thin slip of paper that bore both of our names.

“Here is your Marriage License.” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she slid the document toward us. Ettore took it without a word, folding it neatly and tucking it into his jacket pocket.

As we turned to leave, the woman’s voice halted us in our tracks. “I wish you both a lifetime of happiness,” she said, looking at me with an expression of unease beneath her forced smile.

And although she wished it for us, I doubted we’d be getting it. I managed to utter out a “thank you,” but Ettore didn’t acknowledge her words, instead leading us back down the hallway where the ceremonies took place.

The ceremony room was sparse, lacking any personal touches or warmth. The walls were painted a neutral grey, giving off an impersonal and cold atmosphere. We took our place in a long queue of other couples, all waiting to exchange vows and become legally bound together. As we sat in the wooden pews, we observed as strangers joined in matrimony before us, each with their own unique story and journey. It was a strange feeling,witnessing such intimate moments between people we did not know, but it added to the solemnity and gravity of the occasion.

I glanced at the new diamond ring on my left hand. The one Dillon had given me was gaudy; I hated the shape and the unnecessary embellishments on it. The one Ettore gave me was simple and understated, just how I liked my jewelry.

Lost in my thoughts about the ring, I almost missed Ettore’s last name being called.

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