Page 20 of Gilded Saint

“Brothers?” He offers his hand, and I take it, and a load of shame threatens to take me under. It’s one thing to fake friendships when in deep cover. It’s a requirement. But faking family falls into questionable integrity territory.

If I act like I like someone, either he’s a criminal I might kill one day or turn over evidence on, or I genuinely like the guy. Most of the time, it’s a mix of both situations. Faking family is a whole ’nother level I’ve gotta wrap my head around.

His grip is firm, belying his youth.

The heavy church door opens, and a woman’s voice calls, “She’s close. You need to get in here.”

The church the Gagliano family secured for our nuptials is centuries old and comprises one room with pews. Stained glass windows adorn the front of the church and along the aisles. A modern architect would have positioned the church so the stunning view of the Mediterranean benefited the congregation, but in this church, those exiting the damp, cloistered room profit.

My dress shoes rasp against the dusting of sand covering the pavers. My heart rate rises, and I swipe my palms against my trousers. None of this is real. The situation incites the physical reactions. It’s the church. It’s the day. A day that, as a boy, I assumed would one day come, and as a man following a select path, believed impossible. It’s my past coming to haunt me. My mother, my father, my sisters, my teammates. Shadows from my past that I carry in my soul.

I shake my head as I walk, pissed at emotions and thoughts that should be tamped down.

A black Mercedes with tinted windows spins dust behind it.

Orlando pauses, watching the approaching Mercedes. The woman in the door well shades her eyes with a hand.

“Is that Willow?” I ask.

Orlando gives a quick shake. Negative.

I reach for the Glock tucked in my waistband, a last-minute wardrobe addition when I considered the potential for a Red Wedding. It’s my understanding Alessio took a coward’s approach, canceled some cocked-up cocktail hour with Massimo and Leandro, and didn’t mention the arrangement to Massimo until sometime last night.

From what I’ve heard of this Leandro character, I wouldn’t put it past him to use force to stop the wedding. With men like Leandro, it’s a matter of pride and ego. He wants something, and if he doesn’t get it, it’s an insult.

And these are the people I’m negotiating arms deals for in order to gain intelligence. It’s sickening.

The car slows to a stop.

I unlatch the snap on my holster, readying the gun.

A uniformed driver exits.

The back passenger door opens well before the driver reaches it.

Nick steps out, grinning from ear to ear. “Word on the street is you need a best man.”

He says something to the driver, who goes to the trunk of the car as Nick waltzes over like he’s saving the day in a freaking tux.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m grinning, too, but it’s because this guy is such an oaf.

The driver lifts a garment bag from the trunk.

“Brought you a wardrobe change. If I’m your best man, you’re getting married in an outfit befitting a gentleman. Those boots of yours…disaster.” His face crinkles in disgust, and I snort.

“Ciao,” he says, greeting Orlando. “I’m his best mate, and his best man, Nikolai Ivanov. Is there a place he can change?”

“Orlando,” a woman’s voice calls, “call your mamma. Tell her to have the driver wait a few minutes.” An attractive older woman steps out from the shadows. “I’m Caterina Gagliano, Willow’s aunt.Andiamo. There’s not much time.”

Caterina leads us to a small building that from the outside might be mistaken for a crypt, but it’s a marble building the local church uses to store items, and it apparently doubles as a small office. She leaves us, but not without admonishing us to hurry with a tap on her wrist for emphasis.

Nick grins as his driver passes over the garment bag. A shoe bag dangles in front. The driver brushes his hands over the front of his uniform, scanning the area. Based on how he positions himself outside the door, the driver doubles as security.

When the door closes, I unzip the garment bag, marveling that Nick acquired a tuxedo in my size on tight notice.

“You know this isn’t real, right?” I spare him a glance, and he just grins his maniacal grin. “This is going overboard.”

“Everybody needs a best man.” He shrugs like it’s no sweat to drop everything, find me a tux, and fly to another country. “Besides, you’re too good a soul. If you’re doing this, it’s real.” I stop, one leg in a trouser, one out, ready to set him straight. “Don’t argue. You’ll honor her more than men who marry for love. It’s in your genes. It’s why you’re one of the few I trust with my life.”

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