Page 38 of Shield and Savior

Dirt cookies and yogurt. She’s gone and made it worse. The groom takes a long drink of water and gives me one of those, “I wasn’t the one who came up with this shitty idea” looks.

The bride continues, “I think everyone should eat healthily and cut out all those nasty chemicals.”

Yep…I do not like this woman. Who the fuck is she to push her values on me? My family has killed for less. This is an insult of the highest order that demands retribution.

My rage cannot be contained. This is an injustice. A travesty, even. I snap, “This is an affront to weddings everywhere.” I glare at the father of the bride. “Her dress cost forty grand, and you couldn’t get a damn sheet cake from Costco?”

I don’t know if this is a test my dad set up, and right now I don’t care. My feet hurt, I’m sexually frustrated, and all I want is cake. I’m the daughter of the most powerful man in the Italian mob. My request doesn’t seem unfeasible at a fucking wedding.

The groom fishes through his pockets. “I have these mints if you want.”

I shoot him the “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” look. The guests are watching us. I feel the eyes of the sweaty stranger on me. Underbosses know there’s something wrong. Lance lets out a low growl, and men reach in their inner coat pockets.

I release the groom from my stare and turn to face the room. “There’s no cake!” I call out to the crowd. I half expect people to think I’m insane. Like this outrage is completely uncalled for.

At a table of men in suits, a few I recognize from family gatherings, Facci stands. “Are there cupcakes?” His question is more confused than angry, with an acceptable amount of whining.

“NO!” I yell back.

Murmurs of “what the fuck” cascade through the reception hall.

The father of the bride bounces on his toes and grabs the groom’s arm. “Go to the grocery store and get some cake. NOW!” The groom nods and sprints off. The father glares at his daughter. “I knew it was a bad idea, but you wanted a wedding that would look good on Instagram.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? NINETY-FIVE PERCENT of INSTAGRAM IS CAKE!” I whip around to the father of the bride. “I am revoking my father’s gift. You have one year to pay back my family, or we’ll take the money back our own way.” I slam my hand on the table—the glasses wobble but don’t fall, and I’m a little bummed the red wine doesn’t spill—and glare at the vapid bride who has no sense of tradition. “Iwish a lifetime of UTIs and yeast infections on you. May your lady bits constantly burn every time you sit.”

She gasps as my attack pieces through her vegan, chemical-free brain. I vaguely hear a snort behind me as I stare at the bride.

“And…we’re done here,” Lance mutters and drags me away by the elbow. There are outcries from family members as we swing back to the table, grab our stuff, and make a hasty retreat. Or at least, he does. My crushed toes are making it hard to walk. Lance is fighting a smile and losing. One arm has his jacket and my purse, the other locks around my elbow as he ushers us outside. “Let’s go get you some real dessert.”

“Un-fucking-believable. No cake.” I throw up my arms as Lance escorts me out the door. He’s gonna leave her. No one can put up with that level of crazy. “I shaved my legs for this! My toes are squished, and my back hurts. I’ve been uncomfortable all night, but I thought I would at least get cake. But no. Maybe I should lock the doors and burn the whole place down. I don’t think a single jury of my peers would convict me.”

I feel his body shake beside me, like he’s trying to hold back his laughter but is losing the battle too.

“I mean, who the fuck doesn’t have cake at a wedding? Pie is forgivable. Cupcakes are passable. Hell, I’d even take a cookie cake because that’s still cake. But yogurt and joyless cookies? Nope. Absolutely not.”

As we walk through the lobby, Lance pauses and leads me to a plush red velvet chair. “Wait here,” he says. His eyes dart around, doing another threat assessment. Maybe he’s making sure there are no weapons so I don’t kill the bride and the rest of the family for letting her get away with that shit.

While I wait, I send a quick text off to Dad.

Me: Message delivered—might’ve put a little extra flair on it

Almost instantly, I get a response.

Dad: What did you do?

Me: There was no cake.

Dad: What? I don’t understand.

Me: There was a yogurt parfait bar…and dirt cookies.

Dad: Are you at the right wedding?

Figures. He assumesI’mthe one who made the mistake. I send him a picture of the wedding invitation and the sign outside the reception hall.

Dad: I see. Do I need to send a cleaner?

Me: No, I didn’t hurt anyone…I wished the bride a lifetime of discomfort when she pees. And you’re getting your money back.

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