Page 65 of Married with Mayhem

“The ceremony will be this afternoon,” Vittorio says. “The details should only take a few hours to put together.”

Sabrina’s jaw drops. Clearly, this was not an outcome she anticipated.

She closes her mouth and stubbornly raises her chin. “I can’t get possibly get married today.”

Vittorio fixes his cufflinks. “Of course you can.”

Sabrina elbows me in the gut. “Hey honey, didn’t we discuss a winter wedding?”

“We did,” I agree. “I…uh, really like the winter.”

She purses her lips and throws me a‘Is that the best you can do?’look of exasperation.

Well, excuse the shit out of me, but in the last five minutes I’ve been held at gunpoint, thrown some mafia dick off a balcony, been held at gunpoint again, been pistol whipped, gotten engaged, and now I’m about to be marched down the aisle before lunch. I’m a little fucking dizzy.

“My sisters aren’t even here,” Sabrina says, as if that will mean anything to her uncle. “I can’t get married without Daisy and Anni.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Have another wedding later if you like. I need to return home in the morning and I want this business taken care of.”

“Mama,” Sabrina complains. “This is absolutely crazy.”

But her mother is already making happy plans. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You will be beautiful,cara. I’m sure we can find someone to do your hair and makeup.” She turns her eyes to me and snaps her fingers. “Monte needs some ice for his face. Did you really need to hit him like that?”

There’s now an eruption of voices. Sabrina is carrying on that there’s no possible way to have a wedding under these conditions. Her mother is assuring her that her hair will look nice. Vittorio is handing out brisk instructions in Italian. The motel manager pokes his head into the room and wants to know what the hell we’re doing to his property and by the way, do we have anything to do with the man who fell off the balcony and broke his leg?

My swollen cheek is starting to hurt like a bastard but I stick two fingers in my mouth and blow out an ear piercing whistle that stops everyone in their tracks.

“Listen.” I tighten my arm around Sabrina’s shoulders, looking very much like an affectionate fiancé. “Sabrina and I don’t want to have some hasty shotgun wedding today so that is that.”

Sabrina bobs her head. “Right. That is that. This isn’t anyone’s decision but mine. And Monte’s, I guess.”

“A wedding?” The manager scratches at a red patch of skin on his neck. “Do you need to use the conference room? It’s available today but you’ll have to cough up a five hundred dollar deposit.”

Vittorio sends one of his men to go deal with the manager. He’s actually running out of men to send on errands. He’s also starting to appear bored with all the drama.

Now he crooks a finger. “Come with me, Monte.”

“I’m coming too,” Sabrina says.

“No.” Her mother pulls her away. “Let the men talk. You need to start getting ready.”

This time Sabrina allows her mother to guide her in the direction of the bathroom. She throws a desperate look over her shoulder. I give her what I hope is an encouraging nod to let her know I’ll take care of this wedding bullshit.

But first, I’m not having a sit down with the Sicilian mafia king without the dignity of shoes and a shirt. I throw them on hastily before following Vittorio outside.

Gunman #1 is no longer crying on the pavement. He must have been carried off to have his wounds tended to. Sucks for him. My conscience is clear.

Four gleaming black Range Rovers are lined up on the far side of the parking lot. They weren’t there earlier. I would have noticed. I’m not surprised when Vittorio heads right for them, never once looking back to make sure I’m following. There’s the question of how Vittorio found a fleet of expensive vehicles to tow his Mob Squad around small town Kansas, but I guess when you’re a billionaire mafia tycoon you can acquire anything you want.

Except an on-demand wedding. The line has to be drawn somewhere.

One of Vittorio’s men stands guard at the vehicles. He opens the back door for Vittorio and scowls at me with a wave of his arm, indicating that I need to walk around to the other side and open my own door.

Vittorio watches me climb in. I’m pretty sure this is one of those times when it’s wise to keep my wisecracks to a minimum so I wait for him to speak.

He takes his time and studies me in silence, probably in the hopes of seeing me squirm. He’ll have a long ass wait.

Vittorio drums his bejeweled fingers on his knee. There’s a deep scar across the back of his right wrist. I heard a story about that scar, how he got it as a teenager during a street fight. He nearly lost the hand and also suffered a punctured lung. A friend of his died that night after taking a knife to the throat.

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