Page 22 of Unhinged Little Angel

His hands are larger than mine, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks into my eyes, and I try not to squirm under the intensity in his gaze.

“Salvatore first. Repeat after me,” Larry instructs. “I, Salvatore Moretti, take you, Dante Torres, to be my wedded spouse.”

His eyes stay locked on mine as he repeats the words, his voice steady and certain, just like it always is.

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” Larry goes on.

Salvatore’s grip on my hands tightens as he echoes the vows, like he’s afraidI’mthe one who’s going to run out of here if given half a chance.

“To love and cherish, until death do us part,” Larry finishes.

“To love and cherish—” Salvatore’s voice is as firm as ever. “—until death do us part.” The low growl at the end almost sounds like a threat. Or maybe a promise.

I swallow hard and then take my turn, repeating the vows with a clumsy tongue and my pulse pounding so loudly in my ears I can barely hear myself.

“Do you have rings?” Larry asks once I’m done stumbling through the words.

“No.”

“Yes,” Sal contradicts, letting go of my hands and reaching into his pocket to pull out a small black velvet bag. He dumps two matching gold bands into his palm. “They’re nothing fancy, but I figured they would do on short notice.”

He flashes me an apologetic smile and I shake my head, stunned that he thought of all of this late last night while I was asleep. The outfits, the rings… I was just going to march him in here at gunpoint wearing UFO t-shirts.

There’s more parroting of Larry’s words as we slide the rings onto each other’s fingers.

“I now pronounce you married. You may kiss,” he declares gleefully, like any of this matters to him. Like somehow after performing a thousand marriages, eighty percent of which likely ended in divorce, he still believes this is a fairytale happily ever after for us.

Salvatore hooks his hand behind my neck and drags me forward to claim my lips. My mouth softens instinctively. Out of pure relief for having pulled this crazy plan off, I hum a happy sigh that he swallows down as he kisses me deeper, snaking his tongue into my mouth until Larry clears his throat and laughs.

“Congratulations and remember to tell your friends about Larry’s Chapel.” He pats us on the shoulders, then stuffs a business card into Sal’s hand and leads us back out to the lobby.

“So, I guess we should go back to the hotel to get our stuff and head back to Wildcliff. It’s a long drive,” I say once we’re on the sidewalk.

The sun is already starting to set, the city lights replacing the sunshine with an artificial glow. There’s music and chatter coming from all directions, reminding me that Los Vespar isn’t anything like Wildcliff. No one shouldering past us lives here; they’re all on vacation from their boring jobs and mundane existence, ready to shed their responsibility for a few days of debauchery.

A smile spreads slowly over Salvatore’s face and his hand finds its way onto the nape of my neck again. This time I can feel the brush of the smooth metal ring on his finger, reminding me of what we just did.

“One night in Sin City before we head home couldn’t hurt,” he says, and to my surprise, a flutter of excitement sparks in my chest.

“Okay. Show me how Salvatore Moretti lets loose.”

SALVATORE

Dante’s words from earlier play on a loop in the back of my mind.

There are worse places for bloodstains than a man’s hands.

I have no intention of waiting to see if whoever he’s afraid of backs off. I’m going to find him and I’m going to make him beg for death. And I’ll savor every second of it.

But I can’t do that tonight. So, for now, I’ll focus on celebrating with my new husband and save the vengeance for next week. I steer Dante into a dimly lit piano bar. There are several open tables near the stage, and people lingering near the bar with martini glasses, sharing murmured conversations. I zero in on a booth in a shadowy corner and slip my fingers between Dante’s.

“There are people sitting there,” he points out when he realizes where we’re headed.

“Very few problems in life can’t be solved, Angioletto. In fact, I haven’t met one yet that can’t be remedied with either money or violence.”

He huffs and tugs his hand, not hard enough to make me think he’s actually trying to break free from my grasp, just enough to let me know he’s protesting.

“You going to threaten to shoot them if they don’t give us the table?” he mutters.

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