Page 186 of The Slayer
“For what?” Nova asked as he tilted his head, looking at the flowers lining the walkway.
“For doing this,” Chuito said as he watched Nova walk over and straighten the flower arrangement closest to them as if he couldn’t help himself. “It means a lot to Alaine.”
“Oh, this is easy,” Nova said dismissively. “These are the sorta favors I like.”
Chuito understood, for a man whose entire life had been nothing but a steady stream of favors, many of which ended like the situation in the foreclosure house, a wedding was nothing.
Still, Chuito realized something about Nova.
At his core, he liked helping people. That was Nova’s drug. Solving problems. Fixing things. Making whatever was lagging run smoothly again, and it was something he really couldn’t stop himself from doing.
Even Angel’s business had been running far more efficiently once Nova touched it, and Angel had been the dumb motherfucker not to appreciate it.
All these issues kept Nova’s mind busy; they stopped him from having to dwell on his own demons. He kept his shit hidden and made sure everyone around him coasted off his Midas touch.
Not for the first time, Chuito found himself agreeing with Tino.
Life in general would be much better if Nova was running the underworld.
He was still scary as hell.
Nova was capable of dark deeds as easily as the rest of them.
But he did have class.
Nova headed back to the house, and Marcos walked up to stand next to Chuito, looking scratchy and uncomfortable in his tuxedo as he said, “No outfit should cost seven thousand dollars.”
“I thought you were a baller,” Chuito said with a laugh.
“Motherfucker, if this is what it takes to be a baller, keep the job,” Marcos said with a snort of amusement. “You’re better at it anyway.”
The nondenominational preacher standing under the gazebo coughed at the two of them, and Marcos just looked at him. “I’m Catholic, bro.” Then he turned to Chuito. “I’m surprised the Italians didn’t get her converted overnight for you.”
“Nova did actually get permission from a bishop,” Chuito said, because the Italians took this shit seriously.
“Do they have God in their pocket?” Marcos asked.
“You have no idea,” Chuito said with a laugh, because he had spent a long time confessing last night while Nova worked on getting permission from the bishop.
Chuito was going to be saying Hail Marys and donating his time to charity until he died, but the priest hadn’t urged Chuito to turn himself in like others would. He let Chuito repent in other ways.
So he stood there waiting for Alaine as an absolved man.
“You should go to confession,” Chuito told his cousin. “I found a good priest.”
“Yeah?” Marcos asked him, giving him a silent look of communication. “How good?”
“Good enough to listen to me for two hours.”
“Holy fuck,” Marcos whispered.
The preacher coughed again.
Marcos rolled his eyes and said in English, “Why didn’t they get a gringo preacher? The Italians found the only non-Catholic Latino in Miami. Jesus.”
“I speak English,” the preacher chastised him. “You probably should go to confession.”
“Mmm,” Marcos hummed but was saved from saying more when the music started.
