Raised by the Mafia

13. She's Not a Blushing Bride

I want to remember as little as possible of my wedding day. I'd drink myself into a stupor if I could, but I can't. Call it honor, call it pity, call it stupidity. I can't be a jerk even with a fake bride.

Plus, if I forgot my dignity, where would I get the time to hit the bottle? Every detail that goes into the damn wedding—hair, suit, flowers, rings, license, venue booking, witnesses, commissioner—we have to attend to all this crap.

It's ritualistic.

It's nauseating.

It's exhausting.

Item after item must be checked off the list, and we only have two or three days for it, not months like other happy couples. When all I want to think about is Naz's intel about Liz. How it wasn't Luca's scheme. If Naz lied to me for some reason.

Instead, I'm on the phone with the florist agonizing over Naz's bouquet, while Naz is agonizing over the gridlock on the Vegas Strip. Out of solidarity, I have to agonize over something as well, so I agonize over my choice to marry a girl in Vegas.

A girl with a profile like Naz's. I study it again as she glares out of the cab at the other cars. Yup, she's beautiful, dangerous, and full of hidden powers. Kinda like women I dreamed of dating when I was a boy.

Our driver finally turns into our hotel's driveway.

"Yes, that's fine," I tell the florist. "Orelia instead of baby's-breath works."

Florist stops hyperventilating on the other end of the line. "Orlaya, Sir," she corrects me peevishly.

"Whatever."

You can't have a wedding without the rings, I get that. But why does Naz need a mop of lilies, roses, and other weeds? Beats me why I need baby's-breath to get hitched to Luca's girl.

I pull the cell away from my ear, craning my neck to look out of the window. A whistle escapes my lips on its own. "I thought you'd choose the Cosmopolitan, Naz."

Instead, the arch of the Bellagio's massive, two-tier building engulfs us, pulling the cab under its porch. Its grandeur looks almost real after money flowed through its casino for so many years. The sheer mass of stone set against the flatness of the sky and the hordes of tourists coming to see the fountains after dark reinforce this claim. The fountains are pretty, I suppose.

"You know me so well, darling," Naz replies in a saccharine, sing-song voice. Oh, right. We're in love. Right. Never forget that.

"Better than anyone else." I stretch my lips to maximize the smile.

As we get out of the cab, my brain scurries around a rat maze. Why did Naz pick the Bellagio? Is that her way to get back at me for our argument about Luca? A very roundabout way, admittedly. Can a woman take revenge on her Korean groom by booking the most Italian of all the Italian-themed hotels in Vegas?

Crap. This is what paranoia feels like.

Naz scoffs and opens the passenger seat's door to talk to the cabbie. "We'll need a ride to the Marriage Bureau after the check-in. Could you wait for us, Sir?"

Our comfortably padded driver, bald as a knee and with so many wrinkles that he must be doing this job for its entertainment value, grins. "Sure thing, Ma'am. Though I've pegged you for vows renewal, not a wedding."

I wiggle my eyebrows at Naz, amused despite myself. "Really? Is that because we bicker like an old couple?"

"It's a good sign, Sir! A really good sign."

I open my mouth to ask him why it's a good sign, and Naz grabs my elbow into a vice-like grip. She propels me toward the rotating glass doors that spill tourists like the Horn of Plenty spills grapes and other vegetables. I probably should be grateful she didn't grab me by the ear, because her lips are pursed and her eyes are glaring.