The Don's Baby: A Bad Boy Romance (20 page)

“What is your taste? If we weren’t married at all and I asked you what the best possible wedding you could think of was, what would it be?” I asked. “If you had no one hounding you or breathing down your neck about what they wanted. What is Marcelo Orsini’s dream wedding?” I asked him.

He smiled at the question. Did men think about this stuff as much as women did? Did they even care, or did they just put up with grand wedding ceremonies to make their brides happy.

“An afternoon at city hall and then a nice dinner out somewhere, our favorite restaurant,” he said. I frowned a little making him laugh.

“So
unromantic
,” I said, surprised. He didn’t strike me as the type at all to want to go small. Maybe it was that whole ‘
the wedding day is for the bride’
mentality that had him like that…but still. I had expected him to at least have wanted it to take place in a cathedral or a chapel somewhere.

“Are you upset?”

“No, just surprised. I thought you’d want something grand and flashy. I mean,” I motioned to the house and the things around us, “you do like the
finer
things.” He smiled.

“I don’t know, Sophie. I just think that weddings aren’t for
everyone
, you know what I mean? If I want to profess my love to you and promise to be with you and only you for the rest of my life and yours, really
we
are the only two people who need to be there. I don’t need to prove my love and devotion to anyone else but you. Why? You want a big wedding?”

“No…” I trailed off. “I was just a little worried about how people would react to us getting married again. I just think it would bring up a lot of questions, and maybe the people who had come before wouldn’t want to come again.”

“We don’t need them,” he said.

He was right. We didn’t.

“You want it to be just us?” I asked.

“Are you alright with that?”

I nodded my assent. The additional people weren’t necessarily anything that we needed. A personal ceremony between the two of us would be nice.

“Would you do something for me?” I asked him.

“Whatever you want.”

I smiled at how generous he was. There was something that I wanted to ask him about the wedding, and I had felt a little silly wanting it. During the first wedding, we had read the stock vows that you could hear at any old wedding that you attended. The whole ‘
sickness and health, til’ death do us part’
thing which was beautiful and traditional, but it was still, you know… a little pedestrian. It sort of had to be that way because we were total strangers and there was nothing that either of us could have come up with to vow to one another because we didn’t know each other. Things were different now. Something that I had wanted—since I was old enough to know that it was something you
could
have—was personalized vows.

Marcelo worked every day. He had bigger things to worry about than what I wanted him to promise me he would do on our second wedding day. Really, what I was requesting, was that the man take the time out of his already busy day to write up a love letter to me. It would be okay if he didn’t want to do them, but I
really
wanted the answer to be yes.

“Will you write your own vows?” I asked hopefully.

“I’m not really a
poet
, babe,” he said.

“You don’t have to be. You just have to write what you want to say to me. It doesn’t have to rhyme, or be poetic, it just has to be honest.”

He sighed before looking at me.

“Do you promise not to laugh at what I come up with?”

“It shouldn’t make me laugh, Marcelo. It should make me
cry
,” I said.

He smiled and said he would do his best. That was all I wanted him to do. Since the ceremony would be just us, there was a lot of stuff that a traditional wedding would have that we just wouldn’t have to get. We didn’t need a bridal party or groomsmen or a Mass, we had covered all that at the first wedding.

Marcelo’s mom had done a great job with the ceremony, but there was one thing that we hadn’t done, besides writing our own vows, which I wished we had had the chance to—and that was wedding photographs. We could do it after our second ceremony, but frankly, I wanted to wear my first wedding dress. It was much more beautiful than anything I would be able to get to fit me when we finally had the second ceremony, and at the moment, I wasn’t showing. The window during which I was pregnant but still at my pre-pregnancy weight and size was going to close any day now and I wanted to get back in that dress before I was too big to do it.

I had felt beautiful in that dress—despite the circumstances—and Marcelo had thought so, too. If nothing else, it was the best part of that otherwise harrowing day, and I wanted to immortalize the dress in pictures that we took when we were actually happy about being together. Because the photographer was only available during the week, Marcelo took the day off of work and booked the church where we had been married to take our wedding portraits.

This was what it felt like to be getting married. I relished the feeling of excitement I had about everything. Though our wedding was going to be so small, it meant so much. I had missed the opportunity to feel excited about getting married, and Marcelo was allowing me to have that, which I loved him for. He wasn’t picky. He gave his opinion when I asked for it, but overall he let me choose everything.

The one thing he did do for me was get me a ring.

It was like because he hadn’t proposed to me himself the first time we got married, he wanted to propose to me as many times as possible. Maybe he was trying to see whether I would eventually say “no” or something, but I didn’t. I said “yes.”

He gave me the ring when we were in bed one night. He got up and fished the ring box out of his suit jacket that he had been wearing that day, and he asked me to marry him, again. The ring was a piece of art. Absolutely gorgeous. Unlike the wedding band that I was wearing already and the many pieces of jewelry he had gotten me in general since we had gotten together, the ring had come from his mother. It was an heirloom.

It had a 1920s art deco style and the rocks were diamonds, white and pink. The ring had belonged to his grandmother, and he wanted me to have it.

The wins just kept coming after that.

Neither Marcelo nor I had had children before, so neither of us knew what to expect when we went to the hospital for the first time. The baby was obviously not that far along, so they wouldn’t be able to tell us the sex, but they did give us a due date. Our kid would be born in the winter.

I loved seeing Marcelo’s face when the baby showed up on the screen. It was
tiny
. The obstetrician had to point out its little arms and legs, but it was there and it was ours. In approximately eight months, I’d be holding the baby in my arms.

Perhaps it was true what people said about struggle making a couple stronger. Marcelo and I had made a full one hundred and eighty degree turnaround from the couple that we had been when we got married. We were still, somehow, the couple that was about to get married, but this time, we
wanted
to be those people. We lived together, and I couldn’t wait to see my husband when he came home from work every day. I hadn’t been able to stand his hands on me unless I was drunk, and now I wanted him every single night, on top of me and inside of me.

We finally knew what wedded bliss was because we were finally living it.

I should have known that something fucked up was just around the corner. I should have foreseen that it wouldn’t last.

I had just come out of the shower and was drying my hair and getting dressed to go downstairs and have dinner with Marcelo when he got home. Over the sound of the hairdryer, I couldn’t hear the phone ring the first time. It rang again as I was getting ready to go downstairs. It was my mother.

“Mom?”

“Sophia? Honey, I’ve been trying to call you, where are you?” My mother hadn’t played too much of a role in my marriage and what had come after that. It wasn’t like she had disowned me or anything, but she had stepped back from her role as “mother” because Marcelo’s mother was supposed to have it. I had been “given away” at the wedding after all. She had largely kept her opinion of the marriage and what she thought about Marcelo and his family to herself. Thinking about it, it was likely because she had just felt powerless to do anything when it came to my dad and his business. I couldn’t imagine the discussions they must have had before I was eventually married, talking about how they would tell me and arguing about whether it was a good idea in the long run.

She obviously had something to say to me then, and it was something urgent from the sound of her voice. If it wasn’t urgent, then it was something I was probably not going to like hearing very much.

“I’m at home, Mom. Sorry I didn’t pick up. I was in the shower.”

Her silence after that confirmed to me that something was wrong before she had to. If it wasn’t serious, she could have just left me a text message, asking me to hit her up when I could to chat, or to make plans to meet or whatever. There was a way that you talked to people when you just wanted to talk and this was not it.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

“Sophia, honey. You better sit down.” I didn’t. I paced up and down the room, wondering what it was that she wasn’t telling me.

“What’s going on, Mom? Tell me. Did something happen?”

“Honey, I wanted to be the one who told you… your father was found dead outside the restaurant last night. He was murdered.”

There was a reason why people asked you to sit down before they broke bad news to you, and it wasn’t just to be funny. For a second, I felt faint and had to steady myself on the bed before I sat. My father had been what? It had happened where? What was she talking about? I had heard her, but I wasn’t sure that I was certain about what it was that she was telling me. She was saying something that didn’t make sense and that sounded like a lie. While I didn’t want to believe it, it was not something that anybody, especially not my own mother, would say to me in jest about her husband, my father.

Dead
? Was she sure?

I sat on the bed and held the phone to my ear in silence.

“What?” I asked dumbly.

“Your father is dead, Sophie. He was killed. It looks like another gang did it. One of his enemies.”

I shook my head like she was there to see me do it.

No
.

That was impossible.

My father wasn’t dead. My father couldn’t
die
. He just couldn’t.

“Sophie, are you still there?”

My mother’s voice snapped me out of it.

“Umm, yeah… listen, Mom. I have to go,” I said quickly, hanging the phone up. I felt rotten leaving her hanging like that, but what the
hell
, she had just told me that my father was dead. I repeated the phrase to myself mentally, modulating it differently every time so I could try and process it.

There was no way this was happening. This was my father we were talking about here, not some guy on the street. My dad. Francisco Dandolo. He had been larger than life and intimidating for as long as I had known him, but he was my father. I loved him, and he always did anything for me. There was no way that he was dead. Men like him didn’t just die. Of course, the man wasn’t immortal, nobody was, but I couldn’t believe that a man who was a larger than life and as strong as my father had just dropped dead. He was the kind of person who you expected to get up to extremely advanced age before anything started getting to him. He was healthy as a horse. He had no good reason to be dead.

Except of course another person’s bullets.