He Claimed My Sister So I Married A Mafia Don Chapter 08
My Choice
Six months later, Matteo and I disagree about where to live.
His house is closer to his office.
Mine is closer to the hotel.
Neither of us wants to spend our evenings waiting for the other to get home.
We look at places halfway between.
At the third house, the agent keeps describing a room as a nursery.
“I need an office,” I tell her.
Matteo walks to the window and checks the light.
“Your desk would fit here.”
The agent calls it an office for the rest of the visit.
We choose a different house the following week.
It needs paint.
The kitchen gets morning sun.
There’s an ugly light above the stairs that we both want gone.
On the drive home, I ask Matteo whether he still wants to get married.
He looks at me.
“Yes.”
“September?”
He smiles.
“September.”
We tell our families after booking the place.
My father starts to ask about the guest list, then catches himself.
“Send me the names you need addresses for.”
My mother asks whether Bianca will stand beside me.
“No.”
A pause.
“Would you like me there while you get ready?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t try to trade one answer for the other.
A month before the wedding, Dante approaches me outside a charity luncheon.
Our families have attended it for years.
Matteo is a few steps away, speaking to the valet.
“Adriana.”
I stop.
Dante looks at my ring.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“I’ve changed some things.”
I wait.
“Bianca doesn’t come to the house anymore.”
“All right.”
“I’ve stopped answering every time she calls.”
“You don’t need to report that to me.”
His jaw tightens.
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“I wanted you to do it when we were together.”
“I know.”
People pass us on their way down the steps.
For once, Dante doesn’t move closer to keep the conversation private.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
He looks toward Matteo.
“With him?”
“Yes.”
He nods, though it seems to cost him.
“There are things I should have said.”
“You had time.”
Five years.
A photograph.
A suitcase open on a bed.
He looks down.
When Matteo returns, I take his hand.
“We should go.”
Dante steps aside.
His parents receive wedding invitations.
A week later, my father asks whether Dante can accompany them.
“I’ll tell him no if that’s what you want.”
I think about the last conversation.
“Tell him he can come as a guest. I won’t discuss our relationship again.”
My father nods.
“I’ll make that clear.”
On the morning of the wedding, my mother arrives with my bouquet.
She stops when she sees me.
“Oh, Adriana.”
I look at her in the mirror.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Her eyes fill.
“You look beautiful.”
My dress is soft white.
I chose it with two friends.
Nobody asked whether Bianca wanted to try it on.
My mother sets down the flowers.
“I thought you would always tell us when it became too much.”
“I did.”
She presses her lips together.
“Yes. You did.”
I wait.
“We should have listened.”
When she asks whether she can fasten my necklace, I turn around.
At the ceremony, Dante sits beside his parents near the back.
He recognizes the song before Adriana appears.
She used to play it in the car.
Once, she told him she wanted it at their wedding.
He had forgotten until now.
Matteo stands at the front with his hands loosely clasped.
The moment he sees her, he smiles.
Adriana smiles back.
Dante looks down at the program.
Her name beside another man’s.
He thinks of the message he sent the night before the engagement celebration.
I’ll pick you up tomorrow.
Even then, he hadn’t asked.
When Adriana reaches Matteo, she puts her hand in his.
Dante watches long enough to see how easily they stand together.
Then he lowers his eyes.
At the reception, Matteo and I visit the tables.
My feet hurt.
He notices me shifting my weight.
“Your other shoes?”
“In a minute.”
Dante stands when we reach his family.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
His mother kisses my cheek.
His father shakes Matteo’s hand.
Dante looks at me as though he might say something else.
Instead, he lifts his glass.
“To both of you.”
We thank him and move on.
At the next table, one of Matteo’s cousins starts telling me about the first car he wrecked.
Matteo disputes almost every detail.
I’m still laughing when the photographer comes to find us.
She takes us to the garden doors.
“A little closer.”
Matteo steps toward me.
His jacket is open. My skirt is creased. I’ve changed my shoes.
“One more,” she says. “Look at each other.”
I turn.
Matteo is already looking at me.
For a moment, I remember a photograph on a side table.
My body folded behind someone else’s.
Then he quietly repeats his cousin’s worst accusation, and I laugh before the shutter clicks.
That’s the picture we choose.
When it arrives, we hang it in the hallway of our new house.
My shoulder is tucked against his.
His hand is in mine.
There’s room for both of us.