Page 101 of Promised to the Don of Naples
I reached the step and Francesca squeezed my hand lightly over the bouquet.
"You look gorgeous, you bitch," she whispered.
I almost laughed. Almost.
I went up the step and stopped beside Luca.
He leaned in—just a centimeter, no one saw it—and whispered in my ear so low that only I heard:
"Bella mia."
The priest spoke in old Italian.
I didn't understand all of it, and I didn't need to. I knew what he was saying; the phrases passed through me the way they pass through the bride and groom in every church in the world—not understood and understood at the same time.
When he got to the vows, Luca went first.
He turned to me and took both my hands in both of his. His hands were cold.
Madonna, I thought. The man has cold hands.
"I, Luca Vincenzo Moretti," he said, low, "take you, Valentina Rossi, as my wife."
I swallowed hard.
"I promise to be faithful to you. In joy and in sorrow. In sickness and in health. All the days of my life."
His black eyes didn't leave mine for a second, and then the priest looked at me.
"Signora."
"I, Valentina Rossi, take you, Luca Vincenzo Moretti, as my husband."
My voice didn't shake. My mouth did. But not my voice.
"I promise to be faithful. In joy and in sorrow."
"Sì, bella mia," he murmured, so low that only I heard.
"In sickness and in health. All the days of my life."
Francesca, beside me, let out a breath.
The priest held out the silver tray. Two gold rings. Thin. No stone. Identical.
Luca took mine and lifted my left hand—ring finger—and slid it on. And for a second I felt the two emeralds shine together: Marta's on the right, Lucia's at my left ear.
Two mothers. I'm not marrying in the dark.
I took his ring.
His hand was enormous. The finger thick, the veins standing up under the tanned skin.
I slid the ring on.
"Ció che Dio ha unito," Don Alessandro said, "l'uomo non lo separi."
Luca leaned in.
