Veiled Amor by V. Theia
SIX
“He was not catching the bouquet, not for all the wedding cake in the world.” - Capone
A little earlier
Capone hated weddings.
They went on too long.
Making him itchy.
He wasn’t against long-term commitments.
He was down to the bones happy for Rider and Zara. This day had been a long time coming for them both. They deserved this more than anyone else did after what they’d endured to be together.
But the whole symbolism of what a wedding comprised of didn’t sit well with him, and he was antsy to get it over with.
He’d bought them a gift.
Helped get Rider drunk for his bachelor party.
He’d even spit-polished the Prez’s Harley for later.
Capone had lost count of how many of these things he’d attended in the last decade. He turned up because he gave a shit about his club brothers and old ladies they chose. But he was the lone guy at these things who couldn’t wait until it was over so he could get out of there and breathe.
Love and soulmates didn’t exist.
Sure, he could see it with his own eyes when he looked at Rider and Zara. Or any of his other brothers who’d gotten hitched recently. Preacher, for example, was a changed man. The guy no longer trawled bars looking for a distraction to his PTSD. He’d got all the good he wanted at home with Ruby and their kids. If he looked around the fancy hotel right now, his eyes would see varying versions of the same love on many faces.
What he meant was that shit didn’t exist for him.
Love and soulmates soured a man when he watched a woman he had a connection with saying her wedding vows to someone else.
Kinda made him jaded as fuck and bitter toward love. Making him wonder if it existed or people were pretending.
Make-believe was a real mindfuck.
You think something long enough it becomes real.
It’s torture.
And no man here knew more about internal torture than Capone did.
That was a crux for him to bear, and only The Holy Mother Magdalene knew why.
He wasn’t religious in the slightest. His mother once had crucifixes all over their house like she thought her son’s badness would be washed away if she appealed to God.
He hadn’t stepped into a church of his own steam in forever and didn’t have the urge to confess his sins either. He’d be there a fucking decade or more. But for him and The Holy Mother Magdalene, she held all his secrets and didn’t tell a soul.
Some might say he was sulking.
Capone would call it enduring. Watching the clock until a decent time when he could split without it looking odd.
Fingers tapped on the fancy white tablecloth, drumming to the beat of the music going on around him. And then a shadow fell over his shoulder. Capone cut a glance up and smiled at the older guy who parked his ass with a withered groan. “Whatcha doing over in the corner? Wouldn’t think there was a room full of pretty girls around,” Krusher grinned with his missing teeth. He placed his cane on the empty seat next to him and took a healthy swallow of the glass of whiskey in his other hand. All the brothers had dressed up for this thing, he included, though Capone hadn’t worn a tie and the shirt buttons were open at the neck. Krusher had lost his suit jacket but still wore his tie adorned in little Harley bikes.
“Couldn’t get a chance with any of them,” Capone replied, “not with you around, sí?”
The old man cackled. He’d been taking turns around the dance floor with all the old ladies. He was a smooth one, alright.
“They indulge a golden oldie.”
“Sí, one more than anyone else. You got a thing for Tag’s mother-in-law?”
If it were possible, color hit Krusher’s tanned face, making Capone laugh. Krusher’s eyes tracked across the massive hotel banquet room to find the lady in question. “She’s a fine woman. Good dancer too. I might have dodgy knees, but I can keep up.”
“Bet you can, Krusher.” Teased Capone.
“Why are you here alone? Seen the single gals eyeing you up, Son.”
“I’m not interested.”
Krusher cleared his throat, took a slurp of whiskey again. “You, eh…got an eye for the fellas instead? Not judging, mind. I know how it is these days, never can tell who is queer or not. Gia watches a soap with me, and this fella is into his best friend. It’s not looking good for him right now, seeing as how the best friend has a girlfriend, gonna keep watching to see how it turns out.”
Capone chuckled. “Nah, don’t like weddings.”
“Allergic to cake?”
“Something like that.”
The pair watched the crowd for a while, seeing Rider and Zara touring the big hall to see everyone.
Krusher cut into the silence.
“Gotta grab onto happiness where you can, Son. I never took my opportunity when I had it, and now look at me.”
“What? Being the club’s lothario?” Smirked Capone, making the old man’s withered face crack into a huge, unrepentant grin. “You missed out on someone?”
Krusher stood, grabbed his cane, and then clapped a gentle hand on Capone’s shoulder. “The biggest regret of my life was assuming she was better off without the likes of me. She married someone else, not sure if she was happier with him than me. But it was a long time ago. You’re gonna be alright. Don’t make my mistakes. You don’t gotta submerge in the deep end to enter the pool, Son.”
He then shuffled off toward the Russian woman, who watched him with an expectant smile on her face.
He didn’t have the first clue what the pool metaphor meant, and there was no time to give it any thought when the phone in his inside pocket vibrated.
Grateful for the excuse to slip out of the banquet hall, he answered the unknown number as he reached the lobby, out into the cool night air, and the gravel crunched under his feet. “Hello?”
“Giancarlo? It’s me.”
Lucia.
Just like that, his heart went into freefall. A barrage of questions pushed into his mind.
Three goddamn weeks since he’d spoken to her.
Three weeks since she didn’t answer on their usual Friday calls.
Three weeks since he’d wondered had she finally tired of his aloof behavior and cut him from her life.
Wouldn’t blame her one bit.
It was something he should have done years ago, not hung on like a desperate prick.
Sweet girls didn’t need men like him. Ones with zero morals and the brass balls to do what he’d done.
He’d taken from his brother on the worst day possible.
But it had started long before that.
The first time he’d laid eyes on a younger Lucia while he’d been driving with Santiago. He’d spotted her through the car window and felt something crack inside his chest. Felt it burn and spread through his skin.
Lust.
It only got worse from there.
“Why are you calling on an unknown number? A new phone?” Was what he chose to ask her, not any of the other thousand more important questions.
“It’s a long story,” she said, sounding neutral. “I guess I’ll start at the beginning if you have time to talk?”
“Sí,” he croaked after a few seconds.
“And when I’ve finished telling you, I’m going to ask you for some help, Giancarlo.”
He didn’t know how long later it was, while he stood out in the cold, listening to Lucia’s melodic voice, that he hung up the phone, made his way inside to talk to Rider and Zara. Letting them know he was sorry, but he had to duck out.
They asked why, and Capone told them a girl he knew needed his help.
His sister-in-law.
They understood because to the prez and his queen, family was everything.
He didn’t tell them this was the woman he’d given his heart to, because that was a bag of worms he couldn’t delve into.
Not when he had a plane ticket to buy.
Capone strode out of the hotel. He didn’t even stop to tell his buddies where he was going.
He remembered standing up as best man for his younger brother on a day much like this and watching Lucia say vows to Santiago.
He remembered the feeling of his chest filling with heaviness.
He’d had questions.
Plenty of time for answers, he thought.
After all this time, she’d finally fled from her father.
Capone might feel a flicker of joy for her, knowing she needed out of her father’s strict ruling.
But he also knew this was only the start of the shitstorm.
The unhappy tension stung his skin.
There was no recollection of Capone booking a plane ticket to Louisiana or packing a bag, or catching a cab to the airport because his mind was reeling.
He was going to lay eyes on the woman who’d tormented him for years.
The woman he’d fucked on the day they’d put his whole family in the ground. The day she’d laid rest to her husband.
“Give me strength, Holy Mother Magdalene ,” he muttered to himself.
Tense like a caged lion.
He was going to need it.
Like a kicked dog who was still loyal to its master, he took many fortifying breaths that day and headed toward the danger.
Shit was never gonna be the same after this.