Indebted to the Mafia King
Morning Of

Eleni

"BWAH! BWAH! BWAH!"

The screaming alarm-alarms-rip me out of sleep far too early. I grope for the nearest one, which turns out to be my phone, and silence it before even opening my eyes. Another keeps whining somewhere else in the room, and I groan. Last night is a blur of strobe lights, penis-shaped candy, and mob wives dancing like drunk sorority girls. As much as I'm going to kill whoever set all these alarms, at least my no-drinking rule means it's only regular awful, not hungover awful. Another groan answers mine, and I shoot upright.

I'm-where the fuck am I? Big, soft bed. Early morning light in the window. It's shaped like the Staten Island house, but the colors-pink walls, purple bedspread, rainbow throw pillows....

The second groan issues from the floor again, and I glance over the edge. Gianna lies there, makeup smeared across her face and hair falling out of the updo she slaved over last night. She looks distinctly green. "Kill it," she mumbles. "With fire."

I'm in her room at the Staten Island house. And I'm getting married today, so someone probably Mama-set every alarm in the house to make sure we got up on time. I scan the bedroom and spot her phone, wedged half under the dresser. Gotcha! I stand-legs a little sore after all that dancing, but steady-and cross the room to shut off the alarm. Gianna sighs in relief.

"I thought the maid of honor was supposed to take care of the bride." I squat down next to her.

"Get married another day." She flaps her hand at me. "You don't give a fuck."

I don't, really, but all the planning is done, and I'm not going to piss off Nicky by throwing that away. And there's an elderly priest waiting for us at a nearby Catholic church.

With a smile, I help Gianna off the floor, hold her hair back while she pukes, then strip her out of last night's dress and stuff her in a cold shower. When it seems like she's not going to drown, I pull on a robe and head to the kitchen. The smell of loukoumades nearly lifts me off my feet like a cartoon character. I float in to replace Mama at the stove. More alarms blare upstairs. "Morning," I say over the noise.

"Zouzouni!" Mama whips around, abandoning her food for one of the first times ever, and bursts into tears. "You look so beautiful."

I look and feel like roadkill, though I collapsed out of exhaustion rather than drunkenness, but I accept her hug until something starts smelling like smoke. Mama swears in Greek, pats my cheek, and turns back just in time for the smoke alarm to add its opinions to the cacophony. The doorbell rings.

And I start laughing. It's beyond the pale that I'm getting married today. That Nicky planned the ceremony, so we're going to a Catholic church instead of Greek Orthodox like I know Mama wants. That I'm going to pose for first-look pictures with Dante while both of us wonder which of our guests is giving up all our secrets.

Gianna stumbles out of the bathroom, drenched. "Do you hate me?"

***

We manage to silence the alarms and salvage most of the batch of loukoumades. The doorbell turns out to be a makeup team nobody warned me about. They hustle me into the den, which somebody told them would be their headquarters. Four members of the six-person team begin shifting furniture out of the way, a fifth sets up a long table in the middle, and the sixth, a platinum-blonde woman who looks like a fox, studies my face.

"Puffy," she says. "Lovely eyes. Your mother said you wanted bombshell, yes?"

I don't even think Mama knows the word bombshell. "Did you talk to a woman named Nicky?"

She nods.

"That's not my mother," I say. "I want more natural."

The fox-faced woman sighs.

Then, the whirlwind really begins. I'm changed into a white silk robe. More wives begin arriving. Nicky, apparently, is already at the church. Mama makes a face every time the church comes up, but she still hasn't said anything. The fox-faced woman powders, plucks, shaves, and prunes me before passing me off down the line. Another of her army winds my hair in a complex updo while Val studies the work and reports its progress to Nicky over the phone. I laugh as Gianna tries to politely refuse a glass of champagne that makes her turn green.

Someone tells me that the tailor will be dropping off my dress soon. This will be the first time I've seen it.

By the time I've made it almost all the way around the table, back to the fox-faced woman for hopefully final approval, I can't stop thinking about the fact I haven't seen Dante since Friday morning. I expected to have a last night with him, before my bachelorette party on Saturday, but Mama and Gianna picked me up in a limo and dragged me out to Staten Island for the spa night before the lazy day before the party before my wedding. No men allowed. I slip my phone out of the pocket of my robe and send him a quick text, asking if he feels like a factory sausage too.

"Ah-ah!" Mama snatches my phone. "No distractions for the bride."

"But-"

She shakes her finger at me, happy tears in her eyes again. At least if Dante's set-up is anything like mine, he won't be able to answer me, so I'm not missing much.

The final makeup artist passes me back to the fox-faced woman. She smears something below my bottom lip, adds a few more sprinkles of glitter to my cheeks, then claps. I jump.

Two of her army-two more? There are already five around the table-hurry in with a white garment bag. That has to be the dress.

"Who's going to help her?" the fox-faced woman barks. "You can't ruin the hair and makeup."

"I will," Mama says.

Every eye in the room turns to Gianna, even mine. She winces apologetically and shakes her head. Way too sick.

That's fine. This is all for show anyway.

I step behind an accordioning, painted wall the fox-faced woman's army put up with Mama. She hangs the dress over the back and unzips the bag.

Suddenly, I can't look. I twist and face the mirror instead, then shut my eyes before I absorb any details of my hair or makeup.

"Are you wearing the right underwear, zouzouni?" she asks.

"Robe off, hands up." Fabric rustles behind me.

I obey. A few days ago, a set of lacy white lingerie arrived. The idea of wearing sexy underwear someone else picked out for me immediately made me sick, so the only thing I've bought for this wedding is that. Practically, I picked a set with a corset to hide any baby bump. Rebelliously, I got it in bright red.

Something light and airy settles over my head. Mama tugs a few times before it settles into place, zips up the back, then sucks in a watery breath. "Oh, Eleni."

I open my eyes. The woman in the mirror barely looks like me. My untamable curls twist neatly together in a complex bun, clearly just waiting for a veil. Despite her displeasure, the fox-faced woman has given me a fairly natural makeup look- a soft, smokey eye, a nearly nude lip, heaps of golden glitter that manage not to look like something Gianna would wear to work. And the dress...based on Mama's expression, she hasn't seen it before, so this has to be Gianna's doing. The sleeves reach my wrists and drape away to the floor, a concession to the season, but they're lace all the way to the shoulder, baring miles of skin. The skirt is the opposite of the cupcake I feared, a sleek A-line that won't trip me up, but it has its own separate train made from the same lace as the sleeves. The top echoes the camisole we picked out together so long ago, a sweetheart neckline, and it has enough structure that I probably didn't need the corset.

Mama adds a simple veil, attached to a tiny tiara studded with sapphires that bring out my eyes. Then, almost sheepishly, she offers me a wrinkled, dried, deep red Greek peony.

"A silly American tradition," she says. "But you still need your 'something borrowed.' This is the last flower I have left from my wedding to Baba."

My breath catches. "Thank you, Mama."

She reveals a small clip on the back, clearly attached recently, and attaches it to my hair. I look in the mirror one last time.

Holy shit, I'm getting married.

Mrs. Cattaneo, here I come!