CALISTA P.O.V On a cloudy morning in Chicago, the wind blowing in my face and my mind racing a mile a minute, I married my fiancé's sworn enemy. “Are you certain about this Romano?" The priest questioned him with disbelief. “I've known you since you were a little boy. Such.. err.. sudden decision is not in your nature at all.” Romano's resolute voice echoed in the near-empty cathedral, “Yes, Father.” “And you child? Are you certain of this?” The priest questioned me. “Yes, Father,” I replied, my throat thick with nostalgia. It was strange to be in the presence of a priest again. I was born into the church, and my family, like many other mafia families, were strong followers of the Christian faith. As a child, I had a profound love for the church, but my fondness became too much, and one day, over dinner, I blurted out how I wished to be a nun. My mother's mouth was open in shock, and my father turned beet red with rage. As the daughter and only child of a Capo, I had duties to
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