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The damp air carried the scent of a storm slowly brewing on the horizon. A man's skin prickled slightly, as if preparing itself for the electricity in the sky to pierce the tip of the long, gold-crested cross adorning the church. He hastily clicked his well-polished leather shoes towards it, it's bells still and guests inside silently awaiting the bride to arrive by her future husband's side led by her stocky, teary-eyed father sniffling all the way down the scarlet virgin road. The pipe organ sang it's muted echoes of Wagner's usual piece, surrounding its listeners with anticipation as they watched the white-laced daughter take dainty steps, encouraging the audience to bathe in her radiance, and her beloved to gaze at her lovingly with barely-hidden glee painting his face and the light bounces of his heels.
The weather may disagree, but today was their perfect day. Sure, the stained-glass windows didn't light the floors with their vibrant colors; the rain started to patter the church walls with what sounded like large droplets reverberating throughout the hollow halls; there were less guests than the bride had anticipated, leaving unsightly gaps between spectators, but none of that mattered. Bright fresh flowers and sheer white and violet drapes sprinkled with rhinestones of various sizes embellished the white metal arc her soon-to-be husband awaited under. The church was well-lit and the temperature was comfortably warm.
The bride closed her eyes and sighed, tilting her head down to smell the nosegay of cream and blushing pink roses she clutched. They gently rustled in her hand with each step, some leaving petals behind as she passed guests. Then, she opened her eyes and noticed something. Some of the petals on the outer edges were browning and dry. Strange, she thought. She was sure she checked every flower this morning. None of them were dead or dying, and she personally plucked out the ugly ones herself. She felt her anxiety pump through her veins, but she swallowed it down and straightened herself. No, no, she cannot and will not let this small distraction ruin her perfect day.
The bride and her father were halfway though the virgin road when they heard a dull, heavy thunk from behind. They initially ignored it thinking it was a guest who had accidentally kicked the seats in front of them, but then there was another, then another, thunk, thunk, thunk. A sound of a body sliding off the wooden seat and hitting the stone floor of the church echoed and the bride finally turned to find the guests she had passed had all seemingly vanished. She panicked and yanked on her father's elbow with her own as if to ask if he sees what she sees. The bride's green eyes examined the floor of each seat and saw crumpled bodies sliding their wrinkled arms and legs across the tiles toward the red carpet.
She shrieked and took several steps back, her heels catching her lace ball-gown dress, pulling her down backwards along with her shorter father. Although the puffy dress cushioned her fall, her buttocks were sore, but that was the least of the bride's concern. She tried to get back on her feet, but her heels were entangled inside her dress, tearing her wedding gown from within with every attempt to kick it free. She looked up and saw some unmoving bodies reaching for the carpet with thin, wrinkly arms just barely grasping the cloth, and others moaning for water, asking the air what was happening to them with their terribly mummified lips with bits of rotting teeth spilling out from their dry gums. The bride stared in horror at the zombie-like beings wearing her guests' outfits and turned to her father, who had not said a thing this whole ordeal. She tugged at his sleeve and felt a sickening pop in her hands. She looked down to find that her father's once very-filled shoulder was now empty, the cloth of the sleeve flattened and only starting to have some flesh from where the elbow should be. In her hand was an almost skeletal hand with cartoonishly over-sized jeweled rings on each finger. The bride flinched the hand away from hers and looked at her father, who now looked like a dry mummy, his eyes sunken and dark into his sockets, his once puffed cheeks vacuumed into his bony cheekbone, and his jet-black hair frizzled and peppery-gray.
The bride kicked off her slippers and quickly stood to face the rest of her guests and fiancé. They were all in similar conditions, slumped in their seats, some muttering something under their cracking breath, others still as the grave. Her future husband clutched the arch with shaking arms, his luscious brown hair now all falling out revealing liver spots and folded, paper-thin skin barely hanging onto his bones. He was barely hanging on as he raised a pointing finger behind the bride who watched in horror as her beloved man's knees gave in and allowed gravity crush his frail body onto the scarlet carpet now covered in brown and black curled and dry rose petals.
The pipe organ had seemingly stopped playing long ago, leaving the bride standing amongst old bodies. Her bouquet of cream and blushing pink roses had all fallen, the dry stems crackled and left only splinters on her white gloves. The rain had now taken over the church, filling the room with showering roars as distant thunder crept closer and closer with every clap.
The bride gasped as she had to remind herself to breathe. Tears quietly streamed down her cheeks as she peeled her gloves to reveal her forearm jutting out thick veins and a thin line of her bones. Her skin had lost its elasticity and was now cracked and papery. Dark spots appeared on her once flawless tan skin. She touched and pinched her cheeks to find them hanging and thin. Her tears stopped flowing as her eyes became dry and sunken. She could barely open her eyes now as they seemed to glue shut.
What happened? How could this have happened? Why me? Why today? Why, why, why.
"It's nothing you did," a male voice answered her unvoiced questions. She did not recognize it and slowly turned her crackling neck towards him. Her knees threatened to buckle at any given moment, but she willed herself to keep standing. She forced her eyes to crack open, but only saw a blurry silhouette of a lean man in a purple suit with a long black coat. His blond hair gleamed white with every wink of lightning, followed by a dull rumble gingerly quaking the church. She opened her mouth to let out, well, anything, but could only manage a husky cough and wheeze. With that, her legs gave in and she folded onto her virgin road. Her arms caught her torso from crashing onto the carpet, and when she finally raised her head once more, the man was standing right in front of her, looking down at her broken face. She attempted to speak once more, but felt cold metal touch her forehead.
"Sorry kid. Ask Papa in Hell."
The bride felt something pass through her head, but before she could feel pain, she saw black.
---
"It's done," Prosciutto flipped open a pack of cigarettes and pinched one out between his lips. He listened to the sound of a keyboard busily typing away in the background from the other line, waiting for a deep familiar voice to reply. He heard a slow inhale and a loud squeal of an old leather chair carrying a heavy body, then a long, tired sigh.
"...Good work." Risotto finally replied. The blond man rummaged through his inner coat pocket and pulled out an old tin lighter. He wrestled the light on after several tries, mentally noting to get oil refills later. He tipped the cigarette into the tiny flame and breathed in the very needed nicotine, feeling his stress slip away in a stream of smoke. His Stand rhythmically hissed out its purple gas, slowly pacing up and down the red carpet, checking on the small, wrinkled bodies with its many yellow eyes, making sure none were left alive.
"You don't sound too enthusiastic, Capo."
"Would you rather me a sadist?"
"I see I'm working for a softie mafioso," Prosciutto scoffed. "How cute, even saintly." Tense silence came from the other line, even the background keyboard seemed to slow their clicking noise. The blond assassin took a long drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright red, and exhaled slowly. "Let's get married."
The line cut abruptly, as he had anticipated. Prosciutto waited a few minutes and walked among the bodies, carefully stepping over and between limbs and dresses. He dialed once more and listened to it ring in the empty void three times before Risotto picked up without a word. “Capo! Risotto! You hurt my feelings!” Prosciutto cried sarcastically, a thin smile tracing his lips. “You know I don’t take rejections well, I’ll cry and drink myself to sleep tonight.”
“Have you finally gone mad, old man?” Risotto’s voice growled.
“Sober as ever, I’d even say some sick God has given us the perfect opportunity,” Prosciutto chasséd the empty half of the virgin road leading to the dead groom and priest. He circled around with a graceful acknowledging arm, “We have guests.” He turned to the organist lying limply on his side in his seat, “Beautiful music.” Lightning lit the room white as the sky continued to send barrages of rain slamming against the stone walls, “The perfect weather.” He slithered his fingers down to hook two platinum wedding bands from his breast pocket, “Two rings.” He slid one on his left ring finger, “And an eager groom, waiting for his future bride’s kiss.” There was a pause, then a short “pfft” followed by an airy chuckle.
“You have, Prosciutto. You’ve gone mad.”
“Maybe so!” he laughed. “In the name of God, I, Prosciutto, take you, Risotto, to be my husband, to have and hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death! This is my solemn vow!”
“Settle down, you idiot,” Risotto said, “you’re in the house of prayer. Have some respect.”
Prosciutto continued, “Do you vow, Risotto Nero? Till death do us part?”
“Hmm,” he thought for a moment. “What’s a vow that doesn’t let death do us part?” The blond man froze, processing what he had just heard. The typing in the background stopped completely. After a long pause, the leader of la Squadra Esecuzioni said in a quieter tone, “…forget what I’ve just said,” and cut the line, leaving a dumbfounded assassin slack-jawed, his half-finished cigarette falling onto the carpet, staring into space in awe.