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hidden among the trees behind the altar, struck up the opening chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. A thousand guests rose from their seats and turned to see the bride as she progressed slowly up the thick grass carpet on the arm of her proud father.
    “What a beautiful dress,” said the lady standing in front of Gian Lorenzo. He nodded his agreement and, staring at the yards of Persian silk that formed a magnificent train behind Angelina, didn’t express the one thought that must have been on everyone’s mind. Nevertheless, the look on Angelina’s face was that of a bride displaying total contentment with her lot. She was walking toward the man she adored, aware that many of the women present would have been only too happy to take her place.
    As Angelina climbed the steps up onto the stage, the boards creaked. Her future husband smiled as he took a pace forward to join his bride. They both turned to face Cardinal Montagni, the Archbishop of Naples. One or two guests failed to stifle a smile when the cardinal turned to Paolo and inquired, “Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, for better for worse, for richer for poorer ...”
    Once bride and groom had been joined together in holy matrimony, Gian Lorenzo made his way to the Long Garden, to join a thousand other guests for dinner. A feast followed that began with champagne and truffle risotto, and ended with chocolate souffle and a Chateau d’Yquem. Gian Lorenzo could barely move by the time Paolo rose to reply to his best man’s speech.
    “I am the happiest man on earth,” he declared, as he turned to face his beaming bride. “I have found the ideal woman for me, and I am only too aware that I must be the envy of every bachelor present.” A sentiment which Gian Lorenzo could not quite agree with, but he quickly banished the ungracious thought from his mind. Paolo continued, “You know, I was the first suitor to win Angelina’s heart. No longer will I have to search for the perfect woman because I have found her. Please rise and join me in a toast to Angelina, my little angel.” The gathering rose as one and toasted, “Angelina.” One or two even managed “his little angel.”
    After the speeches were over, the dancing began to yet another band—this time one that had been flown in from New Orleans. Gian Lorenzo overheard that Angelina had once mentioned to Papa that she liked jazz.
    As the band struck up and the champagne continued to flow, the newlyweds moved among their guests, which gave Gian Lorenzo a fleeting moment to thank Paolo and his bride for including him in such an unforgettable occasion. “Medici would have swooned,” he told her, as he kissed her hand. She gave him a warm, gentle smile, but didn’t respond.
    “Let’s keep in touch,” suggested Paolo as the two of them drifted away. “Angelina is fascinated by art, you know, and is thinking of starting her own collection,” were the last words Gian Lorenzo heard, before Paolo moved on to another guest.
    Just before the sun rose and breakfast was about to be served, Signor and Signora Castelli set off for the airport, with a thousand hands waving their farewells. They drove out of the grounds of the Borghese with Paolo at the wheel of his latest Ferrari—not the ideal car for his bride. When they reached the airport, Paolo drove out onto a private airstrip and brought the car to a halt by the side of a Lear jet that was waiting for two passengers. The newlyweds left the Ferrari parked on the runway, climbed the steps and disappeared inside Papa’s aircraft. Within minutes of fastening their seatbelts, the jet took off for Acapulco, the first stop on their three-month honeymoon.
    Despite Paolo’s parting words, when the Castellis returned from their honeymoon they made no attempt to keep in touch with Gian Lorenzo. However, he was able to follow their exploits on an almost daily basis in the gossip columns of the national press.
    A year later he read that they