Page 86 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
The dress is vintage. Nineteen fifties. Ivory lace over satin with a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt that swishes when I turn, the fabric whispering against my calves like it’s telling me secrets of the future.
I found it in a consignment shop in Bucktown three weeks ago, crammed between a moth-eaten fur coat and a bridesmaid's dress the color of a bruised peach.
It was love at first sight. I knew the moment I touched the lace that this was it. Some things you just know. The dress. The man. The moment your life splits into before and after.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in Onyx's bedroom at The Foundry, surrounded by the faint scent of the rooftop garden drifting through the open windows above. Kon offered the space before Massimo could ask, and Onyx threatened bodily harm if we held the wedding anywhere else.
I'm about to marry the man I love for real this time and my heart can't decide if it's pounding or flying.
I lift the hem of my dress. Red heels. Obviously. Check. But it all started with one shoe and a wish. And now my dream is coming true.
I turn back to the vanity and grab my favorite lipstick. A couple of swipes of the cherry red and I’m all done.
I cap the tube, press my lips together, and study the woman in the mirror. Victory rolls pinned to perfection. Liner sharp. Lashes dark. I don’t need the armor of the rockabilly aesthetic any more. Now, I’m free to enjoy the glam of a pin-up girl. The girl who built this look as a fortress at fifteen is wearing it today as a crown.
"If you cry before you walk out that door, I will personally murder you and ruin this eyeliner myself." Onyx appears behind me in the mirror, her blue eyes already glistening, a tissue clutched in her fist. Her maid of honor dress is midnight blue, fitted, elegant. She looks stunning and furious about the fact that she's already emotional.
"Me? You're the one crying."
"I am not crying. I have allergies."
"You don't have allergies."
"I developed them today. Specifically for this occasion." She presses the tissue under her eyes and blinks rapidly. "Shut up."
Katriana hands me my bouquet through the doorway, a loose bundle of white peonies and trailing greenery that smells like a garden after rain. "From Kon's rooftop," she whispers with a smile. "Onyx's idea."
I look at Onyx. She shrugs, but her chin wobbles and she presses the tissue harder against her eyes. "He grows them. I thoughtthey should be shared with our family. Don't make it a thing or I will blubber through this whole thing."
It's a thing. It's the biggest thing. But I let her have the denial because her mascara is already in danger of streaking down her face.
“Maybe now you’ll take my advice and go for the waterproof version.”
I throw her a wink and that gets her to smile.
“Given the amount of weddings we’ve already had and if the pattern holds, I think she’s right.”
Persia joins us and straightens my train.
“Agreed.” I add.
Ilona adjusts a pin in my hair that I didn't know was crooked. The wives move around me with the quiet efficiency of women who have done this before, who have stood in rooms like this and helped someone they love prepare for a moment that changes everything. I look at their faces in the mirror, Persia's warmth, Katriana's steadiness, Ilona's calm precision, Onyx's barely contained emotional implosion, and my chest fills with something I didn't have three months ago.
Family. Not the one I was born into. The one that found me.
"Ready?" Persia asks.
"If I say no, can we postpone and order pizza instead? I want to cherish this moment forever."
Persia looks half tempted to take me up on it but says, "When Massimo comes looking for you we might have some explaining to do. And then he’ll throw you over his shoulder."
"That might be fun."
“Sloane!”
Onyx bumps my shoulder. “Okay, fine. I’m ready. Let’s do this before the flowers wilt.”
The rooftop of the foundry stretches wide and open beneath a Chicago sky that decided to cooperate for once. Clear blue fades to gold at the edges where the sun is starting its descent toward the horizon. White chairs line a center aisle scattered with petals that catch the breeze and tumble across the weathered cement. Iron railings frame the edges and the city skyline rises beyond them, glass and steel and light, but up here it feels separate from all of it. Private. Protected. The way The Foundry has always felt for the people lucky enough to be invited inside.
