Page 11 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“What? We are.”

Lucy presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. I sit back and watch her. This is not how I expected the night to go.

An hour ago, I was considering leaving early. The reception was pleasant enough, but I had three calls waiting, two issues with the Miami development group, and one conversation with my father I had been avoiding for weeks. My grandmother has been pressing him to hand me more control. My father agrees in theory. In practice, he worries I am too independent, too cold, too uninterested in the kind of legacy that requires roots instead of reach.

I have built profitable arms of our business without asking permission. I have negotiated deals men twice my age were afraid to touch. I have made the Moretti name sharper, stronger, harder to ignore.

And still, at every family meeting lately, the same concern returns.

Luca thinks like a king, my grandmother said last month. But does he know how to build a kingdom? At the time, I dismissed it.

Now I sit beside a woman who kissed me without warning, lied badly, told my grandmother she was threatening, and somehow made my family lean closer instead of pull away.

Across the table, Nonna watches the way Lucy’s hand rests near mine.

Too close to be accidental, but not close enough to be certain. My grandmother notices that too.

“So,” Nonna says, lifting her glass. “You and my grandson met tonight.”

Lucy’s throat works.

“Yes.”

Nonna sets her glass down. “What do you do, Lucia?”

Lucy opens her mouth, then stops. “I make dream kits.”

Isabella leans in. “That sounds illegal.”

“It’s not,” Lucy says quickly. “They’re little decorative kits. Like tiny worlds people build inside bottles.”

Bianca’s eyes light. “That is adorable.”

“I sell mostly online,” Lucy continues, gaining speed now, which tells me she’s nervous. “People choose a theme, and I send the bottle, the pieces, the little objects, the instructions. Beach dreams, garden dreams, travel dreams, new beginning dreams. That kind of thing.”

My mother’s expression softens. “New beginnings?”

Lucy nods. “Those sell best.”

Nonna goes still. So do I. Lucy does not seem to notice. She is nervously rubbin the edge of the tablecloth now.

“I think people like having something small they can control,” she says. “Something pretty they can put together when the big things feel… less cooperative.”

The humor fades for a second, but long enough for the table to feel it. Long enough for me to feel it. This is the hurt I saw in her eyes earlier. It’s not weakness but a definite bruise she has learned to decorate in a unique way. My hand moves before I think better of it. I cover hers.

Lucy’s gaze snaps to mine. Nonna clears her throat softly. I do not move my hand. Neither does Lucy.

“So,” Nonna says, her voice quieter now, “you build tiny worlds in bottles.”

Lucy turns back to her. “Technically, they build them. I just provide the pieces.”

“Mmh.”

Nonna’s gaze slides to me. I know that look. I have seen it over contracts, menus, seating charts, and men who thought they were more intelligent than they were.

“A woman who can build a world in a bottle can handle a Moretti man.”

The table goes silent.