Page 20 of My Wedding Mafia Style

Lucy opens her eyes. “I’m trying, but they’re very audible.”

My father laughs under his breath. Nonna says nothing. She simply stands near the center of the deck in a cream-colored jacket, one hand resting lightly over the other, watching Lucy as if every word confirms a theory. That should worry me. It does, but not enough.

The captain’s crew moves quietly around us, efficient and nearly invisible. Lights from the reception begin to shrink behind us. Lucy looks back toward shore.

She has left familiar ground. And she did it with my hand in hers. I should not like that as much as I do.

“Come with me,” I say.

Her eyes return to mine. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“You say that a lot.”

“You keep coming.”

Bianca appears instantly beside her. “Where are you taking her?”

“Away from you.”

“That’s rude.”

“It was meant to be.”

Lucy makes the small breathy sound she gives when she’s trying not to laugh. I’m beginning to recognize it. I’m beginning to want to hear it again, which is another problem I do not currently wantto examine.

Bianca narrows her eyes at me. “Bring her back. I have plans for her.”

Lucy turns to her. “Should that concern me?”

“Yes,” Adriana says.

“No,” Bianca says at the same time.

Isabella smiles brightly. “Depends on how attached you are to that dress.”

Lucy looks down. “I’m getting the feeling this dress has offended your entire family.”

Lucy sighs. “It was chosen by the bride.”

“Come,” I repeat, before my sisters decide to undress her on deck in the name of fashion.

Lucy looks at me, then at the waiting Morettis, then back at me.

“Fine,” she says. “But if I disappear, someone tell Celia I was last seen with an Italian man on a big yacht.”

“I’m Sicilian,” Nonna says.

Lucy stills. Then she turns back with a wince. “I deeply apologize to the yacht.”

For one suspended second, the deck goes quiet. Then Nonna laughs approvingly.

Damn. Lucy Phillips is becoming very dangerous.

I take her hand more securely and lead her toward the stairs that climb to the upper deck. She follows without hesitation, though I feel the way she grips the railing whenthe yacht shifts beneath her. I slow my pace. She notices, glances at me, and says nothing.

The upper deck is quieter. The family noise softens below us, replaced by the rush of water along the hull and the muted thrum of the engines. Ahead, the bow opens toward the dark canal, where the city lights shimmer across the water in broken gold ribbons. The air smells of salt and faint cigar smoke still clinging to my jacket.