Page 26 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“No,” Bianca and I say together.

Isabella sighs. “Fine. But only because I’m building trust.”

Bianca opens a wardrobe door, then another, then another. I blink, staring at the impossible amount of clothing arranged inside the yacht as if the vessel is less a boat and more a department store with engines.

“How many closets does this room have?”

“It’s a yacht. Space is limited.”

I stare at the wall of dresses. “Is it?”

Bianca ignores me and begins pulling options with terrifying speed. Black. Gold. Deep blue. Something silver and barely there enough to qualify as jewelry with seams. Then she reaches for an emerald-green dress and pauses.

Isabella sits up. “That one.”

“I am being bullied by fashion.”

“You are being elevated.”

“I was doing fine at sea level.”

Bianca holds the green dress against me, ignoring every word. “This is the one.”

I look down, and oh no, it might be. The dress is simple in theory, which I am learning is how dangerous clothing gets away with things. Deep emerald, soft fabric, elegant neckline, fitted through the waist without looking like it plans to cut off circulation. It is not flashy. It is worse than flashy. It is the kind of dress that whispers. The kind thatimplies the woman wearing it knows exactly what she is doing.

I do not know what I am doing. That seems like a problem.

Isabella points at the dress. “Wear it. If Luca survives, we’ll know he’s serious.”

I whip around. “Survives?”

Bianca presses the dress into my arms, then turns back toward the wardrobe and reaches into a drawer built so seamlessly into the wall I hadn’t even noticed it was there. “Also, I need to find you swimwear.”

I stare at her. “I’m sorry. You need to find me what?”

“Swimwear,” she says, as if she has announced napkins or a phone charger. “I have several new options. Trust me, I have a good eye.”

I look at Isabella. She nods like this is a normal thing for one woman to say to another after a surprise yacht abduction.

“Why,” I ask slowly, “would I need swimwear?”

Bianca glances over her shoulder. “Because we’re going to the Bahamas.”

The room goes silent. Or maybe I do. Maybe my soul leaves my body so completely that sound no longer applies to me.

“The Bahamas,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“As in… the country?”

Isabella tilts her head. “Is there another one?”

Bianca pulls out two swimsuits and holds them up like my passport status is a minor detail. “Relax. It’s not far.”

“Not far?” I echo. “Bianca, I thought we were taking a short cruise. I thought short cruise meant we would circle something, admire moonlight, possibly pass a pelican, and return before anyone needed to involve customs.”

Isabella’s eyes brighten. “There might be pelicans.”