Page 30 of My Wedding Mafia Style

I laugh. I can’t help it. The sound loosens something in my chest. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time tonight, I’m not trying to prove anything to Derek, not trying to survive Luca’s family, not trying to pretend I understand why any of this is happening. I’m just standing on a yacht in a borrowed emerald dresswhile two gorgeous women casually plot the emotional destruction of their brother and apparently pack for the Bahamas the way I pack for a Target run.

There are worse Saturdays. I think. I am not entirely sure anymore.

Bianca steps behind me to adjust the neckline. “There. Better.”

I turn toward the mirror and stop. The woman staring back at me is still me. That’s the strange part. Not transformed into someone else. Not remade into a Moretti-approved version of myself. Just… sharpened. Brightened. Like someone turned up the contrast on a life I had been viewing too dimly.

My auburn hair looks richer against the green. My blue eyes look clearer. My cheeks are still flushed from Luca’s kiss, but instead of making me look embarrassed, it makes me look alive. I look like the kind of woman who might climb into a stranger’s lap and change the course of her evening.

Maybe even his.

Isabella comes to my side, smiling at me in the mirror. “There she is.”

I swallow. “Who?”

“You.”

The word lands softly. Too softly for Isabella, which somehow makes it worse.

Bianca fastens a delicate bracelet around my wrist. “You were already pretty, Lucy. This just makes sure Luca suffers from a distance.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “You’re very invested in his suffering.”

“I’m his sister.”

“That explains everything and nothing.”

A knock sounds at the door. Not loud. Not hesitant. Controlled. Every nerve in my body seems to recognize it before Bianca even smiles.

“Well,” she says, “that didn’t take long.”

Isabella darts to the door, but Bianca catches her by the back of the dress without looking. “No.”

“But I want to see his face.”

“You will. From over here. Like civilized women.”

“You are no fun when you’re managing.”

“I am incredible when I’m managing.”

The knock comes again, and I smooth my hands over the dress, suddenly aware of every inch of myself.

“What if he hates it?” I whisper.

Bianca looks genuinely offended. “Lucy.”

“Right. Sorry. Insult to the dress.”

“Insult to his eyesight.”

Isabella grins. “And his survival instincts.”

Bianca crosses to the door and opens it.

Luca stands on the other side. He doesn’t step in. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. And for once, Luca Moretti loses his timing.

His gaze moves from my face to the dress and back again with a slowness that makes the room feel warmer. The controlled man from the reception, the yacht, the upper deck, the kiss, all of him goes still in a way that feels more revealing than any words could be.