Page 52 of My Wedding Mafia Style

Except Nonna, of course. Nonna lifts her glass to me.

I should be concerned. I am concerned. I take Luca’s hand anyway. Because apparently paradise has not improved my decision-making at all.

Chapter 15

Lucy

Town, according to Luca Moretti, is not a town in the way I understand towns. I was picturing a sleepy little strip of shops, maybe a few restaurants with chalkboard menus, a place where tourists wander barefoot and sunburned while buying postcards and overpriced keychains shaped like dolphins. To be fair, there is some of that. There are pastel storefronts and bougainvillea spilling hot pink over white walls. There is music drifting from somewhere unseen, bright and easy, carried by the warm evening air. There are couples walking hand in hand, people laughing over drinks, little shops glowing open as the sun begins sliding lower.

But with Luca beside me, even a casual walk into town feels slightly cinematic and possibly prearranged.

He has changed into linen trousers and a pale shirt open at the collar. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, his hair still damp from the sea, and he looks like he belongs here in a way that annoys me. I, on the other hand, am wearing the white cover-up over my swimsuit, sandals Bianca declared acceptable, and a pair of sunglasses that cost more than my monthly software subscriptions.

I still do not have my purse.

This feels symbolic.

“You’re quiet,” Luca says.

“I’m monitoring my surroundings.”

“For danger?”

“For context. With you, I like to know whether I’m walking into dinner, a business deal, or a surprise monarchy.”

His mouth twitches. “No monarchy.”

“That sounds like something a surprise monarch would say.”

He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together with the kind of ease that makes my chest ache. It is not performative now. There is no family table watching, no ex to impress, no emergency requiring fake affection. And yet he keeps touching me like it is natural. Like he has done it for years. Like my hand belongs in his.

That is the sort of thing a woman should not get used to too quickly.

Unfortunately, I am a fast learner.

We pass a shop selling straw hats and beach bags, then another with bright paintings propped outside. A little girl runs past holding a melting ice cream cone, her father chasing behind her with napkins and the tired determination of a man who has accepted defeat. The whole place smells like salt, grilled fish, warm sugar, and flowers.

It should calm me. It does not. Because Luca saidjewelry.

Jewelry can mean many things. Earrings. Bracelet. A necklace to replace the one I am not wearing. Something generous and extravagant that I can return later while making a speech about boundaries. Or it could mean the one thing my heart keeps jumping toward and my brain keeps slapping away.

Do not be dramatic, Lucy. He is not buying you a ring. That would be absurd. This entire situation is absurd, my brain says. Not helpful, brain.

Luca turns down a quieter side street, where the noise of the main square softens behind us. The shops here are smaller, prettier, tucked into old buildings with paintedshutters and warm lights. He stops in front of one with a dark blue awning and a discreet gold sign.

I read the name. Then read it again.

The window display is small but unmistakable. Diamonds. Gold. Rings nestled on velvet like tiny glittering threats.

I stop walking.

“No.”

He looks down at me. “You say that often.”

“Because you keep presenting me with unreasonable nouns.”

“Yacht. Bahamas. Jewelry.”