Page 57 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“You are not useful to me,” he says quietly.

I look up.

“You are not convenient. You are not a piece on a board. You are not proof that I am ready for anything.” His gazeholds mine. “You are Lucy. And I want to know what happens next.”

The words settle deeper than the ring.

I look down at my hand again, at the diamond and emeralds catching the warm shop light. Yesterday, I built tiny worlds in bottles and thought that was the closest I might get to holding something beautiful without losing control of it.

Now I am sitting beside Luca Moretti in a jewelry shop in the Bahamas with a ring on my finger that is supposed to be pretend, except neither of us is pretending anymore.

“That’s the problem,” I whisper.

“What is?”

I look back at him.

“I want to know too.”

His smile comes slowly, not sharp this time, not controlled. Just warm enough to ruin me.

“Good,” he says.

And because this is apparently what my life has become, I let him kiss me in the back of a jewelry store while an engagement ring glitters on my hand like a beautiful warning.

Epilogue

Lucy

Nine months ago, I climbed into Luca Moretti’s lap at someone else’s wedding and kissed him because I was panicking. Today, I am standing in front of a mirror in a white silk wedding dress while his youngest sister crawls around near my feet with a steamer, muttering threats at one stubborn wrinkle like it personally betrayed the family.

So, honestly, growth is complicated.

“Isabella,” Adriana says from behind me, her voice calm in the way only Adriana can sound calm while holding three phones, a timeline, and what I suspect is a private security earpiece, “if you burn the dress, Bianca will bury you under the floral arch.”

Isabella looks up from the floor. “Bianca would never.”

Bianca, who is standing beside me with both hands pressed to her mouth and tears in her eyes, lowers one hand just enough to say, “I would absolutely consider it.”

“I’m helping,” Isabella says.

“You are kneeling under the bride with steam equipment,” Adriana replies. “That is not always the same thing.”

I should be nervous. I know I should. There are two hundred guests gathered outside. Three violinists. One string quartet. A ridiculous number of white roses. At least twelve men in dark suits pretending they are “family friends” and not security. A reception tent large enough to host a small diplomatic summit. And somewhere beyond all of it, waiting near the water, is Luca.

My almost-stranger.

My fake boyfriend.

My fake fiancé.

My real everything.

And somehow, instead of nerves, I mostly feel wonder. Wonder and a mild concern that the Morettis have possibly overdone the flowers. Again.

“This,” I say, looking at the reflection of the room behind me, “is a lot of roses.”

Bianca gasps softly. “There is no such thing.”