Page 144 of Ruthless Vow
“We just talked.”
“Mmhmm.” Giada grins, setting the champagne on the dresser. “Dante would never risk bad luck the night before his wedding. He’s a superstitious crime lord, whether he admits it or not.”
She pops the first cork with practiced ease.
“But you broke the ‘no seeing the bride’ rule, which means Nonna Rosa is going to give him an earful later and I, for one, cannot wait to watch.”
My hair is still damp from the bath, skin soft from the oils. I haven’t mentioned the surprise that was waiting for me in the bathroom.
Some things are just for us.
The makeup artist, Trisha, begins setting up by the window where the light is best. Guards pass in the hallway outside, their footsteps measured and professional. Somewhere downstairs, I hear voices, laughter, the sounds of a house preparing for celebration.
“Champagne?” Giada presses a crystal flute into my hand. “It’s ten, which means it’s almost afternoon, which means it’s acceptable.”
I take a sip. The bubbles dance on my tongue, bright and sharp.
“How are you feeling?” Giada settles into the chair beside me as Trisha begins work on my face. “No filter.”
“No filter?” I consider the question. The brushes are soft against my skin, Trisha’s hands sure and practiced. “Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Ah.” Giada refills my glass. “The Santoro curse. Happiness is suspicious when you’ve been in survival mode.”
She leans forward, eyes steady on mine.
“Here’s what I know, Cassia. My brother doesn’t hope. He plans. He calculates. He prepares for every outcome.” She pauses. “But this morning? He asked me three times if the flowers were right. If you’d like the arch. If the string quartet knew the song you mentioned liking.”
Her voice drops.
“He’s not planning today. He’s hoping. That’s new. That’s you.”
My fingers tighten on the champagne flute.
“He’s downstairs driving everyone insane because he can’t see you yet,” Giada continues. “Marco says he’s checked the garden three times. Lorenzo told him to stop pacing before he wears a hole in the floor.”
She squeezes my hand. “Whatever you’re afraid of? He’s afraid of it too. You’re not alone in this.”
The makeup takes shape. Soft gold on my eyelids. Defined brows. Lips stained a deep rose. Trisha works in silence, but I catch her small smile in the mirror.
“Time for the dress,” Giada announces.
My lungs tighten. I press my palm flat against my sternum and breathe through it.
The ivory silk slides over my body. Silk and air and the slow transformation of becoming. Giada zips the back, her fingerssteady, and the fabric settles against my curves like it was made for me.
Because it was. Because I chose it.
My pulse taps at my wrists, my throat, the hollow behind my ears. All of it fast. All of it real.
“Turn around,” Giada says, her voice thick.
I do.
The woman in the mirror is luminous. The dress pools around her feet, catching the light with every breath. Her hair is swept up, a few tendrils loose around her face. Her eyes are bright. Her shoulders are back.
She looks like a Donna. She looks like me.
“Well?” Giada appears beside me in the reflection, tears tracking down her face. “What do you think?”
