Page 3 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
“See, this is the wedding dress you should wear,” I agree.
Erin lets out a low groan, and slumps against one of the bed posts.
“Why is the princess pouting?” Dolan asks as he steps into the room, jerking his thumb in her direction.
“Because Rosie is being insubordinate,” Erin declares, sticking her tongue out at me before slipping off the bed with a rustle of satin.
“Insubordinate?” I scoff.
“Yes,” she insists, pointing at me like she’s testifying before Congress. “She refuses to follow my perfectly reasonable orders.”
Dolan raises a brow. “Should I lock her up?” His voice is pitched somewhere between sincere and teasing, but with Dolan you can never entirely tell.
“Yes,” Erin says immediately. “She is not listening to my orders to take a peek at the Italian prince while he is visiting Daddy.”
I throw my hands up. “I’m not going. It’s 1971. People get shot for less than spying on mafia royalty.”
“Dolan, please,” she whines. “Talk some sense into her.”
Dolan snorts, moving farther inside. “You know Seamus would never let them kill you. He loves you like a daughter, and if anyone can go spy on the prince undetected, it’s you.”
Erin preens instantly, shoulders straightening. “See!”
“No,” I state again for what feels like the thousandth time, before pushing myself up to my feet and abandoning the clothes.
“Rosalina, do you really want me stuck here all night listening to her panic? Because she’s been working herself into a fit since breakfast. She nearly cried over a burnt piece of toast.”
“It was charred,” Erin snaps.
“It was slightly toasted,” Dolan corrects calmly. Then, to me: “Help her. For my sanity.”
I stare at him. Then at Erin—who is clasping her hands beneath her chin like a Disney heroine begging a woodland creature for aid.
“Rosie,” she pleads. “Please. Just one peek. One glance. I need to know.”
I groan into my palms, because sadly for me I have never been able to say no to these two. “You two are insufferable.”
“And you love us,” Erin sings.
Dolan nods toward the door. “West wing. Last room on the left. The princes and the dons are meeting in Seamus’s office. If you’re quiet, you won’t be noticed.”
Erin leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “And if he’s handsome, come back immediately.”
“And if he’s not?” I ask.
She winces. “Then prepare to help me beg our father to stop the wedding, a runaway bride, or a missing-not-so-missing Irish princess situation.”
I let out a long, doomed sigh and straighten up. “Fine. I’ll take a look.”
Erin squeals—a full, unrestrained, teenage-princess squeal—and grabs Dolan’s arm like she might collapse from joy.
Dolan just smirks at me. “Try not to get seen. I don’t want to have to force you to do drills earlier tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t,” I mutter, but I step toward the door anyway. “I want that Chanel suit!”
“Done!” Erin shouts, as I slip out of her bedroom and into the hallway.
I suck in a deep breath and push it out through my nose. Erin knows she can convince me to do just about anything, and once you add Dolan to the mix, I’m a goner. My loyalty to them is stronger than anything else I possess—second only, maybe, to my loyalty to Seamus.
