Page 16 of My Wedding Mafia Style

Dark hair. Strong jaw. Eyes fixed on the cigar first, then on me. He takes one slow draw, turns his head slightly, and exhales away from me. The smoke drifts into the night air, faintly sweet and rich, disappearing over the railing.

I swallow.

“You look like you’ve done that before.”

His eyes return to mine. “Smoked a cigar?”

“Looked like trouble in expensive lighting.”

The corner of his mouth lifts with a real smile this time. Real enough to make my stomach dip.

“You should be careful,” he says.

“With what?”

“Compliments.”

I point at him. “You keep using my words against me.”

“I like your words.”

I turn toward the railing because looking at him has become too much work. Luca rests one hand near mine on the railing.

“You handled my family well,” he says.

“I’m not sure handled is the right word. Survived, maybe. Ricocheted through.”

“Nonna likes you.”

“Your grandmother renamed me against my will.”

“That means she likes you.”

“What does she do if she dislikes someone?”

“I shouldn’t tell you that.”

I turn my head slowly. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“I know.”

He takes another draw from the cigar and again exhales away from me, considerate in a way that makes the gesture feel more intimate than it should. I watch the smoke curl into the night and wonder if this is how people lose their minds. Not all at once. Just by standing beside a beautifulman with a dangerous family while champagne makes brave little suggestions in their bloodstream.

Chapter 6

Lucy

Behind us, the glass doors open. Bianca’s voice floats out. “There you are.”

I turn. She steps onto the terrace with Sofia and Isabella behind her. Adriana follows, phone in hand, looking like she has been summoned to manage a crisis or prevent one from becoming evidence. Alessandro trails behind them, speaking quietly with another man I don’t recognize.

And Nonna? Nonna appears last. The terrace changes when she enters it. I don’t know how one small silver-haired woman manages to make open air feel like a formal room, but she does.

“There she is,” Isabella says, pointing at me. “Still here.”

“I was gone for ten minutes.”

“In this family, that is enough time for a betrayal, an engagement, or a property transfer.”