Page 15 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“Yes?”

“What happens now?”

His gaze drops briefly to my lips. My breath catches. The music continues around us, but all I hear is the low thud of my pulse and the faint rasp of his voice when he answers.

“Now,” he says, “I get some air with you.”

That sounds harmless. It does. In my defense, a woman cannot be expected to understand all possible meanings of air when speaking to a Moretti.

He leads me from the dance floor as the song ends, but he doesn’t take me back to the table. Instead, we move toward a set of glass doors at the far side of the receptionroom. Warm night air slips through as a server opens them, carrying the scent of salt, flowers, and something citrusy from the terrace planters.

Outside, the world is softer. The reception noise fades behind us, muffled by glass and distance. The terrace curves along the back of the restaurant, lit by lanterns and moonlight, with palms shifting gently in the ocean breeze. Beyond the railing, dark water glimmers under scattered lights.

The night is beautiful and the air feels cool against my heated skin.

Because Luca is still holding my hand, and I have no idea what happens when we run out of excuses for touching.

“This is some air,” I say.

He glances down at me. “You expected less?”

“I expected oxygen. This feels curated.”

“It’s a terrace.”

“It’s a terrace with mood lighting and boats.”

“Florida has boats.”

“That is exactly the kind of thing a man with a boat would say.”

He says nothing.

I narrow my eyes.

“Luca.”

“Yes,Lucy?”

“Do you have a boat?”

Silent seconds pass and he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and removes a cigar case.

I stare at him.

“Is this for dramatic effect?”

“For practicality.”

He opens the case, selects a cigar, then glances at me. “Do you mind?”

I should say yes. Or no. Or something normal.

Instead, I watch his hands.

Which is a mistake.

Luca’s hands are unfair. Long fingers, controlled movements, the kind of ease that makes even cutting the end of a cigar look indecently competent. He lights it with a small metal lighter that catches the glow of the terrace lanterns, and the flame briefly sharpens every line of his face.