Page 19 of My Wedding Mafia Style

I step from the gangway onto the deck, still holding Luca’s hand, and the warm glow of the yacht wraps around us. Behind me, the wedding reception continues on land.

Ahead of me, the Morettis move through their floating palace like this is normal. Beside me, Luca watches my face as if every reaction I have is something he wants to keep.

A breeze lifts my hair. The shoreline glimmers behind us. For one reckless second, I think maybe this is fine.

Maybe I can handle one short cruise with an intense man and his terrifyingly charming family.

Then the yacht gives a low, powerful vibration beneath my heels. I freeze. Slowly, I turn my head toward Luca. He looks back at me with the calm expression of a man who knew this was coming.

“Luca.”

“Yes?”

“Are we moving?”

His thumb brushes once over my knuckles.

“Yes.”

I inhale. The dock begins to drift away. Because apparently, when I make bad decisions, they now come with engines.

Chapter 7

Luca

Lucy freezes the moment she realizes we’ve left the dock. I notice the way her shoulders draw in by a fraction, the way her fingers tighten around mine. Her gaze switches from the darkening shoreline to the deck beneath her heels as if she’s wondering whether she has time to reconsider every decision that brought her here.

She doesn’t pull away. That’s what interests me most.

I gave her the chance to stay behind. I meant it. Maybe not as nobly as I should have, because part of me wanted her to choose the yacht. Wanted her to choose me, even if I had no right to phrase it that way after knowing her for less time than most men spend choosing a bottle of wine.

Still, the choice was hers. And she made it.

The low vibration of the engines hums beneath us as the yacht glides into the canal. Warm light spills acrossthe deck, catching in Lucy’s hair and turning the auburn strands into something deeper, almost copper. Her bridesmaid dress lifts slightly in the night breeze, and she presses one hand to the skirt, shooting the water another suspicious glance.

“I knew this was a mistake,” she mutters.

I look down at her. “Which part?”

She turns her face toward me slowly. “That is a very risky question.”

“Then answer carefully.”

“I am standing on a yacht with a man I met by committing what might legally count as lap-based trespassing.”

My mouth curves before I can stop it.

Behind us, Isabella makes a delighted sound. “Lap-based trespassing. I’m writing that down.”

Lucy closes her eyes. “Of course you heard that.”

“We all heard that,” Bianca says.

Adriana steps onto the deck behind them, phone in hand. “Some of us are trying not to encourage it.”

“Not very hard,” Isabella says.

My mother gives Lucy a warm smile. “Ignore them, darling.”