Page 27 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“That is not the part I’m focused on.”

Bianca waves one hand. “We won’t be gone long. Nonna likes to wake up near clear water when the family has something to celebrate.”

“What is the family celebrating?”

Both sisters look at me.

I point at myself. “No.”

Bianca smiles. “Not officially.”

“Unofficially is worse.”

Isabella leans forward. “You should see your face.”

“I should be calling someone.”

“Who?” Bianca asks.

“My cousin. My mother. The Coast Guard. Possibly my bank because I don’t know if international roaming is included in my phone plan.”

Bianca gives me a sympathetic look that is ruined by her amusement. “Sweetheart, Luca owns a communications company.”

“Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? Does he also own the moon?”

“Not yet,” Isabella says.

I stare at her.

She shrugs. “Adriana would know.”

I close my eyes and inhale slowly. This is fine. This is normal. This is how all weddings go. First comes the ceremony, then the champagne, then the fake boyfriend, then the yacht kiss, then the accidental Bahamas.

When I open my eyes, Bianca is still holding up swimsuits.

One is black and elegant. One is deep blue with a tiny gold ring at the center that looks innocent until I imagine wearing it in front of Luca, at which point every thought in my head runs into a wall.

“No,” I say.

“To which one?”

“To the concept.”

Bianca laughs. “You’re adorable.”

“I am alarmed.”

“Youcan be both.”

Isabella rises from the sofa and comes closer, her expression softening in a way that catches me off guard. “Lucy, Luca won’t make you stay if you don’t want to. None of us will. If you truly want to go back, say so. The captain can turn around.”

I look between them, and for a second the comedy dips just enough for me to feel the truth beneath it. They are teasing me. Absolutely. Aggressively. But they are not trapping me. Luca gave me a choice before I boarded. Now his sisters are giving me one too.

Which somehow makes everything worse, because if they were villains, this would be easier.

I could object. I could storm out. I could say no to the emerald dress, no to the swimsuit, no to the Bahamas, no to Luca Moretti and his mouth and his careful way of giving me exits I don’t seem to want.

Instead, I look down at the dress in my arms. Then at the swimsuits.