Page 31 of My Wedding Mafia Style

My pulse stumbles.

Bianca leans against the doorframe, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well?”

Luca does not look at her. Good. Possibly terrible. But good.

“Leave us,” he says.

Bianca smiles. “No.”

His eyes finally cut to hers.

She lifts both hands. “I mean, obviously no. This is my room.”

Isabella whispers, “Also, we live for this.”

I press my lips together, but laughter still escapes. Luca’s gaze returns to me, and something in his expression shifts at the sound. Softens. Darkens. Settles.

“Nonnawants to see you,” he says.

My stomach drops. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“I survived the first time.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ready for a sequel.”

His mouth curves faintly. “No one ever is.”

Bianca appears beside me and adjusts one last strand of my hair. “There. Go meet the matriarch.”

“I already met her.”

“No,” Isabella says. “You met reception Nonna. Yacht Nonna is different.”

I turn slowly. “Different how?”

All three Morettis look at me.

None of them answer.

“That is very upsetting,” I say.

Luca offers me his hand. Warm and enticing, in the specific way invitations can be dangerous. I look at his hand, then at his face. The kiss is still between us. So is the lie. So is the fact that somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting the night to end, even if the night may now apparently include the Bahamas, swimwear, and whatever yacht Nonna is.

I take his hand. His fingers close around mine.

Bianca sighs happily. “Look at that. Fashion saves another romance.”

“This is not a romance,” I say automatically.

Luca’s thumb brushes over my knuckles. “No?”

I look up at him. The answer should be easy. Fake. Temporary. Accidental. Ridiculous. But with his hand around mine and the yacht moving beneath us and my reflection still lingering in the mirror like proof that I might be more than the woman Derek left behind, easy answers seem to have abandoned me.

“I don’t know,” I say.