Page 38 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“A woman on your lap?” Isabella asks.

Adriana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please.”

Lucy makes a small sound. I continue before the moment can slip entirely into comedy, though I am grateful for the breath it gives her.

“They saw me involved. Not just present. Not managing or watching from a distance.” I pause, choosing honesty even though it grates. “So yes. I saw opportunity.”

Lucy nods once, but she looks down at her hands. I reach for one before I can decide against it. She lets me take it. Relief moves through me so quickly I nearly resent it.

“That is not why I kissed you on deck,” I say.

Her eyes lift to mine. The room is silent. Even Isabella.

“The first kiss may have been your performance,” I say. “The second was mine. And it was not for them.”

Lucy’s fingers tighten around mine.

Nonna exhales softly, almost pleased. “Finally. Some truth.”

Lucy gives a shaky laugh. “I’m glad someone is enjoying this. My nervous system has left the salon.”

“It will return,” Nonna says. “Eventually.”

“That was only mildly reassuring.”

“It was meant to be.”

Lucy blinks, then looks at me. “That is where you get that phrase.”

“Among other things,” I say.

Nonna reaches for her glass. “You are honest, Lucia. Not polished. Not prepared. Honest.”

Lucy glances down at herself. “I’m literally wearing someone else’s dress and don’t know what country I’m going to.”

“Still honest.”

“I suppose that says something concerning about my baseline.”

“It says you do not hide well.”

“Oh, I know. It’s been an issue all night.”

My grandmother’s gaze sharpens with amusement. “Good. Luca hides too well.”

The words hit precisely where she aims them. Lucy turns toward me, her expression thoughtful now, as if she is seeing the shape of something I usually keep hidden.

“Does he?” she asks softly.

Nonna nods. “He thinks if he is useful enough, successful enough, controlled enough, no one will notice when he refuses to be known.”

The salon goes quiet again. I feel my father’s attention. My mother’s. My sisters’. All of it. Old irritation rises. Familiar. Protective.

“Nonna,” I say quietly.

“What? You prefer I save my observations for tomorrow?”

“I prefer you not dissect me in front of a woman I met tonight.”