Page 42 of My Wedding Mafia Style

Behind us, the family conversation starts back up, but it feels different now. Softer around the edges. Like everyone has quietly decided something and is waiting for me to catch up.

That may be the most terrifying part of all.

Bianca falls into step on my other side almost immediately, because apparently the Moretti family has no respect for emotional processing time.

“So,” she says brightly, “now we need to discuss sleeping arrangements.”

My feet forget how to work.

Luca does not stop, which means his hand in mine gives a gentle tug and my body resumes motion before my brain approves the paperwork.

“Sleeping arrangements,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

Isabella appears from nowhere behind us. I’m starting to suspect she travels through vents. “I vote chaos.”

Adriana’s voice follows from farther back. “You always vote chaos.”

“And I am often rewarded.”

Bianca ignores them both. “You can stay with me if you want. I have room.”

Relief moves through me, sudden and practical. “Oh. That’s very kind. Thank you.”

“No,” Luca says.

One word. He says it calmly, but immediately.

The hallway goes very quiet.

I turn my head slowly toward him. “No?”

His gaze meets mine. “You’ll stay with me.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Which is new for me and, frankly, alarming.

Bianca’s lips part in a delighted smile. Isabella makes a small sound that is either a gasp or the beginning of a song. Adriana stops walking behind us. Somewhere in the salon, I’m almost certain Nonna senses blood in the water and smiles without knowing why.

I finally locate my voice. “That sounded less like a suggestion and more like a weather event.”

Luca’s thumb moves once over my knuckles. “It was a statement.”

“Those are also dangerous.”

“Only if misunderstood.”

“I understood it perfectly. That is the problem.”

Bianca leans toward Isabella. “I told you.”

“You told me many things,” Isabella whispers back. “Most of them legally unusable.”

I look at Luca, expecting amusement. Maybe arrogance. Maybe one of those almost-smiles that make me want to shake him and kiss him again, possibly in that order.

Instead, his expression is serious.

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly, for me alone despite the audience pretending not to breathe around us. “If you want Bianca’s cabin, it’s yours. If you want your own room, I’ll arrange it. If you want to go back, we turn around.”