Page 49 of My Wedding Mafia Style

The relief that moves through his face is small, but I see it.

He leans in and kisses me once, slow and soft, like he has all the time in the world and somehow still wants this moment first. I melt into it before I can remember to be embarrassed about morning breath, bed hair, or the fact that I am wearing nothing but a sheet and several life-altering choices.

When he pulls back, I chase him a little. His eyes darken.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Do not start threatening me with a good morning.”

“I was warning myself.”

That does something to me. Something warm and low and entirely unhelpful considering there is a knock at the door less than three seconds later.

I jerk back. “Please tell me that is not your grandmother.”

“It’s not my grandmother.”

“How do you know?”

“Nonna would not knock.”

The door opens an inch.

“Are you decent, emotionally or otherwise?” Isabella calls.

I close my eyes.

Luca sighs. “No.”

“Excellent. I’ll wait.”

“You will close the door,” he says.

“I am closing it slowly to show respect.”

The door shuts.

I stare at Luca. “This family has the boundaries of a raccoon in a bakery.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re all aware of that?”

“Yes.”

A folded pile of clothes has been placed on the chair beside the door. A swimsuit, a loose white cover-up, sandals, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat that looks like it belongs to a woman who says things like my villa and the south of France without laughing.

Bianca has struck again.

Twenty minutes later, I step out onto the deck wearing a blue swimsuit under the white cover-up, myhair twisted into something I hope looks intentional, and my dignity functioning at reduced capacity.

The entire Moretti family is already gathered.

Bianca gives me one sweeping look and presses a hand to her heart. “Perfect.”

“I am beginning to believe you dress people for sport.”

“For victory,” she corrects.