Page 51 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“What?” I ask.

“You look happy.”

The words hit softly.

“I think I am.”

The admission surprises both of us.

Then Isabella calls, “If anyone gets sentimental before I eat, I will make it everyone’s problem.”

The day unfolds in a blur of sun and salt and laughter. The chef grills ribs and chicken and fish while platters of fruit, salads, bread, and little dishes I can’t name appear on the tables like magic. Champagne is poured. Music drifts from hidden speakers. Bianca insists I try three different sunglasses before declaring the first pair correct. Adriana takes a business call while standing barefoot in the sand, which somehow makes her more intimidating. Sofia tells me stories about Luca as a boy that make him groan and make me listen like I’m collecting treasure.

Nonna sits in the shade and watches all of us. Especially me and Luca. Always me and Luca.

At some point, I wade into the water, and Luca follows. The sea is warm and clear around my knees, then my thighs, then my waist. I turn in a slow circle, laughing because it is impossible not to, and Luca catches me around the waist before a small wave knocks me sideways.

“I’m fine,” I say, though I am holding onto him.

“I know.”

“You keep rescuing me from things that are not emergencies.”

“I enjoy being prepared.”

“You enjoy having your hands on me.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. “Yes.”

Well. That shuts me up for at least three seconds.

He kisses me there, in bright water under a bright sky, not with last night’s hunger but with something softer. Something that feels almost more dangerous because it is not trying to consume. It is just there. Warm. Certain. Real.

When we return to shore, the family pretends not to notice.

Badly.

Hours pass. The sun begins to soften, lowering toward the water and turning the edges of the clouds gold. I am stretched on a towel beneath an umbrella, full of barbecue and fruit and too much happiness, when Luca lowers himself beside me.

“Come with me,” he says.

I open one eye. “That phrase has gotten me onto a yacht, into couture, across international waters, and kissed in multiple climates.”

His mouth curves. “This time it’s only town.”

“Only town,” I repeat. “With you, that could mean gelato or a felony.”

“Jewelry,” he says.

Both eyes open. My heart makes one hard, ridiculous jump.

“That was not one of the options.”

“No.” He stands and offers me his hand, the sunset behind him, the sea still glittering at his back. “It’s better.”

I look at his hand. Then at his face.

Then at the family behind him, all of whom are suddenly very busy pretending they did not hear a single word.