Page 61 of My Wedding Mafia Style

“Lucia.”

I swallow. “Nonna.”

She comes forward slowly, taking both my hands. Her gaze moves over my face, not the dress, not the veil, not the bouquet. Me.

“A woman who can build a world in a bottle,” she says softly, “can build one with a Moretti man.”

My eyes sting.

“Is that still a compliment or a warning?”

Her smile deepens. “Yes.”

I laugh, and the sound shakes loose the last of my nerves. Outside, the music changes.

My mother takes her place. The sisters line up. The door opens to sunlight, roses, and the low murmur of waiting guests. For one second, I see everything at once: the aisle, the water, the flowers, the faces turned toward me, the family I was born into and the family that somehow claimed me after one reckless kiss.

Then I see Luca.

He stands beneath the arch in a black tuxedo, broad shoulders straight, dark hair perfect except for the breeze touching it. His father stands beside him. His eyes find mine instantly, and every bit of the world between us disappears.

He does not smileat first. He goes still.

The way he did when he saw me in Bianca’s emerald dress. The way he did in the jewelry store. The way he does when something reaches him too deeply for performance.

Then his face changes, softening. And Luca Moretti smiles like he has just watched his entire future walk toward him.

I step onto the aisle.

My wedding. Mafia style.

There are roses with attendants, security men pretending to be cousins, a grandmother who probably approved the seating chart with the precision of a military campaign, three sisters silently threatening every wrinkle in my dress, and a groom who once started as the worst decision I had ever made.

He is no longer a bad decision.

He is the hand waiting for mine.

The home I didn’t know I was walking toward.

The man who turned my fake five-minute boyfriend into forever.

When I reach him, Luca takes my hand, his fingers closing around mine in that steady, familiar way that still makes my heart catch.

“You came,” he says softly, just for me.

I smile through tears.

“I keep doing that.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles.

“Good.”

The officiant begins speaking, but for a moment I barely hear him. I am too busy looking at Luca. Too busy remembering the first time I saw him across a reception room, dangerous and expensive and available because he happened to be sitting down. Too busy realizing that the girl who kissed him to prove she had moved on accidentally found the one man she never wanted to move on from.

Later, there will be dinner and dancing. Nonna will probably terrify a caterer. Bianca will change into a second dress because she believes weddings should have acts. Isabella will make a toast that causes Adriana visible stress. My mother will cry again. Luca will pull me away from the reception for five private minutes that will become fifteen because he is still terrible with time when I am involved.

And somewhere near the guest book, arranged beneath a canopy of white roses, two hundred tiny glass bottles will wait as wedding favors.