Page 143 of The Wrong Man

Dario and Molly exchange vows. Traditional, mostly, but with personal touches that make the guests laugh and cry in equal measure.

I think about my own promises. The ones I’ve made to Dylan, spoken and unspoken. To protect him. To never hurt him again. To build a life worthy of the second chance he’s given me.

I intend to keep every single one.

The reception is a blur of champagne and laughter and catching up with people who have become, improbably, something like family.

Carlo and Ginni are holding court near the dance floor. Ginni is resplendent in something designer and slightly scandalous. Carlo watches him with the same fond exasperation he always does, one hand resting possessively on Ginni’s waist.

Nicolo and Liam are at a corner table, heads bent together, lost in their own world. Liam says something that makes Nicolo throw his head back and laugh, and I’m struck by how different Nicolo seems these days. Softer. Happier.

Love does that too, apparently. Rounds off the sharp edges. Makes monsters into men.

Aunt Moira has commandeered another corner table and appears to be teaching Dario’s elderly great-aunt how to play poker. From the pile of chips in front of Moira, she’s winning handily. When she catches my eye across the room, she gives me a sharp nod of acknowledgment.

It took months for her to truly warm up to me. Months of working at the bakery, of treating Dylan well, of proving through actions rather than words that I meant every promise I made. She still watches me with those sharp hazel eyes, still sees too much, but somewhere along the way, wariness turned into full acceptance.

She even called me “Oul segotia” once. An Irish term of endearment that Dylan claims that’s the highest honor Moira bestows.

Sean and Teagan are here too, because Molly visited the bakery and somehow they are all close friends now. Including Aunt Moira. I find it bewildering, as well as a stark example of how much work I need to do on my social skills. I cannot fathom making friends so effortlessly, but apparently it is possible.

Dylan’s friends are looking slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur but gamely mingling. Sean has discovered he and Carlo share a passion for football, and they’ve been arguing about it happily for the past hour. Teagan is deep in conversation with Dario’s cousin, comparing notes on something that has them both laughing.

These people. This strange collection of mafia members and civilians, of killers and bakers, of people who should never have crossed paths but somehow ended up becoming family.

Dylan appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne.

“Having fun?” he asks, handing me one.

“More than I expected.”

“Dante Marchetti, admitting he’s having fun at a social event.” Dylan clutches his chest in mock shock. “Someone alert the papers.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He grins and leans into me, and I wrap an arm around his waist automatically. It’s become second nature, this casual affection. Touching him whenever I can. Keeping him close. Making sure everyone in the room knows he’s mine.

Six months ago, I didn’t know how to do any of this. Didn’t know how to be soft, how to be vulnerable, how to love someone. Dylan taught me. Patiently, gently, with a forgiveness I still don’t think I deserve.

I’m still learning. I’ll probably be learning for the rest of my life.

But I’m getting better. Like my customer service skills. Progress.

Molly’s voice rings out across the reception. “Alright, everyone! Time for the bouquet toss!”

A crowd begins to gather near the dance floor. Mostly women, but a few men too, jockeying for position with the kind of competitive intensity usually reserved for blood sports.

Dylan doesn’t move from my side. “Aren’t you going to try to catch it?” I ask.

He snorts. “Absolutely not. I’m perfectly happy watching the carnage from a safe distance.”

His tone is light-hearted. Warm. There is no rejection in it. He is simply relaxed and enjoying himself and, in his unassuming way, blissfully unaware of how much I’d like him to catch the bouquet.

Ginni is conspicuously absent from the crowd. He’s perched on Carlo’s lap at their table, next to us, examining his nails with studied disinterest. Already married, apparently the bouquet toss is beneath his dignity now.

They had some small ceremony they eloped to, one that I know they aren’t telling me the whole story of. But it’s not my secret to poke at.

Nicolo and Liam are sitting comfortably together, both smiling softly. They are already engaged, so I guess tussling for a bouquet is unnecessary.