Sophia bursts out laughing. "Oh my God, Lorenzo. Could you be more predictable?"
I turn to stare at her. "What?"
"Sinatra? Really?" She's still giggling. "What's next, Dean Martin? Maybe some Tony Bennett?"
"Those are classics."
"Those are ancient." Sophia's eyes sparkle with mischief. "I bet you have a whole playlist called 'Songs My Grandfather Liked.'"
Marina snorts. "She's not wrong."
"I have taste," I defend. "Unlike my sister who thinks computer-generated noise counts as music."
"It's called production value," Vittoria says.
"It's called auto-tune," Nico mutters. "Though Lorenzo's geriatric playlist isn't much better."
I lean close to Sophia's ear, my voice dropping to a whisper only she can hear. "Keep laughing, piccola. I'm going to make you scream so loud tonight, the whole compound will hear exactly what kind of music I can make you sing."
Sophia's laughter dies. Her face turns scarlet.
"Jesus Christ," Nico pushes back from the table. "I'm going to be sick."
"What?" Pietro looks between us.
"Look at them," Nico gestures with his fork. "They need to find a room before we all lose our appetites."
"We're eating," I say calmly, though my hand finds Sophia's thigh under the table.
"No, you're eye-fucking each other while the rest of us try to digest," Nico stands. "I'm getting more wine. Try to keep it PG while I'm gone."
Marina laughs. "This is the weirdest wedding dinner I've ever attended."
"Welcome," Dante says dryly.
Sophia shifts in her chair, and I feel her leg press against mine. The simple contact sends heat through my body.
"Maybe we should change the music to something everyone can agree on," Nora suggests diplomatically.
"There's nothing wrong with Sinatra," I insist.
"There's nothing wrong with Taylor Swift either," Vittoria counters.
"How about some middle ground?" Pietro pulls out his phone. "Something from this century that doesn't sound like it was made by robots."
The opening notes of "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley fill the room.
"See?" Pietro grins. "Compromise."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sophia
Lorenzo closes our bedroom door behind us. My wedding dress rustles as I reach down for my heel strap.
"Stop." His voice cuts through the quiet.
My fingers freeze on the buckle. "My feet are killing me."
