“He’s got your grip strength,” I counter, trying to pry tiny fingers out of my carefully styled curls. “Seriously, how is someone who weighs twenty pounds this strong?”
“DeLuca genetics,” Dad says proudly from my other side, reaching over to stroke Romeo’s chubby cheek. “He’s going to be trouble.”
“He already is trouble,” I mutter, finally freeing my hair only to have Romeo immediately grab for Alessandro’s tie instead.
The garden setting is actually perfect for Mario and Elena’s wedding—intimate and romantic without being overly sentimental. Light pink flowers are everywhere, string lights hung between the trees, and just enough people to make it feel like a celebration without turning it into a political spectacle. After everything they’ve been through together, they deserve something beautiful and uncomplicated.
Well, they deserve each other, anyway. Which is probably the nicest thing I can say about this union.
Elena looks radiant in a simple ivory dress that shows off her growing baby bump—they’re due in December. The thought of another baby in the family should be exciting, but considering the parents involved, I’m mostly just hoping for the kid’s sake that they’ve both learned from their past mistakes.
Speaking of which, the children have turned the wedding into their own personal playground. All three flower girls—Arianna, Stella, and little Maisie Moretti—are currently “helping” by throwing flower petals with the kind of enthusiasm that ensures the bride and groom will be finding rose petals in their hair for weeks.
Arianna takes her job very seriously, marching down the aisle with her little basket like she’s leading a military parade.
Stella follows behind her with the concentrated focus of a child determined to do everything perfectly for her mama and daddy’s special day.
Giovanni, meanwhile, has decided that throwing petals is much more fun than walking sedately as the ring bearer, and is launching handfuls of flowers into the air like confetti.
Three-year-old Stella DeLuca beams with pride every time someone tells her how pretty she looks in her flower girl dress, a miniature version of Elena’s ivory gown.
She has Elena’s delicate features but her dark hair and serious eyes remind me of someone else entirely—someone whose name we don’t mention at family gatherings.
But looking at her now, clutching her flower basket and staying close to Mario throughout the ceremony, I’m reminded once again that biology doesn’t determine family.
Mario chose to be her father when no one else would, just like Dad chose to be mine.
The love between them is genuine and complete, unmarked by the complicated circumstances of her birth.
And for that, I give Mario props. I’ll never forgive him for what he did to me when I was twelve, but watching him be a loving father to a fatherless child is admirable.
“At least they’re having fun,” Bella observes, smiling as she watches Mario kiss his bride while Stella claps excitedly beside them.
The ceremony itself is mercifully short—probably because Mario and Elena have been together for so long that the formal declarations feel more like a confirmation of what everyone already knew rather than a shocking revelation.
When the officiant pronounces them husband and wife, the small gathering erupts in genuine applause and cheers.
Romeo, startled by the sudden noise, lets out a wail that could probably be heard three blocks away.
“Aaaand that’s our cue,” Alessandro says, reaching for our son with practiced ease. “Come here, little man. Let’s go find somewhere quiet.”
I watch him walk away, cuddling Romeo against his chest, murmuring soft reassurances in that low voice that never fails to make both Romeo and me melt.
Alessandro has taken to fatherhood like he was born for it.
He’s patient, gentle, and completely devoted. Watching him with our son makes my heart do these stupid little flips every single time.
“You’re staring,” Siobhan O’Connor observes, appearing beside me with a glass of champagne and her trademark amused expression.
She looks absolutely stunning in a blue silk Versace dress that complements her red hair and pale skin.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct, accepting the champagne gratefully. “There’s a difference.”
“Aye, there is,” she agrees, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “And speaking of appreciating, who’s the womanMarco brought as his date? Because I was under the impression he was married to his work.”
I follow her gaze to where Marco Renaldi is deep in conversation with a stunning brunette who looks like she could be a model. Or possibly an assassin.
With Marco, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference.
