14
Adora
The dining table has disappeared beneath a sea of wedding planning materials. Fabric swatches in cream and blush pink cascade across the mahogany surface, held down by heavy binders of venue photos. Sample menus from the most exclusive caterers are arranged in neat stacks beside mood boards covered in invitation samples, candles, and linen napkins.
Matteo stands by the doorway, silent and watchful. He returned to his post as my bodyguard two days ago, and though he says little, his presence is a comfort. The fake bruise is gone, and my split lip is a thin line that only shows if you look closely.
Clara Andretti sits across from me, her oversized glasses slipping down her nose as she flips through her portfolio. She’s the wedding planner I’ve hired, and she’s younger than I expected, only a year or two older than me. She’s dressed in high-waisted trousers, a cream silk blouse with pearl buttons,and her hair is pinned back in soft rolls. She looks like she stepped out of a 1940s film, but she somehow makes it work.
“So,” she says, tapping her pen against a leather-bound notebook. “Tell me about your vision. What does your dream wedding look like?”
My dream wedding.
Not the wedding my father wants, a cold, political alliance he’s orchestrated. The wedding I would choose for marrying the man I love.
“Warm,” I say immediately. “Nothing cold or sterile. I want it to feel romantic. Luxurious but lived-in, like walking into a beautiful home rather than a museum.”
Clara’s face lights up. “Yes. I love it. This is my specialty. Warm maximalism. Opulent but personal.” She pulls out several photos from her portfolio. Weddings dripping with candlelight and garden roses, venues with exposed brick and crystal chandeliers, tables set with mismatched vintage china.
“This is why I chose you. Your portfolio was the only one that felt like me.”
She beams, and for a moment I forget that I’m planning this in order to extract a murder confession from my father while the man I love recovers from torture in a house across the city.
But the wedding will be real. The dress will be real. My vows to Vincenzo will be real. My father won’t know that until it’s too late.
“Guest numbers?” Clara asks, pen poised.
“Three hundred. My father wants every important family in Malus to witness his daughter’s marriage.”
“And the venue?” She flips through photos of ballrooms and gardens and historic buildings. “I have several suggestions, but I’d love to hear if you have a preference. Old Malus architecture, maybe? There are some stunning old buildings.”
She holds up a photo, and the color drains from my face. It’s the ballroom where Vincenzo’s family was murdered.
Clara notices my reaction immediately. “What’s wrong?”
I force myself to breathe and school my expression. “That venue…has a difficult history for the groom.”
“Oh.” Clara sets the photo down quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
I’m surprised she hasn’t heard about the massacre, but perhaps Clara doesn’t read the news or take an interest in Malus’s underworld. I wonder if she’s going to quit when she realizes she’s planning a mafia wedding.
“His family was murdered there.”
Clara’s face goes pale. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” She starts shuffling through her portfolio frantically, putting the photo of the ballroom under the others and out of my sight. “I have other options. Beautiful options. We’ll find something perfect, I promise.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Really. You didn’t know.”
Clara clears her throat, composing herself with admirable speed. “There are several historic mansions on the outskirts of Malus with beautiful architecture.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
She meets my eyes for just a moment, and I see her wondering about what kind of society people we are. But she doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask questions. Just moves forward with professional grace.
I respect her for that.
We move on to discussing aesthetics. Garden roses versus peonies. Gold accents versus silver. String quartet versus jazz trio. Clara takes notes in her elegant handwriting, occasionally suggesting alternatives that always improve on my ideas.
Despite her youth and inexperience, she’s good at this.
