She sweeps out without another word, leaving her cloud of perfume behind.
I can’t bring myself to look at Luca. The silence stretches between us until he speaks, his voice gentle.
“The cake is beautiful, Matilde.”
I look up, surprised by the softness in his tone—so different from my aunt’s sharpness. Those green eyes hold something that looks almost like…protectiveness.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’ll make sure it gets to the venue safely.” He holds my gaze a moment longer. “And I’ll see you there.”
It sounds like a promise.
I help him load the cake into the transport vehicle—a specialized van with secure racks, because the Rossis apparently think of everything. Our fingers brush as we adjust the supports, and each accidental touch sends my pulse racing.
When he drives away, I stand in the driveway longer than I should, watching until the van disappears around the corner.
“Sooo...”
I spin around to find Arianna leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on her face.
“Don’t,” I warn her.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was just going to observe,” she says, pushing off the frame and sauntering toward me, “that the scary mafia security guy couldn’t take his eyes off you. And that you couldn’t take your eyes off him. And that you have powdered sugar in your hair, which is adorable.”
“Ari!”
She laughs, looping her arm through mine. “Come on, little sister. We need to get ready for a wedding. And you need to tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
***
The Rossi-Marino wedding reception is being held at an elegant hotel just outside the city, all crystal chandeliers andsweeping staircases. The ceremony passed in a blur of vows and flowers that mingled with the tight feeling in my chest as I watched Sofia pledge her life to a man she barely knows.
My contribution to the reception now sits on a corner table. Thankfully, the cake made it in one piece. I checked three times.
The reception is in full swing when I slip away to the restroom to collect myself. I've managed to avoid Luca for the past hour, though I've felt his eyes on me more than once across the crowded ballroom.
I pause at the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. Arianna insisted on doing my hair and makeup—my long dark blonde waves cascade past my waist instead of being twisted into my usual practical bun, and she's somehow made my blue eyes look wider, more dramatic. The dusty rose bridesmaid dress skims my petite frame, and the warm lighting softens my olive complexion into something almost luminous.
I look…pretty. Maybe even beautiful.
Is this what he sees when he looks at me?
I press my fingers to my full lips, still feeling the ghost of his thumb brushing sugar from my cheek this morning. The memory sends heat flooding through me all over again.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. He's mafia. He's dangerous. He's everything you should stay away from.
I smooth down my dress and force myself to rejoin the reception. The first dance is about to begin.
I linger at the edge of the ballroom, watching Sofia share her first dance with her new husband. When Uncle Giovanni announced the arranged marriage at Sunday dinner—right therein front of all of us—Sofia had looked like she’d been slapped. She held it together, playing the perfect daughter even as Matteo Rossi sat across from her, but I saw the way her hands trembled when she reached for her wine glass.
