Mimosas.
Thank goodness.It’s the ammunition I’ll need to survive the next couple of hours.Much as I want to drown myself in the expensive bubbly, I dare not drink too much.I need my wits about me in case of a rescue attempt.
My gaze shifts slowly across the room, absorbing every detail with the wary attention of someone stepping into enemy territory.
And then I see it.
My dress.
The fabric catches the light in a way that makes it look ethereal.
It’s gorgeous.Just as Moretti knew it would be.
Inside the sleeves of the oversize hoodie, I curl my fingers.
For a brief, dangerous second, my throat tightens.
Then the door opens, and a voice breaks the silence.
“Well,” a woman says lightly, “this is already my favorite wedding of the year.”
I turn.
She’s tall, with dark hair spilling over one shoulder in effortless waves.A fitted black dress hugs a figure that probably makes men forget their own names, and the heels on her feet are the kind that signal money without screaming about it.
She studies me with warm brown eyes that are far too amused for someone who’s just entered a cathedral dressing room.
And she’s very obviously taking in the fact that the bride has arrived wearing a pair of Dante Moretti’s sweatpants.
A slow smile spreads across her face.
Then she pushes away from the counter and walks straight toward me.
Not cautious.
Not hesitant.
Just…confident.
Before I can even ask a question, she’s crossed the floor and wrapped her arms around me in a quick, surprisingly warm hug.
I freeze.
The faint scent of vanilla brushes my senses, light and clean, and for half a second, my brain simply stalls.
I hadn’t imagined being greeted this way by anyone.
She pulls back, her hands still lightly resting on my arms as she gives my outfit another appreciative glance.
“I like your style,” she says.
My brows lift.
“Showing up to a mafia wedding in sweats?”Her grin widens.“That takes commitment and courage.”
For a moment, I just stare at her.
“Unless…” She scowls.“Is that all Dante gave you to wear?”
