Bruno's shoulders relax slightly.
"The safer choice," Mamma murmurs approvingly.
Pietro's eyes narrow, but he nods. "I'll arrange dinner for this weekend."
I pick up my coffee and take a long sip, hiding whatever expression my face is trying to make.
Safe.Right.
Because nothing about this situation feels safe. Not James Rogers with his car dealerships. Not the Bratva heir who kissed me like he was staking a claim.
And definitely not the way my pulse kicks every time I think about pale gray eyes and the low rumble of Dmitri Baganov's voice.
Amanda sprawls across my bed like she owns it. She's mid-sentence about some guy from her marketing team who apparently thinks sending memes counts as flirting.
"—and then he sent me acat falling off a table, V. A cat. Falling. Off a table." She throws her hands up. "What am I supposed to do with that? Send back a laughing emoji like some desperate millennial?"
I snort, tucking my legs under me on the window seat. "Youarea millennial."
"Actually Gen Z. I refuse to claim the avocado toast generation."
"You literally ordered avocado toast yesterday."
"That's different. That wasbrunch." She rolls onto her stomach, propping her chin on her fists. "Brunch doesn't count. Everyone knows brunch exists outside normal food rules."
God, I've missed this.
The thing about Amanda is that she'ssmart. Like, scary smart. She graduated summa cum laude with a double major in marketing and psychology, currently runs campaigns for a luxury fashion brand, and can calculate tip percentages fasterthan I can hack a firewall. People see the blonde hair and the perfect makeup and assume she's all surface.
Their mistake.
"So," she says, eyeing me with that look. The one that means she's about to dig. "Your mom's here."
"Yep."
"And she wants you to get married."
"Also yep."
"To someone she picks."
I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my chest. "The tradition lives on."
Amanda sits up, crossing her legs beneath her.
"Okay, but like..." She gestures vaguely. "This is the twenty-first century. You can say no."
Can I?
"It's complicated," I say.
"It'sarchaic." She reaches for the wine we opened earlier, topping off her glass. "You're not some medieval princess being traded for political alliance."
The irony burns. I amexactlythat.
"I have conditions," I offer. "Veto power. Three-month minimum engagement. I get to meet them first."
"Them? Plural?"
