Violet, Marcello's wife, is the first to approach me. She's striking in a quiet way, with observant eyes that seem to miss nothing. Marcello stays close, his hand resting possessively on her back like he's not entirely convinced she won't disappear if he lets go. "Congratulations."
There's something steady about her. Grounded.
"Thank you," I reply, smiling.
My gaze flicks briefly to Marcello, to the way he watches her, like she's something fragile and unbreakable at the same time. There's history there. Heavy. Violet follows my gaze, a hint of amusement touching her lips.
"I used to be his nurse," she explains, like she already knows the question forming. "He was… difficult."
Marcello huffs. "I was dying."
"You were stubborn," she corrects calmly. "There's a difference."
I blink, surprised. "You saved him?"
"Twice," she says simply. Marcello's hand tightens at her waist. Like he remembers every second of it. Like he'll never forget. Something about that settles deep in my chest. The way these men love. It's not soft. But it's absolute.
I move through the room slowly, meeting people in pieces rather than all at once. Enrico and Cat share easy laughter, with sharp eyes that take everything in. Antonio and Scarlet. Scarlet is warm, vibrant. Antonio watches her like she's the only thing in the room that matters. There are threads between all of them. Stories I don't know yet. But I really want to. Sophia approaches me. She is the wife of the New York Don, Raffael DeSantis. "I hope we're not overwhelming you on your wedding day."
I say honestly, "It would be, if all of you weren't so nice and warm. Thank you so much for coming."
She hugs me and presses something surreptitiously into my hand, a card. She winks. "You can read it later. It's an invitation to our The Real Mafia Wives Club. We do all kinds of fun things, like dig out past histories." She winks again, making me think there's a bigger story, but I'm still giggling over the name of their club. "The card contains links to our texts, emails, and groups. I hope you'll join us. But beware, the initiation is gruesome."
"Oh, don't let her fool you," Scarlet links an arm through Sophia's and shakes her head. "The initiation is bringing desert to the next meeting."
I laugh. "That I can do."
A movement to my left draws my attention to Enzo. He's watching someone. A woman. Older. Fuller. Soft where the others are sharp. There's something warm about her, something unbothered, as if she exists outside the rules everyone else follows. I blink to focus on an object in her hand. Is that… yep, that's a kitchen towel. At a wedding.
"Who is that?" I ask quietly.
The women follow my gaze. Violet, Enzo's daughter, joins us and laughs, lifting her hand to her mouth like she's trying to contain it. "Oh, that is Zia Rosa."
"Zia…?"
"Marcello's aunt," she clarifies. "And don't let the towel fool you."
As if on cue, the woman—Zia Rosa—reaches out, swats one of the men upside the head with it, and keeps talking like nothing happened. I stare. Violet leans closer. "They got… very close last time he was in New York."
I glance back at Enzo. At the way his usual sharp edges have softened. The way he watches her, not like prey, not like strategy. Like something entirely different.
"Really?" I murmur.
Violet nods, her eyes are dancing. "He's completely gone," she whispers. "Didn't stand a chance."
Zia Rosa says something across the room, gesturing with the towel. Enzo straightens immediately. I bite back a smile.
Behind me, Massimo's hand finds my waist again, pulling me back against him, like it's instinct. Like he's always aware of where I am.
"What are you smiling about?" he murmurs against my hair.
I glance over my shoulder, tilting my head toward Enzo. "Apparently, your right-hand man has a weakness."
Massimo follows my gaze. There's a pause. Then, he mutters, "God help us all."
For a moment, I just watch him. The room still hums around us—music, laughter, the low murmur of conversations, but everything feels… lighter. Softer.
Like we made it through something. Like maybe we get to keep this. I lean back into him, letting myself breathe.
