My eyes burn. I stare at the back of the driver’s headrest and count the stitches in the leather because if I blink, the tears will come, and I don’t have any left.
“Mamma.” It comes out broken. A child’s word in a woman’s voice.
“I know, baby.” She’s crying. My mother is crying. “I know.”
“We’ll see you Sunday,” I manage.
“Yes. Sunday.” A pause. “I love you, Cassia.”
She hangs up.
I lower the phone to my lap and stare at the screen until it goes dark.
“You okay?” Giada asks.
I think about the question. Think about it for real.
“I think my mother just apologized,” I say. My voice cracks. “I think that’s the first time she’s ever said it.”
Giada doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and takes my hand.
I hold on, counting the squeeze of her fingers until my chest unlocks.
The SUV carries us back toward the compound, the guard in the front seat murmuring coordinates into his earpiece, the afternoon sun slanting through tinted windows.
In the back, two garment bags hang like promises.
One ivory. One gold.
One for the ceremony that makes me his wife. One for the celebration that makes me me.
I have the dresses. I have a sister. I have a family that sees me.
Now I just have to walk down the aisle and prove I was worth seeing all along.
33
DANTE
The Don of New Orleans, banished from his own bedroom by a five-foot-two grandmother with opinions about tradition.
Cristo.
“Bad luck,” Nonna Rosa declares, hands on her hips, blocking the hallway like she’s guarding the gates of heaven. “You don’t see the bride before the wedding. That’s final.”
“Nonna Rosa. It’s my house.”
“It’s the rules.”
Giada appears behind her, arms crossed, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. “One night, Dante. You’ll survive.”
“I’ve been sleeping next to her for weeks.”
“And tonight you won’t be.”
Renzo materializes from somewhere, because of course he does, and raises an eyebrow.
“Pick your battles, brother.”
