Page 65 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

They are excited in the purest way children can be, untouched by the politics lurking in the vows that will be spoken.

Dante has spent more time with them this week than I expected.

He was awkward at first, visibly unsure of how to even speak to them without treating them like delicate artifacts, but children have a way of dragging the truth out of people.

By the third day, they were calling him "Papà" as naturally as if it had always been that way.

I watched them feed him berries from their plates at breakfast, heard their squeals echo across the courtyard when he chased them through the fountain paths, saw the softness enter his eyes when Arietta insisted on brushing his hair and told him he looked like a pirate king.

It was not perfect, but it was something.

Some beginning.

The danger now is not that they will not love him.

The danger is that they will.

I let my fingers run across the bodice of the dress I am meant to wear.

It is a column of pale champagne, heavy with hand-stitched embroidery, the fabric layered in silk and tulle without ever tipping into extravagance.

There is no veil.

No train.

Nothing that would suggest this was a fairytale.

Just elegance, order, and a reminder that I belong to something larger than my own wishes.

The ceremony is to be held under the open sky, between the marble lions that guard the entrance to the estate.

With the hour approaching, guests begin to arrive in waves.

They kiss each other on both cheeks and murmur pleasantries as they take their seats and glance around, gauging who else made the list.

These are not friends.

These are allies.

Business partners.

Rivals pacified by decorum.

The wedding is less about us than what we represent.

The Salvatores and the Rossis, no longer locked in tension but tied together by blood, by the twin daughters giggling behind the curtain, by the woman being walked down the stone path by herbrother who still looks like he’s torn between being pleased and wanting to kill someone.

Rafa does not speak as he offers his arm.

He simply stares ahead, jaw set, hands steady.

But when he leans in slightly to whisper, I feel a coldness that has nothing to do with the weather.

"Please him, sister. This will benefit us greatly in the long run."

It is not in me to grace his comment with a reply, so I nod stiffly.

As we begin walking, my eyes travel over some of the guests.