Page 6

Chapter Five

Nora

F our weeks. It sounds absurd, as if this impending marriage isn’t already overwhelming enough. Well, three weeks now. I haven’t seen or heard from Rafaele since the engagement party, not that I truly expected to. Leo, of course, was eager to fill the silence with tales of his brother's ruthlessness and selfish nature. He seemed almost gleeful as he recounted Rafaele’s cold efficiency, taking pleasure in reminding me of the man I was about to marry.

But there’s a part of me that doesn’t fully believe Leo's narrative. I’m not sure why, but something about Rafaele seemed different. Maybe it was the way he chose the engagement ring—something small, subtle, and meaningful. Or perhaps it was the way he tried, in his own awkward way, to ease my discomfort during the engagement party. For a brief moment, I thought I saw something in him—something more human beneath the layers of cold calculation.

But now, as the days pass with no word from him, I wonder if I was simply grasping at straws. Maybe I was trying too hard to see something that wasn’t there, trying to find a sliver of hope in a situation that feels increasingly bleak. After all, why would a man like Rafaele Lucchese care about making me comfortable?

His absence and the obvious disinterest he’s shown since the engagement seem to fit Leo’s narrative all too well. I try to build the walls I know I’ll need to protect myself, reminding myself that I can’t afford to feel anything for this man—not when he’s so clearly uninterested in reciprocating.

For a fleeting moment after I chose him, I thought we could build something based on mutual respect, maybe even an intellectual connection. But that, too, was probably asking too much.

“What do you think, Nora?” My mother’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, taut with expectation. “It’s very traditional.”

I blink, shaking off the gloom as I turn to face her. She’s standing beside a stack of pristine white dresses that line the wall. The first dress she selected is a heavy ball gown with intricate lace detailing and a cathedral-length train. It looks like a giant, suffocating meringue, designed to conceal me rather than celebrate me.

I glance at Rafaele’s aunt, Maria, who sits on the sofa watching the scene unfold. She’s the capo’s sister, a woman of formidable presence whose sharp eyes miss nothing. I’m not naive; I know she’s here to approve every detail, to ensure that the Lucchese family’s expectations are met. Maria doesn’t say much, but her mere presence is enough to keep my mother on edge—no small feat.

My gaze shifts to Lucia, Rafaele's cousin and Paolo's younger sister, the woman who’s been appointed as my maid of honor. I have friends, but they’re not from our world. I met them at university, and I’ve kept them away from the mafia’s reach as much as I can. So when Maria asked who would be in my bridal party, I said no one.

That’s the only text I’ve received from Rafaele this week.

I’ve been informed you have no bridal party. I took the liberty of asking my cousin, Lucia, to be your maid of honor. Let me know if this is impracticable.

I was offended by the message and everything it implied, but in the grand scheme of things, it seemed trivial, so I simply replied:

Okay, thanks.

Today, I’m meeting Lucia for the first time, though she doesn’t seem to care much. She’s far more engrossed in her phone and the flute of champagne in her hand than anything happening in the store.

“This one is… lovely, but I’m not sure it’s quite me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

My mother’s lips press into a thin line of disapproval. “Nora, this is a big deal. You’re not just some bride—you’re marrying into the Lucchese family. Your dress should show that.” Her eyes narrow as she glances at the dress. “Besides, it’ll help smooth out those curves of yours.”

I suppress a sigh, glancing at the other options. They’re all similar—heavy, traditional, designed to overwhelm rather than flatter. I can’t help but long for something simpler, something that feels like me rather than just another piece in the Lucchese dynasty’s display of power.

Both Mom and I turn toward Maria, who just looks at the dress in my mother’s hands. “Well, let’s see what you have in mind,” she says, and once again, it feels like a test.

I turn toward the assistant. “I want something simple, pure line, and if you have a dash of color, I would love that.”

She smiles. “Give me a few minutes, Ms. Falcone. I think I have exactly what you need. Size fourteen?”

“I… Well, yes.”

She nods, and my mother clicks her tongue as soon as she’s gone.

“Color? This is not traditional.”

Maria nods as Lucia rolls her eyes, still looking at her phone.

I shrug. “It costs nothing to try.”

“It’s a waste of time,” my mother insists.

“Humor me.”

“Ms. Falcone, I've put a few dresses in the dressing room for you.”

As soon as I walk in, one catches my eye. The lace flowers are a pale violet-blue, reminding me of the stones of my engagement ring. I decide to try this one first.

I stand in front of the mirror, my breath catching as I take in the sight before me. The dress is nothing short of a dream—delicate and intricate, yet commanding in its quiet elegance. The soft V-neckline dips gracefully, not too deep, just enough to hint at femininity without overwhelming modesty. Floral lace cascades over the bodice, wrapping around my torso like a second skin, each petal meticulously stitched to create a symphony of texture and light.

The sleeves are long, their lace as delicate as spider silk, with flowers seemingly blooming along my arms, trailing down toward my wrists. There’s something almost ethereal about the way the lace melds with my skin, as if the dress itself is alive, each flower whispering secrets of love and promise.

The skirt flows effortlessly from the cinched waist, layers of tulle giving it a gentle volume that sways with every breath I take. Floral appliqués, matching those on the bodice, scatter across the skirt in a pattern that seems almost wild, yet perfectly placed, as if nature herself had a hand in its creation.

And there, at the waist, a simple, satin band draws the eye, a subtle contrast to the complexity above and below, grounding the entire look in understated grace.

I turn slightly, the dress moving with me, and I can’t help but smile. For the first time, standing here in this gown, I feel like a bride.

I rest my hand on my heart. This is the one.

“So?” I ask, finally facing the three women.

My mother scrunches her nose. “I don’t know, sweetheart.” Her eyes scan the dress, and she tugs lightly at the waistline. “It’s a bit tight here—it doesn’t quite flatter you.”

My heart sinks, and I look at Maria, who has her lips pursed with disapproval. She doesn’t need to say what she thinks—it’s clear on her face. As for Lucia? She’s still looking at her screen, typing furiously.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I mutter, my shoulders slumping as I turn back to the dressing room. “I’ll try something else.”

I am walking back to the dressing room when Maria’s phone rings.

“Rafaele?”

I freeze in my tracks, my heart skipping a beat at the mention of Rafaele’s name. Maria, who had been the picture of composure just moments ago, is now flustered, stuttering as she speaks into the phone. It’s a side of her I hadn’t expected to see, and it only adds to the magnitude of Rafaele’s influence over everyone in his life.

“Yes, I— No, of course,” Maria continues, her voice tinged with a nervous edge. Her expression shifts from disapproval to something more conflicted as she suddenly stands and extends the phone toward me. “Rafaele wants to speak with you,” she says, her tone careful, as if trying to gauge my reaction.

I hesitate, then take the phone, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Nora, I tried calling your cell, but it’s off.” Rafaele’s deep voice comes through the line, steady and firm.

“Oh, umm, yes, I don’t really use it that much.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then I hear him sigh. “Did Lucia give you the credit card?”

I can’t help but blush. It felt so strange this morning when Lucia handed it to me as soon as we settled in the car, telling me to buy whatever I wanted. “Yes, she did.”

“Perfect. Buy the dress you want.”

I look at myself in the mirror again. “Thank you,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, though I’m a little taken aback by his directness. “Okay, then I’ll?—”

“Why didn’t you call me? I told you I’d back you up.”

I glance back at my mother and Maria, who are now eyeing me eagerly. Feeling self-conscious, I turn my back to them and walk toward the dressing room. “I didn’t think it was important enough to bother you with,” I murmur. “This isn’t really your thing, is it?”

“Do you care about it?”

“I— Well, yes, but?—”

“Then it’s important.”

I frown, confused by his sudden concern. He couldn’t escape the engagement party soon enough, and except for the text appointing Lucia to me, I hadn’t heard from him all week. “I haven’t heard from you in a week.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end, and I wonder if I’ve caught him off guard. “Would you have liked to?”

I shrug, knowing he can’t see me.

“You didn’t call me either,” he finally says, his tone a mix of challenge and something else—curiosity, perhaps.

He’s right, of course. I didn’t reach out. I’ve been trying so hard to navigate this on my own, not wanting to seem dependent or weak.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice unexpectedly soft. “But I don’t want to hear about you getting pushed around. You want something, you get it. If anyone’s got a problem with that, they’ll deal with me.”

I glance over at Lucia, who catches my eye. She gives me a subtle wink, and suddenly, everything clicks into place. She wasn’t as disinterested as she seemed. She’s the one who texted Rafaele, ensuring he was aware of what was happening. She’s not just here as a formality—she’s my ally.

“I understand,” I finally say into the phone, a small smile tugging at my lips as I look at Lucia, who returns to her phone with a faint smile. “I’ll get the dress I want.”

“Good,” Rafaele replies, his voice softening just slightly.

I’m about to offer the same courtesy, but then I stop, realizing there’s nothing he could possibly need from me. “Okay. I’ll let you go now. Have a good day.” I hand the phone back to Maria, who is now looking at me with a newfound respect.

“All settled?” she asks, her tone noticeably warmer.

“Yes, I’m taking this dress.”

Maria and my mother smile, though it seems forced. Not that I care. I turn to the saleswoman. “I’ll take this one.”

She claps her hands with a bright smile. “This is wonderful.” It’s only then that I realize I didn’t even look at the price tag. When I do, I almost choke on my saliva. Sixteen thousand dollars for a dress? This is insanity.

“We’ll get the seamstress in, but before that, let’s work on the shoes. What type of heels would you like?”

Ah, here comes the first sore point. “Honestly, I’m not big on heels. Do you have any flats? Something in lavender or white would be perfect—just a little something to go with the dress.”

The saleswoman nods but hesitates slightly. “We do have flats, but they’re usually more for taller brides. You are quite… umm?—”

“Short?” I offer with a dry smile. It’s no secret that at five-one, I’m what you might call vertically challenged.

The saleswoman gives me a tentative smile. “Yes, exactly. Heels can add a bit of height, and they help to elongate the silhouette.”

I glance at my reflection in the mirror, then at the dress, which, despite everything, still feels perfect. “I understand, but I prefer comfort. Let’s see the flats.”

Maria sighs, clearly not entirely pleased with my decision. “Maybe you should look at the heels too, Nora. You are short and a little round… Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she adds quickly, her tone a bit forced. “But, you know, your wedding is the day you’re supposed to look your best.”

Lucia, who has been mostly silent until now, rests her phone on her lap. “Do you want another call from Rafaele, Aunt Maria?”

Maria’s eyes narrow in warning, but she quickly shifts her attention back to me. “But if you really want flats, go ahead,” Maria says, her voice tight, like she’s swallowing something unpleasant.

My mother, ever the critic, merely shakes her head and makes her way to the champagne table, helping herself to yet another flute—whether it’s her third or fourth, I’ve lost count.

Lucia glances at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “You look amazing in this dress, Nora. Who cares about the shoes? Those flats are just gonna make you look even more like one of those bombshells from the fifties—absolutely killing it,” she says before returning to her phone, her brief words of encouragement like a lifeline.

Her comment surprises me, and a warmth spreads through me that I haven’t felt in a long time. I glance back at the mirror, seeing myself with a fresh perspective. Maybe Lucia’s right. Maybe I can own this look, own this day, and make it my own, even if it’s not the traditional image everyone expects.

I settle for a pair of white satin flats with pearls on them. I’m self-conscious as I reach in my bag for the credit card that Rafaele gave me, which makes both my mother and Maria raise their eyebrows.

“I had no idea your future husband was of such a generous nature. Maybe he’s not the worst pick after all,” my mother says with a fake laugh.

“Are we done?” I ask as we exit the store. I’m exhausted and craving a nap, though I can’t say that out loud. A twenty-two-year-old woman isn’t supposed to need a nap.

“Almost,” my mother replies, her tone softer now as she eyes me with concern. Is she aware of my fatigue? “We just need to pick out the cake, and I’ll handle the catering.”

I offer her a smile. Despite everything, her gesture is kind. I love choosing cakes, and truthfully, she’s the best person to manage the catering.

At least I don’t have to worry about the venue—the wedding will take place at San Miguel Church, as is customary, with the reception at the capo’s estate. The entire event is being organized by a top-tier wedding planner who seemed thrilled by the challenge of pulling everything together in just four weeks.

"The bakery is just at the bottom of the street. Let’s go,” my mother says, already moving forward with Maria by her side, both of them deep in conversation about the catering.

Lucia and I lag behind, walking in a comfortable silence until I finally muster the courage to speak. “Thank you.”

She glances at me, raising an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For being my ally,” I reply, grateful for her support, even if it’s just in small ways.

She waves a hand dismissively. “Please, I’d pay you just to annoy Aunt Maria. She’s so stuck up. Wait until you meet my cousin Sofia—she’s even worse. But her husband…” Lucia sticks her tongue out to the side, mimicking someone choking.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, a little shocked.

Lucia snorts. “Don’t be. He was a pig.”

I can’t help but let out a surprised laugh, and she grins, clearly pleased to have lightened the mood.

“Honestly, I don’t care what people say about Rafa. He’s not half bad, you know. Sure, he’s scary, and yeah, he’s tough, but if you’re loyal to the famiglia, he’ll always have your back.”

Her words are meant to be comforting, but they only remind me of the secret I’m hiding, the thing Rafaele doesn’t know about me. The thought gnaws at me, a constant worry that one day, it will all come out and be seen as a betrayal.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. It’s too late to change anything now. All I can do is hope that the truth stays buried.

We arrive at the bakery, a quaint little shop on the corner of the street. The scent of freshly baked bread and sweet confections wafts through the air as soon as we step inside, instantly lifting my spirits. The baker, a kindly older woman with flour dusting her apron, greets us with a warm smile.

“Ah, Ms. Falcone! I’ve been expecting you,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “We’ve prepared a few options for your cake tasting. Please, have a seat.”

We’re led to a small, cozy table at the back of the bakery, where several small plates are already laid out, each holding a different flavor of cake. My mother and Maria take their seats first, both eyeing the offerings with thinly veiled disapproval.

“Let’s start with the classic vanilla,” the baker suggests, cutting small slices for each of us. I take a bite, the subtle sweetness melting on my tongue. It’s simple, delicate—everything a wedding cake should be. But when I think of the man I’m marrying, something about it feels… lacking.

“It’s nice,” I say politely, glancing at my mother and Maria. Both nod, clearly approving of the choice, but I can tell they’re already ready to move on to something else.

“What else do you have?” I ask, and the baker smiles, moving to the next plate.

“This one is a bit more unique—espresso.”

My heart skips a beat as I take a bite, the rich, bold flavor of coffee filling my senses. It’s unexpected, daring even, and I can’t help but think of Rafaele. It’s the kind of flavor he would appreciate—strong, intense, not overly sweet.

“I like this one,” I say, feeling a small surge of confidence as I look up at the baker.

My mother makes a face, clearly unimpressed. “Espresso? For a wedding cake? That’s a bit… bitter, don’t you think?”

Maria raises an eyebrow, clearly on the fence. “It’s unconventional, Nora. Are you sure?”

“Could we have a layer of each?” I ask the baker. “Balancing the bitterness of espresso with the sweetness of vanilla?”

The baker beams. “Yes, let’s try that.” She takes a little of each cake and layers them on a plate.

I take a bite, and I can’t help but smile. The combination is perfect, each flavor complementing the other in a way that feels right. If this were a real wedding, it would have been even more fitting—the sweet vanilla marrying the bold espresso, just like the contrast between Rafaele and me.

Lucia grins, clearly enjoying the fact that I’m making a decision that isn’t purely based on tradition or expectation. “I think it’s a great choice.”

The baker looks relieved, nodding as she makes a note on her pad. “Espresso and vanilla it is, then.”

As we finish up, I can’t help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. It might seem like a minor victory, but it’s a step toward making this wedding, this life, my own in whatever ways I can.

We make our way out of the bakery, the cake tasting complete, and as we walk back toward the car, I feel a strange mix of emotions—relief, determination, and something close to hope.

Lucia lingers beside me as my mother and Maria walk ahead. “You did well in there,” she says, nudging me lightly. “Don’t let them push you around.”

“Thanks, Lucia. I couldn’t handle this without you.”

“Anytime.” She grins, giving me a quick wink. “And don’t sweat it—Aunt Maria will come around eventually. She always does.”

I stifle a yawn. “Sorry, I’m just a little tired.”

Lucia laughs. “Don’t worry about it—time with Aunt Maria will drain the energy out of anyone.”

“I heard that, diavoletta!” Maria calls as she reaches her car.

“I know! I said it on purpose.” Lucia rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m off. I have to meet some friends.”

My mother glances between our car and Maria’s. “Go with Maria to the caterer. I’ll have the driver take me home.”

She leans down to kiss my cheek, whispering in my ear, “Are you in pain?”

I smile and squeeze her hand. “No, just tired.”

I watch as she gets into the car with Maria, who’s already bickering with her before the door even closes. As I settle into the back seat, I pull out my phone, feeling an odd urge to text Rafaele.

Thanks for sending Lucia—she’s something else. Not that it matters to you, but I picked vanilla and espresso for the cake. I remember you like espresso, so at least there’s one thing you might actually like at the wedding.

By the time I finally return home, I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I collapse onto my bed, the image of the dress, the taste of the cake, and the looming reality of becoming the wife of the most unforgiving man in the Italian mafia all swirling in my mind.

As I drift off to sleep, one thought lingers: he hasn’t replied to my text message.