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Having regained her appetite, Jenna sits across the table shoveling forkful after forkful of Sophia’s famous frittata into her mouth. Her laugh comes easier and brighter, and the shadows under her eyes have finally started to fade.
I’m also slowly starting to get back to being myself again, except for the nausea and exhaustion. I know the effects of my pseudocyesis may take a while to subside.
Marco’s been a sweetheart through all of this.
A week of compound life—of safety and routine and being surrounded by people who’d kill anyone who tried to hurt Jenna—has done what weeks of hiding and running never could.
“I can feel you diagnosing me.” Jenna points her fork in my direction, a piece of egg clinging to the tines. “Stop that. I’m fine. You’re the one who looks like you haven’t slept in a month.”
“My wedding-planning timeline is seven days, start to finish.” I reach for my coffee. “Sleep is for people with reasonable expectations. The ones who take a whole year just to pick a color scheme.”
Jenna snorts, the noise undignified and wonderful. “Am I hearing you right? Is the woman who’s marrying into the mafia really a good judge of what a ‘normal’ wedding should be?”
“It’s not… We’re not…” I stop, sigh, and allow the truth to settle. “Okay, yeah, that’s exactly what’s happening. When did my life become a cable drama? When did I become the kind of person who’s okay with all this?”
“When you decided that hot, broody assassins were your type.” Jenna grins, her eyes dancing. “No judgment here. His cheekbones alone are worth the risk. I’d sign up for a little light kidnapping for bone structure like that too.”
“You must be crazy to joke about your abduction like that.” I throw a napkin at her, and she catches it, giggling.
“I’m okay, Lu. I’ve never felt safer than when I’m here. Strange, right?”
That afternoon, Sophia hosts the bridal shower in her soft-lit sitting room, where fresh flowers spill from crystal vases and the scent of roses and peonies permeate the air.
Sophia had insisted on picking my dress, a soft sage silk that falls just below the knee. Understated enough to still feel like me, yet pretty enough that I’ve clearly dressed for an occasion. I’d drawn the line at heels. We compromised on block wedges that I’ve already forgotten are on my feet.
Jenna explains how some of the Benedetti women, grateful for my medical presence, transformed the space, which now has the appearance of a magazine spread, with pale linens, flickering candles, and enough champagne to float a small battleship.
When I walk into the party, it’s almost like I’ve stumbled into another woman’s life. Do I truly deserve this kind of joy?
Sophia greets me with a hug, her arms strong and sure, and she presses a small, wrapped box into my hands. “From all of us. Well, from Izzy and me. Nonna’s gift is…separate.”
“I’m afraid to ask.” I turn the box over in my palms.
“You should be.” Izzy appears at my elbow, a completely different woman in her silk dress instead of her usual black leather pants. “Sophia picked out something practical. I added a surprise.”
“Her idea of a surprise is a Glock with your initials engraved on it.” Sophia sighs. “I talked her down to a gift certificate for self-defense classes. It was the best compromise I could manage.”
“They’re very expensive classes,” Izzy’s expression doesn’t change, but warmth flickers in her eyes, “with very good instructors. People I trust with my own life.”
My bright, free laugh surprises even me. I can’t remember the last time I cracked up like this, unguarded and present, surrounded by women who’ve become family.
More guests arrive through the afternoon. I greet wives of capos and daughters of soldiers, all women who’ve carved out lives in the shadow of violence and kept their hearts intact. They’re examples of what I’m becoming, and I scan each face as they bring gifts wrapped in tissue paper and stories blanketed in glee and merriment, plus advice that ranges from useful to hilarious to blush-inducing.
“Always keep spare clothes in the car.” One woman, gray-haired and elegant, speaks with a certainty forged by decades of experience. “You never know when you’ll need to make a quick exit. Stilettos can be a problem too. Running in flats is easier.”
Another nods sagely. “Learn to love cold coffee. You’ll be drinking a lot of it while you wait for them to come home. Hot becomes lukewarm, which becomes cold, and you’ll drink it anyway because it’s the only thing keeping you awake.”
A third leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And for god’s sake, invest in good lingerie. You’ll need something that motivates him to run to you after stressful days. Something that says ‘welcome home’ better than words ever could.” Laughter erupts around me, and the tension I’ve been carrying since the first time I saw Marco in my ER loosens in my chest.
I haven’t felt this way since Matteo died in my arms and since I stopped believing I deserved to be happy. When Nonna Rosa enters, the room settles immediately. The Benedetti matriarch moves like a queen through a court, small and silver-haired and terrifying in her undeniable authority.
She stops in front of me, taking me in with eyes that have seen births and deaths, weddings and wars, and the whole bloody sweep of famiglia history. The entire archive is written on her soul.
“So,” Nonna’s voice is dry as old parchment, crackling with years, “you’re truly marrying my grandson.”
Marco is in no way related to her by blood, but I’ve learned that she adopts the men who prove their loyalty, and Marco earned that adoption when he became the enforcer, just like Enzo before him.
“Yes, Nonna.” I meet her gaze, refusing to flinch or look away.
