Page 32 of Mafia Mistress

“I’ll be sure to wear white.”

“Coglione.”

The insult made him grin. “You love me.”

I did. He was the one person I trusted implicitly. Speaking of…. “Celestina arrives today at noon. I need you to handle it. Set her up in the ballroom and make sure Francesca chooses a dress.”

“Sure you don’t want to oversee the dress selection? Maybe watch her try them on?”

I did, and that he read me so well only infuriated me. “Fuck you.”

“He didn’t fuck her last night.”

I tried not to let my expression change. “Oh? And how would you know?” They’d been in Giulio’s bedroom and she came out without her shoes on.

“No beard burn, no swollen lips. She looked pensive, not satiated.”

I hated admitting it, but this news eased something in my chest. Cristo, I was pathetic. “Fucking her before the wedding would be disrespectful and my son knows his place. Besides, I am not certain why you think I’d care.”

Marco smirked. “Sure, Rav. Anything else?”

“Get out of here so I can get to work.”

* * *

Later that afternoon,I heard the yelling all the way from my office.

I instantly knew who was causing trouble. Cazzo, this girl.

Grinding my teeth together, I rose out of my chair and tugged on my jacket. I’d avoided her all day, knowing I’d have to deal with her after she chose a dress. But I couldn’t have her annoying Celestina, who was an old friend.

A steady stream of Italian curses echoed all the way down the corridor. Celestina had a foul mouth and a short fuse. Probably why I liked her.

I strode into the ballroom. The two women were facing off near a row of dresses and Celestina was cursing Francesca’s ancestors. I didn’t allow myself to look at my son’s fiancée. “Ciao, Tina,” I called. “Come stai?”

The tiny dark-haired designer spun around. “Dai! This girl, bello. I cannot take it. She has no fashion sense. She is turning her nose up at every dress. My dresses!”

I kissed her cheeks. “But that is why I’ve brought you. Because you are the best and we must teach her what it means to be a Ravazzani, no?”

“What are you two saying?” Francesca snapped, her Italian not strong enough to keep up with us. That was probably for the best, when it came to Celestina and her colorful language.

“We are saying,” Tina spat in English, “that you have no fashion sense and are a pain in the ass.”

Francesca gasped, her creamy skin flushing. “All I said was that I didn’t want to wear white.”

Tina made a noise and gestured to me as if to say, see?

“There are a few ivory dresses,” I pointed out. “Perhaps you could try those on.”

“No. I want to wear black. Or red.” She set her chin stubbornly. Here was the spoiled mafia princess, the piccola monella. Her father had clearly allowed her too much latitude.

That stopped now.

I looked at Tina. “I need a word with Signorina Mancini. Would you mind taking your assistants to the kitchen? Zia will give you caffé and biscotti.”

“Of course, bello.” Tina herded her team out of the ballroom and Marco disappeared as well.

Then we were alone.

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