Page 120 of 10 Days to Surrender

But he’smywork-in-progress now. Officially.

Once the tears had been teared and the hugs had been hugged, they immediately launched into planning mode. I had a whole committee of wedding planners before my own sobbing had even eased up.

Item #1 on their agenda? Wedding dress shopping.

Thus the crazy car ride.

I’m squished between Jasmine and Mama in the backseat, trying to find a comfortable position for my massive belly. Every bump in the road makes the twins protest, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not today.

My fingers keep finding their way to Sasha’s ring. The gold is warm now from how much I’ve been touching it, twisting it,looking at it every chance I can get. His mother wore this ring. The mere thought makes my chest tight.

“You’re going to wear it smooth if you keep fondling it like that,” Jasmine teases, nudging my shoulder with hers.

I stick my tongue out at her. “Let me have this moment.”

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of moments,” Gina calls from the driver’s seat. She catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “And every single one is going to be better than that first disaster of an almost-wedding.”

“Gee…” I start, but she’s on a roll.

“I mean it! No stuffy Met gala this time. No Greek mobsters breathing down our necks, and sure as hell no arranged marriage bullshit.” She ticks off each point on her fingers, somehow still managing to navigate the winding road, albeit barely. “Just you, your hot Russian hunk, and everyone who actually loves you.”

Mama’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. When I look at her, there are tears in her eyes. “I never thought I’d get to do this,” she whispers. “Shopping for my baby’s wedding dress. With both my girls.”

“Mama, don’t,” I warn, feeling my own eyes start to well up. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then my makeup will run, and then?—”

“And then you’ll look exactly like you did that evening in the Met bathroom,” Gina interrupts cheerfully. “Which, by the way, is where this whole beautiful love story started. So maybe some running mascara would be appropriate.”

“That isnotwhere the story started,” I protest, but I’m laughing too hard to elaborate.

The car hits another pothole and the twins kick in protest. I rub my belly, trying to soothe them. “Sorry, babies. Aunt Gina thinks she’s inFast and Furious.”

“Hey! I’m driving perfectly normally for Italy!”

“That’s what worries me,” Jasmine mutters, making Mama laugh.

The sound of all of us together—laughing, teasing,alive—fills the tiny car like sunshine. For so long, I thought I’d lost this. Lost them. But here we are, squeezed into a Peugeot that’s seen better days, heading to find the dress I’ll wear when I marry the man I love.

Not because anyone’s forcing us.

Just because we chose each other.

The village appears ahead—ochre walls draped in bougainvillea, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet. Gina parallel parks so badly that some poor driving instructor back in New York probably just woke up in a cold sweat with dubious guilt clawing at their stomach. A Vespa tumbles over after she kisses it with the bumper. She looks at it, shrugs, then looks at me.

“Alright, Ward.” She kills the engine, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Ground rules. No chiffon. No big, droopy veils that make you look like a discount nun. And if anyone mentions how ‘ivory symbolizes purity,’ I’m keying their car.”

Jasmine helps me unfold from the backseat, her grip firm under my elbow. “You realize she’s seven months pregnant with twins, yes? We’re aiming for ‘glowing fertility goddess,’ not ‘virginal blushing bride.’”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Can we not?—”

The little bell above the door chimes as we enterAtelier Sposa Maria.Compared to the glaring Mediterranean sun outside, the boutique’s interior feels cool and dim, like stepping into a secret garden made of tulle and lace instead of flowers.

Maria herself emerges from behind a rack of dresses, and her lined face breaks into a smile that makes me instantly feel at home. Her eyes drop to my belly, then light up like Christmas morning. “Ah,bellissima!” She claps her hands together. “Due bambini! What joy!”

Before I can respond, she’s already circling me like a friendly hurricane, muttering rapid-fire Italian mixed with the few English words she knows. Her hands flutter around me, measuring without touching, assessing angles and curves I didn’t even know I had.

Gina slings an arm around my shoulders. “What my friend needs is something that says, ‘I’m carrying the heir to a crime empire, but make it fashion.’”

“You come, come,” she insists, beckoning us deeper into her shop. “Perfetto timing. The babies make you glow like Madonna.”

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