Page 9 of Luca
A server passes with a tray of drinks heading back to the kitchen. Sofia grabs a shot of whiskey off the tray, looks at it for a second, then grabs another one. She knocks back the first shot in one smooth motion, sets the glass down, then throws back the second one just as smoothly. No grimace, no cough, no delicate sip. Just clean, confident drinking like she's been doing it for years.
What the fuck?
Sofia doesn't drink whiskey. Sofia doesn't drink much of anything. In four dinners together, I've seen her order winetwice, and both times she barely touched the glass. She once told me alcohol made her feel dizzy.
She turns back toward the party like nothing happened. That same polite smile already sliding back in place.
I stand there staring at the spot where she was, trying to process what I just saw.
Two shots of whiskey. Downed like a pro.
I don't say anything to her for the rest of the evening. I watch, trying to figure out what the hell I just witnessed. Maybe there's an explanation. Maybe she needed liquid courage for our wedding night. Maybe she's nervous and thought alcohol would help.
But two shots? Like that?
When the last guests stumble to their cars and the staff starts breaking down tables, I watch my new wife say goodbye to my stepmother. Air kisses and compliments about how beautiful everything was.
She catches me staring and smiles. The same direct gaze from the ceremony. Like she's daring me to ask questions.
For the first time since I agreed to this marriage, I'm actually curious about my wife.
And I have no idea what to expect when we're alone.
Chapter 5: Gabriella
The Romano suite looks like someone swallowed a wedding magazine and threw it up in here. It’s over the top. Four-poster bed draped in cream silk. Rose petals scattered like the scene of a botanical massacre. Candles flicker from every surface, shadows dancing over marble floors and frescoed walls. Champagne chills in an ice bucket; chocolate-covered strawberries sit in a heart-shaped arrangement that’s almost too perfect to eat.
The whole thing screams honeymoon, which is hilarious considering I've known my groom for approximately seven hours. Most of which were spent pretending I know how to smile like Sofia and not like someone planning a prison break.
I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do now. I have so many questions.
Do mafia marriages come with contractual obligations? Is there some ceremonial consummation to seal the alliance? Does he expect me to lie there while he stakes his claim like this is a feudal land exchange?
I take a deep breath and focus. I can do this.
I've talked my way out of worse situations. I've faced down drug dealers in São Paulo, a machete-wielding bartender in Guatemala, and a very persistent camel trader in Morocco. How hard can one gorgeous, dangerous mafia husband be?
"Get it together, Gabriella," I mutter, then immediately wince. I should stop using my real name, even in my own head.
I head to the bathroom to change and immediately regret every life choice that led me here.
The lingerie Sofia packed is white, obviously, because God forbid a mafia bride wear anything that suggests she's ever had an impure thought. It's all lace and ribbons that seem designed by someone who hates women.
The bra has enough underwire to construct a small building, and the matching panties are basically decorative string. There's a garter belt with ribbons that keep snapping against my thighs. I honestly can’t believe she bought a garter belt. Who wears these things?
Jesus Christ! What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?
I reach for the door knob and stop. The bathroom mirror is an evil, lying bastard. It shows a wide-eyed bride in virginal white lace like she’s wandered in straight out of some mobster’s fantasy catalogue. I’ve never looked more ridiculous in my life.
I drag the silk robe off the hook and pull it around me, tying the sash like armor. Take another deep breath. Tonight, I’m Sofia. Quiet. Shy. Untouched. Not Gabriella, the wild one who could probably write a guidebook calledFifty Questionable Decisions Abroad.
I practice in the mirror. Soft eyes, timid smile, maybe a demure head tilt. I look like I’m auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “I look like a virgin who also might faint at the sight of a paper cut. Nailed it.”
It’s showtime, baby.
One last breath and I open the door, ready to walk into battle.
