Page 55 of Secret Mafia Daddy

I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I am. We’re already technically married, so this is just the show we’re putting on for family and friends. I shouldn’t be so worried.

But I want everything to be perfect. Maybe I’d never have a real wedding – maybe this is it. So I want it to be right.

When I wake up the next morning, Mia groans and rolls off the bed, landing on the floor.

“You okay?” I ask, chuckling, and she gets up slowly, her hair mussed.

“Fine,” she says, a sleep-slur in her voice. “Just too much champagne last night,” she croaks. “How about you? Are you hungover?”

“No, not at all,” I say honestly, and she narrows her eyes at me.

“I kinda hate you,” she cracks, and I laugh, grabbing my shift-dress that I plan to wear to the church to get ready.

I’ve got hair and makeup, not to mention a manicure and pedicure to get to.

Everyone is at the church when I get there, all of the staff that are here to get me beautiful for my big day.

“How would you like your makeup, Mrs. Bianchi?” the makeup artist asks.

“Glam, but not too much,” I say, and she hums and starts while someone begins to brush out my long, blonde curls. In just a moment, someone starts massaging my hands and feet. I’m being pampered on a huge scale, and I have to admit that I love it.

My father spared no expense when it came to this wedding, and that much is clear.

I enjoy being pampered for about an hour before they’re done, and then I’m wriggling into my dress with the help of Mia and Alyssa, who showed up late and with hickeys all over her neck.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence,” I joke, and Alyssa groans.

“I’m sorry, but last night was...” she pauses, looking around at all the people in the room. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“You better,” I tease, and finally, my dress is zipped up and my veil is put over my head. I only can glance at myself in the mirror before it’s time to go, but I do look like a fairytale princess.

I take in a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

23

ANGELO

Ironically, there are zero strippers at my bachelor party, just bourbon for Nico and Dante and tequila for me and a bunch of Cuban cigars. Everyone who’s anyone in the famiglia is at the party, though, so Dante and Nico get to mingle a lot.

I don’t drink too much and don’t talk much either, and finally, Dante nudges me.

“What’s going on with you? You act like you’re being executed in the morning instead of getting married.”

“Just have a lot on my mind,” I mumble, and what’s on my mind is simple: Catarina.

This morning, when we were flirting and I was chasing her around the apartment, I’d felt so happy and free. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and I don’t want to lose it. I want to chase it, in fact. Chase it like I’ve been chasing adrenaline all my life.

“Are you afraid you might be in love with your wife?” Nico asks, too loud, clearly a little drunk.

I choke on my tequila and pineapple juice.

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss.

“Yes, because we don’t want anyone to know you might have feelings for your lawfully wedded wife,” Dante says with a laugh. His face is flushed. I guess they don’t get out much anymore and they’ve both gone overboard.

“Besides, how would you know?” I ask Nico, frowning.

He shrugs. “I was the same way with Aurora. I couldn’t admit it to myself for so long, I almost lost her.”

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