Chapter 14
Adora
The dining table has disappeared beneath a sea of wedding planning materials.
Fabric swatches in cream and blush pink cascade across the mahogany surface, held down by heavy binders of venue photos.
Sample menus from the most exclusive caterers are arranged in neat stacks beside mood boards covered in invitation samples, candles, and linen napkins.
Matteo stands by the doorway, silent and watchful. He returned to his post as my bodyguard two days ago, and though he says little, his presence is a comfort. The fake bruise is gone, and my split lip is a thin line that only shows if you look closely.
“So,” she says, tapping her pen against a leather-bound notebook. “Tell me about your vision. What does your dream wedding look like?”
My dream wedding.
Not the wedding my father wants, a cold, political alliance he’s orchestrated. The wedding I would choose for marrying the man I love.
“Warm,” I say immediately. “Nothing cold or sterile. I want it to feel romantic. Luxurious but lived-in, like walking into a beautiful home rather than a museum.”
Clara’s face lights up. “Yes. I love it. This is my specialty. Warm maximalism. Opulent but personal.” She pulls out several photos from her portfolio. Weddings dripping with candlelight and garden roses, venues with exposed brick and crystal chandeliers, tables set with mismatched vintage china.
“This is why I chose you. Your portfolio was the only one that felt like me.”
She beams, and for a moment I forget that I’m planning this in order to extract a murder confession from my father while the man I love recovers from torture in a house across the city.
But the wedding will be real. The dress will be real. My vows to Vincenzo will be real. My father won’t know that until it’s too late.
“Guest numbers?” Clara asks, pen poised.
“Three hundred. My father wants every important family in Malus to witness his daughter’s marriage.”
“And the venue?” She flips through photos of ballrooms and gardens and historic buildings. “I have several suggestions, but I’d love to hear if you have a preference. Old Malus architecture, maybe? There are some stunning old buildings.”
She holds up a photo, and the color drains from my face. It’s the ballroom where Vincenzo’s family was murdered.
Clara notices my reaction immediately. “What’s wrong?”
I force myself to breathe and school my expression. “That venue…has a difficult history for the groom.”
“Oh.” Clara sets the photo down quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
I’m surprised she hasn’t heard about the massacre, but perhaps Clara doesn’t read the news or take an interest in Malus’s underworld. I wonder if she’s going to quit when she realizes she’s planning a mafia wedding.
“His family was murdered there.”
Clara’s face goes pale. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” She starts shuffling through her portfolio frantically, putting the photo of the ballroom under the others and out of my sight. “I have other options. Beautiful options. We’ll find something perfect, I promise.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Really. You didn’t know.”
Clara clears her throat, composing herself with admirable speed. “There are several historic mansions on the outskirts of Malus with beautiful architecture.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
She meets my eyes for just a moment, and I see her wondering about what kind of society people we are. But she doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask questions. Just moves forward with professional grace.
I respect her for that.
We move on to discussing aesthetics. Garden roses versus peonies. Gold accents versus silver. String quartet versus jazz trio. Clara takes notes in her elegant handwriting, occasionally suggesting alternatives that always improve on my ideas.
Despite her youth and inexperience, she’s good at this.
The front door opens, and we both look up.
My father walks in, briefcase in hand, already loosening his tie. He barely glances at the explosion of wedding planning covering his dining table.
“Adora,” he says by way of greeting. Then, to Clara, “You must be the wedding planner.”
“Clara Andretti.” She stands, extending her hand with professional polish. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Montoni.”
He shakes her hand perfunctorily. “I trust my daughter is in good hands.”
“The best,” Clara assures him.
“Good, good.” He’s already moving toward his study, clearly not interested in details. “You handle it, Adora. You’re the bride. Just don’t embarrass the family.”
His casual disdain burns. “I thought we were doing this together.”
He pauses at the door to his study. “You don’t need me for cake tastings and flower arrangements. Just make it appropriate for the families attending. You know what’s expected.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the closed door, a bitter taste in my mouth. This is the man who controlled every aspect of my life for twenty years. Now that I actually need him, he can’t be bothered.
“Well,” Clara says brightly, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “That gives us carte blanche, doesn’t it? No one to second-guess our choices. We can make this wedding exactly what you want.”
Clara is looking at me with sympathy in her eyes.
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile. “Let’s make it spectacular.”
We spend another hour going through options. Clara shows me photos of several historic mansions on the outskirts of Malus that could hold two hundred guests with room to breathe. The kind of venues that scream old money and elegance without being cold.
“Any of these three would be perfect,” I tell her.
“Excellent choices.” She makes a note. “I’ll reach out to them today about availability. With your timeline, we’ll need to move quickly.”
My timeline made Clara’s eyes widen in shock when I told her. Three weeks until the wedding. Three weeks to get a murder confession out of my father. It’s roughly the amount of time I expect Dashamir to wait before he starts revving up his chainsaws.
Clara packs up her materials, sliding photos and fabric swatches back into her leather portfolio case. “I’ll send you a proposal by tomorrow with detailed breakdowns of everything we discussed. We’ll need to schedule a cake tasting, and of course, dress shopping.”
“Actually,” I say impulsively. “I have a booking at a boutique. My friend Lucy and I were planning to go together, but if you’re available, I’d love your input.”
She beams at me. “I’d be honored. Just text me the details.”
As she heads for the door, she pauses.
“Miss Montoni?” Her voice is quieter now, more personal.
“Call me Adora, please.”
“Adora.” She glances at the closed door to my father’s study. “You’re going to be a beautiful bride, and I’m going to make sure you have the wedding you deserve.”
She doesn’t know the full truth, but she understands enough, and her words matter to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Really.”
After she leaves, I pull out my phone.
Wedding planning is done for today. How are you feeling?
Vincenzo’s response comes almost immediately.
Alive. I’m grateful for small mercies.
I wish I could see you.
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
Soon I hope.
Not soon enough.
I press the phone to my heart for a moment, letting myself feel the warmth of his words.
Then I look at my father’s closed study door, and reality crashes back.
I have no idea how to get close enough to Dad to record a confession, and the clock is ticking.
Two days later, I’m browsing the most exclusive bridal boutique in Malus with Lucy and Clara.
The boutique is all cream walls and soft lighting, with gowns displayed like works of art.
A woman named Simone greets us with champagne and ushers us into a private fitting room that’s bigger than my bedroom.
“Tell me about your style,” Simone says, her eyes shrewd and assessing. “Classic? Romantic? Modern?”
“Romantic,” I say. I think about everything that Vincenzo and I have been exploring together, and add, “Nothing too virginal.”
Lucy snorts into her champagne. Clara’s eyes sparkle behind her oversized glasses.
Okay, so Vincenzo and I haven’t had sex, but it’s only a matter of time.
When I’m not worried about being dismembered by chainsaws or my father murdering the man I love, being pounded hard by Vincenzo is all I can think about.
“I understand perfectly,” Simone says with the faintest smile. “Let me pull some options.”
She disappears into the back, and I sink onto the velvet settee beside Lucy.
“Is Don Agnello coming?” Lucy asks.
I widen my eyes and glance meaningfully at Clara, who’s picking a bridal magazine up from a side table. Understanding flashes over Lucy’s face. No mafia talk. Mr. Montoni, not Don Agnello.
“No.” The word comes out flatter than I intend. “Dad’s not interested in the details.”
Lucy sighs. “Typical. But at least you get to choose what you want without him vetoing anything too sexy.”
“That’s a silver lining,” I agree.
Clara takes a seat on my other side. We are two mafia princesses and a wedding planner who hasn’t quite figured out exactly what kind of world she’s stepped into. Or she’s just very good at hiding it.
Simone returns with an assistant, both of them carrying gowns. They hang them on hooks along the wall.
The first dress is what my father would want. High neck, long sleeves, modest and appropriate. A dress that says good mafia wife. Obedient daughter. Nothing to see here.
The second dress is lace with illusion panels, and a sweetheart neckline that’s demure but romantic. The kind of dress that would make everyone happy. Traditional enough for my father, pretty enough for me.
The third dress is pure sin. Backless. Low-cut. The kind of dress that makes daring promises, designed to drive a man insane with wanting. The kind of dress I want to wear when I marry Vincenzo.
“Two and three are both beautiful,” I say, but my eyes are lingering on the third.
“Try them both,” Simone suggests. “See how you feel.”