Enzo’s Vow

Chapter 1

Gemma

Harper gazed at the location in open-mouthed wonder. “This place is gorgeous.”

Gorgeous indeed. The sunset painted the cloud-streaked sky with strokes of vibrant yellow and deep orange.

An aroma of garlic and herbs drifted from the kitchen and straight to my rumbling stomach.

Beyond us, the fountain di Orione poured forth clear water, offering the perfect view of Piazza Duomo.

Willow bellowed over the classical Italian music. “Did you girls see that sign on the building down the street? Ladies’ night. ” She shot me a wink. “How about a little fun for our bride-to-be?”

Harper elbowed Willow’s rib, her fresh copper hairdo gleaming under the soft fairy lights outlining our white gazebo. “Seriously? Gem’s dad is at the bar.”

“You know that’s not my scene, Lolo.” I snapped, keeping my tone playful. “And what would Matthew say?”

Willow raised her hands in defense. “The offer’s always there… and what Matthew doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Ladies night? Thanks, but no thanks . Besides, I wasn’t about to send my father away…

I hadn’t seen the man in over a year. Speaking of Papa, I peered past other diners, leaning back in my seat for a better view of the bar.

He waited there as the bartender filled our tray with snap-worthy cocktails.

More silver threaded through his hair, and those lines around his mouth…

had they always been so deep? Hollowness suffused my chest. Had he changed this much in just a year?

If only Nonno and Nonna were stronger… maybe, Papa wouldn’t have had to return to Italy to care for them.

A wave of laughter erupted from a table near the bar, drowning out the soft Italian music.

One man neither laughed nor joked with his buddies.

Instead, his gaze met mine across the room.

Sudden heat rose in my chest at those vivid green eyes.

Not admiration, but assessment—calculating, as if sizing up a chess piece for his next move.

Did I have food on my face? Wiping my chin, I found no remnants of the bruschetta we devoured.

His gaze held a strange intensity, a lure tugging at my curiosity, overshadowing the urge to look away.

Shifting in my chair, I gave into the latter.

Why should I be the one to squirm? He’d stared first.

“I guess I shouldn’t complain since you originally wanted to have your bachelorette party at the church’s Friday night youth meeting.” Willow rolled her eyes, a visible shudder running through her.

“What?” A laugh bubbled to the surface. Oh, how the idea must have sounded weird to her.

“I wanted to involve them. Matthew thought it was a lovely suggestion.” He adored it when I included his youth group.

They’d even helped us make our wedding invitations.

Matthew was great with those kids. His easy smile, his ability to connect—the way he made even the most anxious teenager laugh and feel instantly at ease—that’s what drew people to him, and made my decision to marry him sooner all the more certain.

“Okay, fine…” She pouted. “No ladies night.”

Poor Willow, I’d crushed her bridesmaid dreams.

She then rotated her finger, her dramatized way of calling all eyes on her. “But just humor us with this one thing.” A mischievous grin appeared as she extracted a bag from under the table and presented a gift.

Inside sat a “Bride-to-be” veil, where tiny lightbulbs, mimicking gems, decorated the tiara. “Oh, Willow. Are you serious?”

She pointed a strict finger my way. “You have to wear it. C’mon, Gem.”

“Don’t push her, Lolo,” Harper warned, her tone half-hearted. “You should have seen her at the range last week—bullseye after bullseye. Annoy her too much, and you might find your picture on her target.”

Oh, please, target shooting was just a bit of fun, a great way to focus and release tension. I’d never aim a weapon at an actual person, even if I wasn’t so keen to wear this tawdry hairpiece. Not one to dampen her eager mood, I fixed the comb to my hair and prayed I didn’t mimic a clown.

Willow all but squealed at the accessory. Unlike the wild hen party my dear friend envisioned, our cozy night in beautiful Messina topped my ideal celebration.

“There’s a little treat at the bottom for your honeymoon.” Willow winked and shimmied her shoulders.

Stomach twisted in knots, I dug into the bag and withdrew a black French-lace teddy, scandalous enough to muster a whistle from Harper.

“Willow!” I crammed the bodysuit deep inside the bag and hid the gift under the table, wishing I could hide the warmth in my cheeks. “Lingerie! With my father here!”

“ Relax .” She grinned, drawing out the word. “He’s at the bar.”

Thank God my father paid no heed to the flimsy piece.

One person noticed—the same man in the corner. His mouth twitched, and a twinkle lit his eyes.

I had to look, didn’t I? My gaze snapped his way without a thought. Forget warmth. Flames ignited my cheeks. I averted my gaze again.

Not even my honeymoon luggage included such items. What if Matthew found the teddy too bold? I peered at the bag at my feet. Shouldn’t wearing sexy lingerie for my husband excite me rather than stress me out? Once we exchanged rings, I’d give myself to this man in ways I’d never given to anyone.

“Three Averna Limonatas.” My father planted the tray on our table.

I bounced out of the chair and ran to his side. “Don’t let these girls talk you into buying rounds all night. Remember, they’re Aussies. They can handle their liquor.”

He chuckled and nudged my arm. “Stop worrying, Gemma. Have some fun.”

He wore the blue linen shirt I’d sent him for his birthday last year; the initials embroidered on the front pocket, making it a favorite.

Suddenly, I was a little girl again, perched on his knee as he told stories of his hometown village, his arm a safe harbor.

A wave of longing washed over me, and I squeezed him in for a hug.

What a shame Mum was missing out. I told her months ago we’d be flying to Italy for the wedding.

She’d objected to the idea. Objected , too light a word to describe the tantrum she’d thrown.

She’d dived out of her seat, face red as she’d slashed her hands in vehement refusal.

I’d never seen her so troubled. How sad she still resented my father for leaving us to care for his retired parents, refusing to face him, even for the happiest day of my life.

But I wanted to honor my parents’ culture on my big day.

What better way than to marry in my father’s town?

Matthew beamed at the idea of a destination wedding.

He and his relatives boarded their flight for the trip here.

He’d mentioned over the phone how he tried convincing my mum to join us one last time, insisting on buying her a plane ticket.

But the stubborn woman refused and promised to throw us a lavish party on our return.

Papa chuckled in my ear. “What’s this for?” He patted my back.

Heart swelling in my chest, I embraced him tighter. “Just missed you.”

Stranger met my gaze over my father’s shoulder, his face a hard mask concealing his emotions.

His friends addressed him, and he mouthed a short reply, his attention never leaving me.

He wore a black suit, shirt, and tie, a complement to his tanned complexion.

His chestnut brown hair, defined by loose curls styled into a trendy taper-fade, was meticulously groomed, each strand seemingly in its place.

The hard set of his jaw and the slight tick beneath his eye suggested a man not to be crossed.

He sat back from his table, directed at us rather than his friends.

One leg was bent over his knee as he twirled the half-full wineglass at the table’s edge.

“I’ve missed you too, mia figlia .” He kissed my cheek. “Come now, you ladies enjoy your drinks.” My father’s words dragged my attention back to my two friends who traveled all this way for my big day.

I lowered back into my seat, the wicker of the chair creaking beneath me.

Stabbing the orange peel garnish with my straw, a bittersweet aroma wafted up, making my mouth water.

I raised the glass, the ice clinking against the side.

The first fizzy sip tickled my nose, a jolt of syrupy sweetness, fighting against the bitter herbal notes.

By the time I’d finished my drinks, alternating between the cocktail and water to quench the sweetness, my full bladder forced me out of my seat, and I excused myself to use the restroom.

Willow jumped to join me.

“Oh, thank God.” Her voice echoed from the cubicle next to mine. “A toilet with an actual toilet seat.”

I smothered my chuckle. The lack of toilet seats in the many places we visited around Sicily baffled the girls.

Talk about a culture shock. To be honest, I found it weird, too.

What a shame such a beautiful town lacked simple bathroom finishes.

I read somewhere the council didn’t replace the seats in public restrooms because they broke so often.

I finished washing my hands, adjusting the thin, removable straps of my beige dress, when Willow burst from the cubicle and pumped soap into her hands at the sink beside mine.

“So, tell me.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Have you got cold feet yet?”

Here we go again . I stared up at the ceiling. “Willow, don’t start.”

She scrunched the paper towel into a ball and tossed it in a trash can beneath the basin.

Straightening her posture, she grabbed my shoulders.

“I get it. I’m pushy, but tell me, Gem. Are you excited?

Like, butterflies excited?” Her features softened as she chewed on her lower lip, waiting for my answer.

Willow’s loyalty had always been fierce. I’d seen this since kindergarten, when she punched Jimmy Jeffries for tipping my lunchbox.

“Because I want you to be happy, over-the-moon happy, you know?”