Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
KENNEDY
“Why the frown, bellissima ?” Ricardo asks.
There isn’t a square inch of me that hasn’t been fussed over, primped, and polished to perfection, and all I want to do is rip it all off, grab a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, and lock myself in my crappy little apartment for three days, pretending none of this is happening.
But it is happening.
This is my wedding day. I know because there’s a line of lace trailing from my hair to the floor, a ring the size of Mt. Everest weighing down my finger, and creamy vanilla silk wrapping me like a glove.
Or a shroud.
Honestly, I’m in too much shock to truly take in all of Ricardo’s hard work. If he and his seamstresses hadn’t worked me over like a pit crew, I’m pretty sure I’d be getting married in yoga pants.
What happened to something old, new, borrowed, and blue ?
To soaking in the warmth of family and friends?
To the exhilarating sprint out of the church, while onlookers showered you in rose petals or biodegradable confetti or whatever the hell else we do to save the birds?
And what about love?
Am I the only lunatic left in a world gone cynical, believing that the cornerstone of marriage is love?
But the man has worked long and hard, and I will not shit all over his stunning creation. I force a smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s perfect,” I say, my heart clenching as I miss Da more than ever.
He scrutinizes me, shaking his head—a gesture I’ve come to both dread and expect. It usually leads to more fussing. And hair shears are never off the table. “It’s missing something,” he mutters, lost in his creative thought.
Gee, could it be a bride who actually wants to get married?
“Ah, I’ve got it!” He claps his hands with dramatic flair.
And . . . nothing.
I’m pretty sure if he were summoning his band of seamstresses, they’d be too busy drooling over my husband-to-be and his insanely hot brothers. Someone’s definitely getting a bachelor party, and yes, it bugs the crap out of me.
Then Ricardo does it again. Flamboyant clap, words repeated. “Ah, I know!” he hollers louder.
The doors burst open, and in fly Sofie and Lili, a rush of pillowy soft skirts and cascading curls. My smile widens as they dart toward me, my two lively pixies.
They swarm me with giggles and exuberant hugs, and I fight back the surge of tears.
“Are you really marrying the prince?” Little Lili asks, her smile so radiant it threatens to split her cheeks.
Their words hit me like a lead weight. Am I really marrying Enzo?
“Yes,” I say, my voice betraying a sliver of hope. I don’t correct her, though I should. I’m pretty sure fairy tales don’t involve the sweet prince proposing with the ever romantic, “Marry me, or else.”
“Here,” Sofie says, her grin stretching wider than I’ve ever seen. She hands me a little gold box, and I open it carefully, puzzled when I see what’s inside.
I recognize this tartan instantly. It’s Da ’s. The Mullvain one, rich red with its green and gold stripes. The very one I thought I’d never see again after Jimmy tossed out all of Da ’s precious Scottish heirlooms.
Tears blur my vision, streaming down as I pull it out. “A tie?” I blubber, a little confused.
“Something new,” Lili cheers, her voice bright and innocent.
“They wanted you to do the honors,” Ricardo says with a grin. Then he lets out the loudest whistle, and on cue, Truffles bursts into the room.
My little dog, Truffles, is decked out in the most adorable black vest, standing perfectly still as I clip the bow tie on him. But the second it’s secured, he’s off, dashing around in wild circles, barking like a maniac. The girls erupt into squeals of delight, their laughter filling the room.
It’s mayhem. And I love it.
Dory enters with another woman, a blonde, stunning in a deep midnight-blue dress that makes her crystal blue eyes shine. She looks familiar, a memory tugging at the edges of my mind. Her hug is so tight, it drags me out of my wallow and slams me straight into the present.
“So, you’re the woman who tamed my beast of a brother?” she says, her voice warm and kind.
Her brother?
This must be Trinity. I’ve only glimpsed her briefly on a video call, and Enzo rarely speaks of her. But the few times he does, there’s a shadow in his eyes, a sorrow so profound it seems to consume him. It makes me wonder if his drive to rescue women somehow ties back to her.
“This is for you,” she says, a wide smile lighting up her face as she hands me a small, neatly wrapped gift.
I tug at the bow and unravel the tissue paper. What the— “Is this... um , Superman?”
It’s a small scrap of cloth, frayed at the edges, as if it’s been cut from an old bed sheet. In the middle, Superman stands poised, larger than life. I’m at a loss for words, so I manage a simple, “Thank you.”
“This was a piece of Enzo’s childhood blanket,” Trinity explains, brimming with nostalgia. “I kept it because no matter how big and blustery my brother gets, I know that deep down, he’s still that little boy, prancing around in his underwear, dreaming of saving the day.”
Her eyes glisten, and for a moment, the depth of their connection is apparent, a memory that binds them tightly. One she’s now sharing with me.
My heart clenches, a tender ache spreading through my chest because she’s right. Beneath Enzo’s gruff exterior and his relentless control freak ways, he’s always trying to save the day, isn’t he?
“Something blue,” she says softly. Then, she lifts my hand between us, her fingers tracing the delicate lines of the ring. “Something old,” she continues, sentimental as she admires the way it shines. “Enzo poured his heart into reimagining this ring. It looks perfect on you.”
I lean in, my voice barely a whisper. “Shouldn’t it be yours?”
She shakes her head with a gentle certainty. “No,” she murmurs sweetly. “It was always meant for you.”
By the time Dory steps over, Trinity and I are both teary-eyed, enough for her to pause. I hug her heartily. “Thank you for taking care of the girls.”
“Oh, they’re so easy. Angels, really.” Her eyes sweep the room as she nods. “So that takes care of it. Something old, something new, something blue. And Enzo said he’s taking care of something borrowed.”
Is he? What’s he up to?
I guess I’ll know soon enough as little hands drag me out of the room and into a waiting limo. Laughter bubbles up as the girls press every button in the car and belt out Taylor Swift songs at full blast.
Even the driver, the biggest, burliest one yet, with piercings through his neck and knuckles, bops his head to the tune, grinning from ear to ear.
With the sunroof open, my eyes fly up as the car rolls to a stop before the church. The sky is clear, not a single cloud, just a blanket of stars. “I wish you were here, Da ,” I whisper, blinking through the tears .
Suddenly, Sofia cries out, “A shooting star! Make a wish! Make a wish!”
Absolutely everyone shuts their eyes, even Spike, our driver. I squeeze my eyes shut, my heart full of longing, and make my wish.
And when I get out, it comes true.
Riley is here. How? I have no idea, and I don’t care. The thought of getting married without her was suffocating me, but now that she’s here, I can finally breathe again.
Her emerald gown is stunning, her hair elegantly swept up, and she’s holding a big bouquet of cream peonies. “Seriously?” she asks, one hand on her hip, blocking the door like a linebacker. “Getting hitched without me?”
I grab her so hard and tight she gasps. “You’re smashing your bouquet,” she laughs, but she hugs me back just as fiercely.
“I don’t care,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m so glad you’re here. How did you even get here?”
“I have no idea. All I know is a guy said you needed me.”
“What guy?”
Totally ignoring me, she continues. “They took my phone, blindfolded me, handed me a dress, and now I’m here. Are you marrying royalty or something?” she rattles off, as if being abducted and dressed by strangers is totally okay. Which, for the record, it’s not.
I’ll be giving Enzo hell for it. And definitely chastising her later, but for now, I’m too elated to say anything other than, “Or something.”
Arm in arm, we enter the church, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The moment I step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the glow of candlelight. St. Michael’s is transformed, overflowing with white roses and peonies.
It’s decked out like Jesus Christ himself is visiting, and suddenly, I’m nervous.
A flurry of butterflies kicks up in my chest as Father Marc and all the men take their places at the front—like a wall of Calvin Klein models...in kilts.
“Which brother is mine?” Riley whispers, her eyes scanning the guys.
“Absolutely none of them,” I reply firmly. No player is getting his hooks, or anything else, into my sister. Not now, not ever.
“What’s good fer the goose, darlin’ ... ” My father’s words haunt me from beyond, and I roll my eyes.
Sin steps beside me, addressing everyone else with a calm authority. “Like we rehearsed.”
They rehearsed? When did they do that?
He extends his arm with a suave flourish. “Ready, my dear?”
Ha! Not even close. I’m still waiting for someone to wake me the hell up.
I take his arm, feeling the steady warmth of his support, as Riley shoves the bouquet into my hands. “You’re going to go ape when you see what’s in the church. They told me it was ‘something borrowed,” she whispers.
She pecks my cheek, and then she’s gone, rushing off to join the others. They’re all lined up ahead of me, ready to go, when I see him.
Enzo moves into position like a wolf through the pack, his gaze locked onto mine .
He’s tall, dark, and sinfully built, with more raw magnetism than all the men in Chicago combined. And seeing him decked out in Scottish regalia makes my heart somersault like a Chinese gymnast.
I’m not exactly sure how the kilt manages to make him look a million times hotter, but damn, it definitely does.
Like a blowtorch firing off between my legs, the man is a danger to my sanity, my composure, and my panties. All at once.
Between that and my heart’s amped-up jackhammering, it takes me a minute to register that the music I’m hearing is coming from bagpipes.
Is that the something borrowed? I mean, who actually owns bagpipes?
God, Riley was right. Little girl Kennedy is going ape, freaking out like it’s a Fourth of July parade, ecstatic and beaming and I hate to admit it, touched.
Enzo is plucking every last one of my heartstrings, one after the other, until all I can feel is him. So why is that nagging little doubt still clawing at my gut?
By the time I meet him face to face, every last one of the peonies’ stems has been properly strangled. Sin hands me off to my soon-to-be husband, and Father Marc carries out the ceremony devotional just as Da would’ve wanted.
When he gets to the, “Do you, Kennedy, take Enzo Ares D’Angelo, to be your lawfully wedded husband?” you can hear a pin drop.
But as much as this runaway train is all full steam ahead, I can’t say it .
I try. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a small, pathetic squeak.
Everything is perfect, and I still can’t marry him.
But then, I don’t have to.
The doors burst open, and Andre D’Angelo storms in, bringing everything to a complete cluster of a halt.