“The wedding is happening,” she said gently. “I know you hate hearing that, but it’s true. So tell me what would help.”
I opened my mouth automatically to argue again. Then stopped. Because there actually was something I wanted. Something stupid. Something selfish. Something normal girls probably got without needing permission from mafia kings.
“I want a bachelorette party,” I muttered.
Chiara blinked once. “That’s it?”
“Yes.” I glared at her.
“You hate parties,” she reminded me cautiously.
“I hate mafia parties,” I corrected. “I want loud music. Alcohol. Dancing. Bad decisions. One night where nobody talks about bloodshed over handmade pasta.”
Sienna appeared beside us like an overdressed demon summoned from hell. “Can there be strippers?”
“No,” Chiara and I snapped together.
Sienna rolled her eyes dramatically. “This family hates joy.”
Acoupledayslater,Ilearned something important. Spoiled mafia princesses were exhausting. Not because they were mean. Because they were delusional.
“Do you realize how lucky you are?” Bianca Rossi demanded for what had to be the sixth time in twenty minutes, pressing one manicured hand dramatically to her chest like she was personally grieving my lack of gratitude.
I stared at her from the backseat of the SUV and seriously considered opening the door and throwing myself onto the highway. Lucky. Right. Because apparently being eighteen and a half years old and getting married off to a heavily tattooed professional killer with the emotional range of a kitchen appliance qualified as a modern fairy tale.
“I’m serious,” Bianca continued, sounding personally offended on Sergio’s behalf. “Aurora, do you know what my father wants for me?”
I looked at her blankly. “No.”
“Fifty-two.”
I blinked. “What?”
“My future husband.” She looked horrified. “Fifty-two years old.”
Silence. Then Sofia sighed sympathetically. “That’s tragic.”
“Tragic?” I repeated. “You’re acting like they diagnosed him with a terminal illness.”
“He wears loafers,” Bianca whispered, letting out a sob. “With tall socks.”
Alessia gasped. “No.”
“Yes,” Bianca nodded dramatically. “It’s all true. I’ve seen press photos.”
I stared at all three of them. Three beautiful girls in designer dresses and enough diamonds to fund small countries. Three girls raised exactly like I had been. Three girls who had grown up with bodyguards following them, rules hanging over their heads, and fathers deciding everything that mattered.
And somehow… They had become excited about marriage. Actually excited.
“I hate all of you,” I informed them.
Sofia laughed from beside me. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” I corrected calmly. “I’m being kidnapped with paperwork.”
“Marriage,” Bianca said.
“Same concept. Different decorations,” I muttered.