My feet ache after days of being dragged across every corner of Sicily by Fiamma while she organizes the perfect wedding. Unfortunately, I missed the wine tasting, even though in the middle of all this I desperately needed dangerous quantities of fermented alcohol. But Lorenzo did me the unsolicited favor of choosing the Brunello di Montalcino himself.
I take another bite of the delicious fish while ignoring the dreadful conversation between the De Luca men during dinner. I definitely prefer Fiamma’s overwhelming chaos.
Bruno interrupts us, adjusting his suit formally while whispering something into the Consigliere’s ear, his eyes constantly drifting toward me. My expression remains neutral, but my mind always lets itself be haunted by his cynical face. I lower my gaze to my plate, allow
