Chapter 180 Fiorella
The boutique smelled of clean linen and expensive promise.
The silk dresses stood in neat rows, their soft fabrics whispering against one another whenever the air-conditioning breathed. Chandeliers cast warm light across crystal mirrors; everything looked so dreamy, a scene lifted from a film. For a brief moment before fully stepping inside, I stood at the entrance, my hand lightly resting on the glass door as I let this image settle in.
This is real.
I really am here.
I'm really about to get married.
I could already hear Rosalia’s voice inside , excited, musical, maybe just a little too loud.
“No, no, no, that one isn't Fiorella; it looks like something my grandmother would wear to church.”
“If your grandmother wore Valentino,” Aria laughed.
My mother's voice followed. Softer. Warm. "Don't exaggerate, Rosalia. It is very elegant."
I let myself smile and finally stepped in.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me at once.
Rosalia clapped her hands. “There she is! The future Mrs. De Luca!”
“Easy,” Aria said, laughing. “You’ll scare her right back out the door.”
My mother just looked at me. In that silent, achingly familiar way she had. Her eyes softened, her lips trembling into a smile that seemed to come from memory. Then she crossed the room and cupped my cheek.
“Look at you,” she murmured. “All grown up and about to be a bride.”
Emotion climbed fast up my throat. "Look at you," I whispered in return. "You should have been here all along."
But we both knew that ache of lost years lived between the words.
She came over, beaming, self-assured: "We are so proud to be dressing you on your big day, Miss Fiorella. We have a few items ready for you, guided by your preferences."
Rosalia bounced on her toes. "She said lace. Elegant. Dangerous-beautiful."
"That's not an option," the stylist said with a wink, "but I believe we can get close."
Soft ivory, crisp white, champagne tints that gleamed beneath the lights, dresses were brought out. The kind of gowns which hitherto had filled my imagination. Gowns I never thought I'd get to wear. The idea of a wedding had for so long seemed like something meant for other people. For safer lives. For softer stories.
And yet here I was.
Alive. Loved. About to walk down an aisle toward the man who had seen all of me-the light and the darkness-and chosen me anyway.
The first dress I tried on was gorgeous. Too perfect. Too structured. It was like armor, not a celebration.
The second was too light, too fragile. It felt like a lie , like I would shatter in it.
By the third, Rosalia had fallen silent. Aria cocked her head to one side, considering. My mother leaned forward, eyes riveted, hands clasped before her heart as if praying.
Then, the last gown emerged.
All three of them stopped talking.
“No…” Rosalia whispered. “Fi… this one. This is it.”
The material was silk and lace, perfectly balanced. The neckline was soft, the back open with delicate buttons trailing down like stars. The train flowed not like a queen's, but like a woman walking toward love instead of mortality.
When the stylist tucked me in, zipping me closed, my reflection took all the air out of my lungs.
I didn't see a mafia heiress.
I didn't see a daughter shaped by blood and loss.
I saw a woman in love.
“You…” Aria’s voice broke. “You look unreal.
My mother stepped closer, her trembling hands smoothing the fabric over my arms. Her eyes shone now, unshed tears clinging to her lashes.
“Your father…” she started, before stopping.
The mirror blurred.
I swallowed hard. Somewhere deep in my chest a familiar ache twisted, the kind I'd learned to live with.
“He should have been here,” I breathed.
“He would have been,” she hastened to say. “If fate had been kinder, he wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
My throat constricted even further. I envisioned him standing tall at the end of an aisle, extending his arm, his eyes bright with a pride he'd tucked away in service all those years. I imagined walking toward Rocco, my father's hand in mine for the final time that way.
But that route had closed.
This path was different.
“He would have not been shocked I chose Rocco,” I said quietly. “Would he?”
A soft chuckle left her. "Oh, he might have hated him at first."I don’t think he expected you to fall in love with an ordinary guy.”
I laughed despite the ache.
“But,” she went on, stroking my cheek, “he would have respected him. For the way he protects you. For the way he looks at you like you are his world.”
My eyes flickered down. I remembered the countless ways Rocco had looked at me, furious, broken, desperate, in love. The way his hand always found mine even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“He makes me feel like I can finally breathe,” I whispered.
"That is how you know he is your home."
Rosalia sniffed loudly beside us. “I’m not crying. I’m just… reacting.”
Aria handed her a tissue. “You are absolutely crying.”
The afternoon blended into evening in a blur of fabric and laughter. We sat sipping champagne while the stylist took measurements and notes. Plans for alterations were made. Accessories discussed. Shoes selected.
“What about the honeymoon?” Rosalia suddenly exclaimed, leaning across the table. “Have you two even decided?”
I slipped the dress back onto its hanger and laid it gently against the mirror.
“Rocco is arguing for Italy,” I said, smiling a little. “Some countryside villa where nobody can touch us.”
“And what do you want?” Aria asked.
"A beach," I admitted. "Water so clear it feels unreal. Somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet."
“Then you'll go to both,” my mother said simply.
I looked at her. “Both?”
“Yes. Because you deserve both.”
That sat deep in my chest.
When we finally left the boutique, the sun was low in the sky, casting a golden hue in the streets. My hand was laced with my mother's, Rosalia and Aria well ahead, already involved in a heated discussion about flowers.
“You’re really getting married,” my mother muttered, as though the reality continued to surprise her.
"Yes," I said.
“Are you scared?”
I thought of everything we'd survived: betrayal, war, fear, death; then I thought of the way Rocco's forehead rested against mine when he was tired. The way he treated me like his queen.
“No,” I said softly, “for the first time in my life, I’m not scared at all.”
She squeezed my hand. Proud. Relieved.
And somewhere far away, it seemed almost carried by the wind, my phone buzzed inside my purse.
A message. From him.
Rocco:
Thinking about you. Already wondering how I got this lucky.
My heart lifted, warm and full and almost fragile with happiness. I typed back as the city moved around us. Me: You're one lucky guy. De Luca. I chose you.
And as I slipped the phone away, I knew one thing for sure: Whatever else the world might have still had in store for us… I would be walking down that aisle.