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All that matters to la famiglia is that I keep my head down and abide by my duties. Help them maintain their power in the most archaic fashion.

Sighing, Mamá places her hands on her hips, scanning me from head to toe with narrowed eyes. Out of the three Ricci daughters, I’m the only one who favors the beautiful, former debutante Carmen—we share the same long, dark hair and golden eyes, while my sisters fair lighter like Papá.

I know the similarities in us affect how she views me. That she finds little, insignificant things to critique because it’s too late to fix them in herself.

I wish that knowledge made it easier to stand up to her perusal, but... it doesn’t.

“All right, ladies. Let’s get a move on. We need to be at the church in half an hour,” Nonna says, moving to the side of the room where the lunch tray sits. She plucks an olive from the silver platter and plops it into her mouth, staining her fingertips with bright pink lipstick.

“Ugh,” a voice moans from the hall. Ariana’s slender form appears in the doorway suddenly, the burnt orange evening gown she has on hugging her ballerina’s body.

Jealousy tears through my chest at the sight of her, long and lithe and beautiful, while I stand here in my wedding dress feeling like an ugly duckling. I swallow it down, trying to dispel my mother’s comments from where they repeat in my brain.

“Not again,” Mamá mutters, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

Nonna rolls her eyes. “Ariana, can you do anything other than complain?”

“No.” My sister blinks, her doe eyes widening as she looks at me. “Jesus, E. You look gorgeous.”

I smile gratefully at her, guilt gnawing at my insides. From what, exactly, I’m not sure. “I feel like a porcelain doll.”

“You’ll get over it,” Mamá says, waving dismissively.

Scoffing, my sister crosses her arms over her chest. “Why do we have to go so early? The guests won’t even arrive for another two hours.”

“Because, nipotina, we’re on setup duty. Like I trust anyone in this town to get my first granddaughter’s wedding just right.” Nonna winks, walking over to my sister and slipping her hand around her waist, tugging her from the room.

“You’re about finished, carina. We have your something borrowed, something blue...” Pursing her lips, my mother looks around the room, eyes landing on the gift box Nonna was carrying earlier.

She walks over, slipping the top off, and pulls out a tiara with a veil attachment. I turn back around as she comes back, watching her steps in the mirror. Her fingers brush my temple as she slides the band into my hair, securing it with pins she pulls from her pocket.

Assembling the veil so it falls over my shoulders, past the length of my hair, she lets out a satisfied squeal and wraps her arms around my shoulders.

“Perfection,” she says, squeezing me. “Mateo isn’t going to know what hit him when he sees you at the altar.”

Apprehension fills my gut like cement, solidifying until I ache from the weight of indecision.

“Was it like this for you?” I ask softly, knowing our looks aren’t where our similarities end.

“What do you mean?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, hesitating. “Did it feel like you were being led to your death?”

Her gaze falls to her fingers splayed across my collarbone, covered in various rings. She tilts her head, deep in thought, eyes unfocused as she seems to check out momentarily.

“You’ll find ways to make peace with it,” she says finally, kissing my forehead. When she releases me, she offers a smile, but it feels forced and wobbly; so fragile, it could break in an instant, its shattered pieces scattering along the floor in ruins.

Clearing her throat, she clasps her hands together and takes a step back. “There you go, figlia mia. You’re ready to be someone’s bride.”

I glance at the reflection, seeing a hostage trapped in an elegant white gown, but nod anyway. “Should we leave now?”

Mamá nods. “I think we—”

“Miss Ricci!”

A member of the wait staff bursts into the bedroom, her cherub cheeks flushed and almost as bright as her hair. She bends, gripping her knees as she tries to catch her breath, holding a hand up to keep us in place.

“Mr. de Luca requests your presence.”

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