Chapter 3

The rehearsal finally wrapped up at 2:40 pm.

The actual ceremony was scheduled for 4:00 pm, so we still had enough time.

Suddenly, Lucia stood up, clutching the edges of her dress. She kept her head lowered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Dante, I want to go visit Davide."

Dante froze for a second.

"I'm wearing my wedding dress. I just want him to see me in it. Just for a second."

I looked at Dante.

"Our wedding starts at 4:00 pm."

He glanced at his watch. "We'll make it in time."

"And if you don't?"

"I'll make it work."

He was the Don of the Corleone Famiglia. No one was better at managing time than him. Every shootout, every shipment exchange, every negotiation with the other Famiglias—he always nailed the timing with pinpoint accuracy.

But today, he miscalculated.

Clad in her wedding dress, Lucia collapsed in front of Davide's grave, sobbing so hard she could barely catch her breath.

Dante crouched beside her, comforting her over and over. They stayed like that until the sun began to set. The two of them seemed to have completely lost track of time.

I stood inside the chapel, watching the clock on my phone tick from 3:50 pm to 3:55 pm, and finally, to 4:00 pm.

The bells of the Corleone Famiglia chapel rang four times.

Everyone was waiting for him, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

I waited another 40 minutes before he finally called. "Let's reschedule the wedding."

His tone was perfectly calm, as if he were talking about something completely insignificant.

"To when?" I asked.

He fell silent for a moment.

"Until Lucia feels a bit better."

In that moment, I had no interest in saying anything else.

…

The next day, I had barely opened the door to my office when my right-hand woman, Olivia Vellari, rushed toward me with a stack of congratulatory cards.

"Congratulations, Camilla!"

The others immediately started chiming in.

"You didn't invite us to the wedding, so you have to buy us whiskey!"

"How come Mr. Corleone didn't drop you off today?"

Because Dante was afraid inviting too many people would upset Lucia, our wedding had been kept small. Only a few close relatives from both families had been invited.

I smiled as I accepted the cards.

"Let's get those weapon orders from last month taken care of first. Then we'll talk about whiskey."

A collective groan went up around the office, Olivia's among them.

"Well, if there's no whiskey, you can at least show us some photos from the ceremony, right?"

Before I could answer, one of the new assistants suddenly let out a quiet gasp. Holding up her phone, she looked at me hesitantly.

On her screen was a photo Lucia had posted on social media. In it, Dante and Lucia were standing at the altar, with the chapel's stained-glass windows spread out behind them like a set of dazzling wings.

The caption read, "I finally got to hear those vows."

Below it was a string of comments.

"After all these years, you can finally let go of your regrets."

"Davide would be happy for you up in heaven."

The new assistant asked quietly, "Ms. Colombo, is this… Mr. Corleone's sister?"

Another person yanked her sleeve. "Stop asking."

"It was just the rehearsal yesterday," I explained. "The wedding was postponed."

Seeing the relief on everyone's faces, I gave a helpless little smile and slid the cards into my desk drawer.

…

My afternoon meeting had just finished when Dante called.

"I'm at the rear entrance."

He had brought my favorite white roses as well as a thermal flask containing homemade soup.

His car was parked at the entrance of the alley, with him leaning against the door and massaging his temples. He looked utterly exhausted. Clearly, he hadn't slept well again.

When he saw me come out, his eyes lit up for a moment.

He handed me the flowers. "Mi Dispiace. I didn't arrange things properly yesterday."

I didn't reach for the flowers.

He then held out the thermal flask to me and gave me a pitiful look.

"You didn't eat breakfast again, did you? Your stomach's sensitive. I made you some Zuppa."

Looking at the thermal flask, my heart softened just a bit. I had a sensitive stomach, and I was a picky eater too.

Especially around the end of each quarter, when the Famiglia's accounts had to be settled, the stress always triggered agonizing stomach pain.

When Dante found out about this, he—someone who had never set foot in the kitchen before—started hiring all kinds of chefs and learning from them. Those hands that were used to holding guns ended up covered in blisters from burns.

Over time, his cooking became better and better. And with each meal he cooked with his own two hands, my stomach slowly improved.

Honestly, as long as Lucia wasn't involved, he really was very good to me. That was the only reason I kept giving in, over and over again.

I had just reached for the thermal flask when Dante's phone rang. He glanced at the screen. When he saw that it was Lucia, he hung up.

The phone rang again. He declined it again.

But when it rang the third time, he still answered it.

Lucia's tearful voice came through the speaker.

"Dante, Mi Dispiace. I shouldn't be bothering you, but… my stomach suddenly hurts so much. If Davide were here, he'd definitely cook my favorite food for me…"

Dante's eyes flicked toward the thermal flask in my hands.

I lowered my eyes and held it back out to him. "Take it."

His hand instinctively reached for it, then froze awkwardly in midair.

"Camilla, I—"

"Lucia needs it more right now, right?" I interjected.

He let out a sigh of relief and finally took it with a clear conscience.

"I'll make you more tomorrow."

"Va Bene."

I watched him walk away. My lips parted, but in the end, I said nothing.

Tomorrow.

I scoffed inwardly. Dante had probably forgotten how many "tomorrows" he'd promised me already. And every single tomorrow was pushed off to the next because Lucia always had something new to be sad about.

Whether it was the soup or the wedding, as long as Lucia was involved, Dante would always put her first.

As for me? All I ever got was a promise that he'd make it up to me next time.

…

That evening, when I returned to my bedroom, I took out the stack of congratulatory cards I had received during the day. The one on top read, "Wishing Ms. Colombo a lifetime of happiness!"

I went through them one by one, put them into a folder, then locked it away in a safe.

I didn't throw them away. They had only wanted me to be happy.

The old me had mistakenly believed that I already had it. Now, it was time for me to go find the real thing.