ONE

JORDYN

A quiet knock on the door stirs me from my peaceful slumber. “Jordyn, it’s time to wake up, sweetheart.”

With an audible groan, I hug the pillow and nestle my face into plushness with a quiet and content moan. “Five more minutes.”

The bedroom door creaks as it slowly opens, and I hear the lithe footsteps of my mother, Anna, as she walks into the guest bedroom and over to my bed.

“That’s what you said five minutes ago. Your sister is already up and getting ready and as her maid of honour, you should be by her side, not in bed, lazy bum. Come on, it’s her big day and she’s already full of nerves.”

With a grunt of reluctance, I roll over onto my back and peel open one eye to see my mother standing over me with a loving smile. My dad always insists that I'm a spitting image of her, but I can't see it.

Sure, we both have dark blue eyes and long sandy blonde hair, but aside from that, I don't think we share many similarities. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face as she leans down to ruffle my hair affectionately, the scent of her favourite perfume wafting towards me.

Despite how similar others may claim we look, I've never felt quite as graceful next to my mother's elegant presence. My older sister Bianca has inherited more of my father’s dark features, with her shoulder-length chestnut-coloured hair and chocolate brown eyes. When we’re standing side by side, you wouldn’t even associate us as sisters; that’s how different we look.

My parents, Anna and James, are still completely smitten with each other, even in their fifties. They met in high school, fell in love, and had Bianca at seventeen. They managed to raise her while still finding their footing in the world. Fourteen years later, I arrived. A carefully planned addition. Bianca was a surprise. I was expected. I remind her of that fact often, just to annoy her.

Their love is something rare. They laugh together, flirt like teenagers, and make everyone in the room roll their eyes. Sometimes it’s endearing, sometimes it’s nauseating, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find someone who looks at me the way Dad still looks at Mum.

I sit up and stretch, arms raised until my spine cracks. This bed is dangerously comfortable. For once, I’ve woken up without any aches. It feels like I’ve spent the night wrapped in a warm cloud.

“You missed breakfast, but I can ask the kitchen to prepare something while you shower,” Mum says, now standing by the window. She pulls back the curtains, letting sunlight flood the room and stab at my eyes.

“No, I’m still stuffed full of the food I consumed at the rehearsal dinner last night.” I groan, rubbing a hand over the flat panes of my stomach. “I fell into a carb coma consuming two generous servings of that chicken pasta.” I hum and my mother smiles as she walks over and presses an affectionate kiss to my temple.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be with your sister in her room with hair and make-up, please take your shower and join us. We have less than three hours before the ceremony.” She instructs in a tranquil manner as she turns and walks out of the bedroom.

I yawn once more and force myself to nod. “Yes, mother.”

With great reluctance, I drag my tired body out of the plush guest bedroom and begin to trudge towards one of the seven lavishly decorated bathrooms in this extravagant manor. The cool marble floors feel like ice against my bare feet as I make my way through the spacious halls. The opulence is overwhelming.

Eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms, two dining rooms, a home theatre, and a sprawling back yard that seems to go on forever.

How do they even find each other in this maze of a house? In the four days I've been here, I've managed to get lost five times trying to navigate my way around. They really should have maps posted throughout the manor to aid guests in finding their way.

As I wander down yet another corridor, marvelling at the elaborate artwork and intricate details adorning every inch of the walls, I can't help but feel like an insignificant speck in this vast, luxurious estate.

Bianca and Enzo crossed paths a year ago during her girl’s trip to Rome while he was there on business. According to Biana, they hit it off immediately. She calls it fate. I call it convenient timing.

According to her, she made a wish and tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain the night before they met, hoping to find true love. And then, like something out of a romantic novel while she was sat in a quaint café in Vatican City the next morning, in walked Enzo Russo, dressed impeccably in an expensive Italian suit, of course, the epitome of every woman’s desire.

She’s not a gold-digger, but the man’s wealth certainly didn’t hurt her feelings.

At forty years old, Enzo’s appeal is undeniable. His olive skin radiates a warm tan glow, complementing his dark brown hair and piercing hazel eyes that shimmer in the sunlight like two pots of golden honey.

Despite his rugged good looks, what stands out most is the way he dotes on my sister, showing genuine love and affection towards her. However, there is something about him that gives off a strong ‘Italian mafia’ vibe, making me slightly wary of his intentions.

Surely, he couldn’t have found his level of success solely through designing women's shoes, but perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye.

My sister mentioned that his mother passed away over ten years ago, but he does have a younger brother, Ares, who is in his early thirties and lives in the mansion next door, which is built on the same plot of land as Enzo’s mansion.

Two wealthy Italian men in Taormina, Sicily—they certainly fit right in with the stereotype. Or perhaps I've simply indulged in one too many dark romance novels, allowing my imagination to run wild with speculation.

Enzo was previously married for eighteen years to his first wife Elena, but they separated for a while and divorced some years ago. They have a son together, Matteo, who, if I recall correctly, is twenty. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, but from what I have heard from my sister, he’s a broody, conceited asshole who isn’t entirely pleased about his father marrying my sister.

Truthfully, though, which kid would want to see their dad remarrying someone else?

I know I wouldn’t.

However, my sister and her lovable perseverance will win him over in no time, I’m sure.

By the time the ceremony creeps close, everything has blurred into anticipation and chaos. My sister and Enzo opted to have the ceremony and wedding in the backyard of the mansion. After all, there is no shortage of space for the two hundred odd guests attending.

The mansion, an elegant blend of baroque and neoclassical architecture, stands tall with its weathered stone facade, ivy-covered walls, and arched windows overlooking the serene Mediterranean landscape. The backdrop includes rolling hills dotted with olive groves, and the distant glimmer of the sea under the warm, golden Sicilian sun.

The ceremony is due to take place under a rustic pergola draped with cascading bougainvillea and fragrant jasmine, with the scent of lemon blossoms wafting through the air. Beneath the pergola, a long, antique wooden table serves as the altar, adorned with an array of white and blush roses, eucalyptus, and olive branches, creating a dreamy and timeless setting.

Wrought-iron lanterns and candles in glass holders are scattered around, casting a soft glow as the sun begins to set.

Ugh, it’s just so romantic.

Guests are seated and waiting for the ceremony to begin on white Chiavari chairs arranged in neat rows on the manicured lawn, each chair tied with ribbons in soft shades of cream and blush pink. A string quartet plays classical Sicilian melodies, adding to the romantic atmosphere.

With precision and care, I glide the shimmery lip gloss across my lips, admiring the way it catches the light and enhances their natural fullness. My sister’s voice cuts through my concentration, causing me to turn and take in her appearance.

The hair artist works diligently, weaving each strand of her hair into loose, cascading beach waves that frame her face perfectly.

A glimmering diamante floral hairpiece adorns the left side of her head, adding a touch of glamour to her already ethereal look. My heart swells with emotion as I pause to fully appreciate her beauty and poise. She stands before me like a vision, exuding radiance and grace.

Standing there, watching her, something tugs at me. I’ve always known I was the less striking one in the family. Not unattractive, not invisible, but different. Where Bianca wears fitted dresses and glides through rooms, I prefer jeans and T-shirts and staying just far enough out of the spotlight. But today the bridesmaid dress clings to me like an overly affectionate stranger, and the heels, designed by Enzo himself, feel like miniature torture devices.

How she manages to make even the most uncomfortable clothes look like they were made for her is beyond me.

“How do I look?” Bianca questions, looking down at herself and smoothing down the skirt of her gown with her hands. “Do you think Enzo will like the dress?”

Walking over to her, I reach out and take her hands into mine and smile. “B, he will love it. You look so beautiful. I promise you, the moment he sets his eyes on you, you will steal the air right out of his lungs.”

My sister smiles, satisfied by my response, and gives my hands a squeeze. “I can’t believe I’m getting married, and to Enzo Russo. It still feels so surreal.” I can hear the nerves in her voice when she speaks.

“Well, you’d better believe it, because in...” I pause to glance at my watch, squinting at the numbers in the fading light. “...less than ten minutes, your feet will carry you gracefully down that aisle and you'll pledge your love and devotion to the man of your dreams.” My words drift off into the air as we both take a deep breath, savouring the significance of this moment.

The sun dips lower on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over everything around us, as if nature itself is celebrating this special occasion. The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze adds to the otherworldly atmosphere, making it feel like time has slowed down just for us. Despite any nerves or worries, there is an undeniable sense of joy and excitement in the air.

“Are you ready to become Mrs Bianca Russo?” Bianca smiles and inhales a deep breath.

“More than ready.”

“Well, let’s get you married then.”

As we gather to walk down the aisle, I take my place behind two of Enzo’s cousins.

Bianca stands behind me, her arm linked with our Dad’s as we await the arrival of the flower girl and page boy. As I slowly inch forward, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes catch sight of Enzo at the altar in his impeccable black tuxedo.

His hands clench and unclench nervously by his sides, his anticipation palpable. But it is not until I see the figure standing beside him, also resplendent in a tuxedo, that my feet feel rooted to the ground.

The string quartet starts to play a beautiful cover of ‘At Last’ by Etta James as we wait to make our way down the aisle.

Holy smokes.

The air around me seems to crackle with electricity his eyes catch mine and hold them, unflinching. My stomach churns with nerves as I take in his chiselled features and towering height.

Who on earth is that? My mind races with questions as I try to focus on taking each step down the aisle towards the altar, but my eyes keep wandering back to his dark gaze. He’s tall, impossibly tall.

Dressed entirely in black, with broad shoulders and a strong build that makes the expensive suit mould to him like every threat was made specifically for him.

Thick jet-black hair is swept back from a face that is all hard angles and sharp edges, from the sharp cut of his jaw to the straight line of his nose. Dark stubble shadows his jaw, only adding to the daring edge that seems to cling to him.

That’s not what keeps mulling me back though, it’s his eyes.

They’re almost black from here. Cold and unreadable. The kind of eyes that don’t simply look at you, they assess you. There’s something unnervingly controlled about him, something dark simmering beneath the surface that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

He doesn’t look friendly.

He doesn’t even look approachable. He looks like the kind of man mothers warn their daughters about.

And God help me, I can’t stop staring.

He’s like a tall, dangerous glass of sin. The kind you know will burn on the way down and ruin you afterwards, but you’re tempted to take a sip anyway.

The man standing in the position of best man is undoubtedly Enzo’s son, Matteo. It is clear that they share a striking resemblance, from their tall stature to their golden-coloured eyes and sharp features.

Matteo appears to be a younger image of his father, though his hair is a shade lighter with glimmers of copper in the sunlight.

As I take my place at the altar, my nerves causing my knees to tremble, I can’t help but steal glances at the brooding figure opposite me. There is a sense of reluctance in his stance, as if he would much rather be anywhere else but here.

Despite my nerves threatening to trip me up, I make it down the aisle without any mishaps.

Though the thin sheen of sweat on the back of my neck betrays just how anxious I am. And as I stand at the altar, trying not to fidget under his intense gaze, I can feel a drop of sweat trickling down my spine, a physical manifestation of his piercing stare.

Alright Jordyn, it’s your sister’s wedding. Try and focus on the ceremony instead of the gorgeous hunk of man meat standing opposite you.

I’m not used to being stared down like that by a guy that gorgeous. Like seriously, what is it about Italian men? Do they drink from a special fountain of beauty and sex appeal or something? Because fuck, he’s the kind of beautiful that feels intentional. Like every feature was chosen and exaggerated for maximum effect. It’s truly unjust. It should be criminal to look like that.

Drawing in a breath, I try to focus on the ceremony, on my sister’s steady breathing in front of me, but my attention frays. When the minister speaks, I hear only pieces. Devotion. Forever. Love. Every word goes in one ear and falls out of the other.

In the effort it takes to avoid the groomsman’s gaze, my concentration is shot to hell.

It’s not until the minister pronounces them man and wife that I finally cave and allow my eyes to drift in his direction. I take advantage of the fleeting moment his eyes are cast down to fully take in his handsome features. Those long dark lashes that frame his brown eyes have a curl to them that would send any woman...including myself into a fit of envy.

My gaze lowers to his lips. Slightly full, with a defined cupid’s bow on the upper lip. The lower lip is gently curved and slightly fuller than the upper one, giving it a natural, balanced look. The skin of his lips appears smooth, with a subtle, natural sheen that catches the light from where he licked it a moment ago. The colour is a warm shade of pink that goes perfectly with the olive complexion of his skin.

My stomach tautens when I’m momentarily gripped and wondering if his lips would feel as soft as they look. I should probably mention that I am a nineteen-year-old virgin who has never been kissed.

And no, it’s not a lack of interest, because I have had boys ask me out on dates, I’ve just never been attracted to any of them, certainly not enough to waste my first kiss on anyway.

Yes, I might be an idealist. And a walking cliche, but I do believe in the sanctity of a first kiss. It’s a special moment, one that shouldn’t be given away on a whim.

My mother always says a first kiss is monumental. It should steal your breath away and leave you feeling as if the earth has shifted beneath your feet. Anything less than that would be a missed opportunity, a waste of such a powerful and intimate act.

So yes, call me romantic or naïve, but I will always hold my first kiss and virginity in high regard and choose to give it to someone who will understand the significance and make me feel like I am floating on air.

The loud bang of the confetti bomb going off when Bianca and Enzo share their first kiss as husband and wife snaps me back to reality.

A reality where I find not only the mysterious man but also Enzo’s son Matteo staring back at me with an indecipherable expression on his face.

My eyes flit between the two.

Shit

                                                                                    ***

Under the olive trees strung with fairy lights, everything looks like it’s auditioning for a luxury wedding magazine. Tables glitter with lace and flowers; the Sicilian breeze gives perfect hair tousle, and I’m sweating like a sandwich wrapped in cellophane.

Bianca and Enzo swirl across the dance floor in marital bliss while I contemplate drinking my champagne straight from the bottle. My dress has fused to my body from heat, my shoes are plotting homicide, and there is not enough rosé in the world to make me graceful.

Then the singer makes the announcement that ruins lives.

“Can we please have our lovely maid of honour and best man join the couple for the customary dance?”

Customary, what now? I don’t remember signing up for this. I thought being a bridesmaid meant smiling, wearing pastel, and not falling over in public. Now I’m expected to slow dance with Mr Broody Mafia Spawn like this is Bridgerton?

Matteo stands and tosses back the last of his drink like he’s walking into battle. His tuxedo jacket is gone, his bowtie abandoned. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show off biceps sculpted by what I assume is genetics and sin. There’s a tattoo sleeve winding down his arm that looks suspiciously like it could kill me.

I rise on legs that forgot how knees work. My shoe heel promptly snags on my dress, because of course it does, and I lunge forward with the elegance of a sleep-deprived giraffe.

This is it. Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m going viral.

Except—Matteo steps in. One hand curls around my waist, steadying me against his chest with the type of ease usually reserved for action heroes and men in shampoo commercials.

“Fai attenzione, Fossette,” he says quietly near my ear.

His breath is warm. His scent is woodsy and expensive. My brain? Deleted. I’ve officially turned into melted gelato.

“I—I'm sorry?”

He glances down at my feet, then up at me. “You will be if you ruin my shoes.”

I blink. “What is Fossette? Are you insulting me in Italian? Please tell me it doesn’t mean something rude. I’ll cry.”

He doesn’t reply. He just smirks in a way that makes my uterus tap dance.

The music starts. A slow song. Of course.

Matteo pulls me in, and we begin to sway. I am a trembling pile of nerves and lip gloss. He is terrifyingly calm and devastatingly beautiful, like Michelangelo carved him as a joke to make the rest of us look bad.

His hand rests lightly at my waist. His fingers are warm. I spend the entire first minute repeating, “Don’t step on his feet. Don’t fart. Don’t say something stupid.”

Which is hard when every time he blinks, my internal monologue becomes something out of a cheesy romance novel.

We twirl once. Sort of. I trip over nothing and manage to recover with a weird shoulder shimmy that I swear was meant to be "flirty".

It was not.

He looks at me, amused. “You always dance like this?”

“I usually avoid dancing unless I'm in my bedroom alone pretending I’m Beyoncé.”

He chuckles low, and I internally combust. Damn, even his laugh is attractive.

I glance down at his lips. They’re also full and soft-looking, like they were handcrafted by a team of French pastry chefs. I panic. My stomach tightens. My brain decides now is a great time to deliver a revelation.

I’m a nineteen-year-old virgin who’s never been kissed. And now I’m in a sweaty dress, in front of a hundred wedding guests, slow dancing with a man whose eyelashes deserve their own agent.

I fix my gaze somewhere between his collarbone and left eyebrow and pray I don’t burst into flames.

If this is how heartache starts, I’m doomed.