The next afternoon, I had my final fitting for my wedding dress.It was my grandmother's. Ivory French lace, every flower stitched by hand. Seventy years ago, she wore it to marry my grandfather. Forty years ago, my mother wore it when she walked into our family home in Sicily.Now it was my turn."Miss Rossi, you look breathtaking," the tailor said, carefully adjusting the train. "This dress was made for you."I looked at myself in the mirror. She was right. It was beautiful.This dress held the love of three generations of Rossi women. And I was about to betray everything it stood for."The veil is the perfect length," the tailor said, picking up the matching heirloom. My mother had embroidered roses on it herself. Every stitch a prayer for her daughter's happiness.Just then, the door opened.Massimo walked in. Cara was right behind him. They were back from the cake tasting. Massimo was holding a box of samples."Wow," Cara said, stopping short when she saw me. Her eyes went from
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