No Roses for the Mafia Wife
My hands were steady as I unzipped the bag.
The dress inside was a mockery. Yellowed satin, cheap lace, with a long tear across the bodice. It smelled of mothballs and spite.
Isabella’s dress, however, was a masterpiece of ivory lace, beaded with pearls—more bridal than anything I’d ever owned.
"It’s beautiful," she sighed, spinning. "If only I had a tiara."
Alexander turned to me. "You have your mother’s heirloom tiara, don’t you? The one with the sapphires. You wouldn’t mind if Bella borrowed it?"