Three months before the wedding, I repeat to myself.

The house is too warm. I hate the way the chandelier hums over the dinner table like it’s breathing down our necks, the way my mother’s perfume poisons the roast chicken and the way her words are sharp enough to slice through the meat before I can.

My father’s telling some old story about Naples, something from the early days. You laugh when he jokes and he lights up. He likes you, always has, says you remind him of someone.

My mother? Not so much.

She stabs her fork into her salad like it owes her money. She hasn’t looked at you once all evening—not really—she doesn’t need to, her words always do the dirty work. She looks across the table at you, her smile is polite and empty.

“Strange,” she says, “how some girls change so quickly once they get the ring.” She stirs her wine. “A little too comfortable before the vows, no?”

You freeze and I grip my fork tighter. You look to me but I look at my plate. I feel sick.

Because this is the thing: if I defend you now, I betray her—my mother, the woman who taught me loyalty before I knew what the word meant—and in this world, blood speaks louder than anything, even love.

But I love you, more than anything, more than blood, maybe.

You smile back at her—that soft, practiced smile you’ve worn since you were a little girl in a dress too stiff for your skin. But I see it, the flicker of hurt, the doubt and I fucking hate that I put it there by staying silent.

Because I know what you’re hiding. I know what we’re hiding.

My sister, Giulia, shifts beside you and gently touches your wrist—a small, invisible gesture of solidarity.

Your hands rest on your belly sometimes like you're already trying to protect it—three months, not enough to show unless you’re looking for it. But my mother is always looking. She doesn't know, not yet, she just thinks you're softening, like she did to every woman in this family who dared feel safe.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this way, I was raised to own, not to love, to protect territory, not people, but you changed everything. You laugh when I growl at the guys for looking at you too long, you whisper prayers at night even though we both know God forgot this world long ago, you smile when I come home covered in other men’s blood, you cry into my shoulder and never ask questions.

And I’m still learning what it means to be gentle with you, to be yours without swallowing you whole.

I look across the table at my mother, then at you—your hand twitching away from your belly, your eyes brimming, but holding strong. I want to speak, to scream, but all I do is reach under the table and rest my hand on your thigh, trying to say: I’m here.

But I know it’s not enough.

You don’t know the truth: that my mother never wanted me to choose you—you weren’t rich enough, weren’t pliable—you were too soft-hearted, too clever. A mafia wife, she said, has to be cold and calculating—not warm and loyal.

But that’s exactly why I chose you.