She Took My Wedding, So I Married the Don Chapter 07

My mother showed up at the Moretti gates on Wednesday.

Rocco radioed it in, sounding amused. “Says she won’t leave until she sees you. Also called me a ‘thug in a cheap suit.’ My suit cost two grand.”

I went down alone. Luca watched from the window. I could feel him there.

Mom stood by her Lexus in her pearls-the fake ones. She looked smaller than I remembered.

“The venue called,” she said stiffly. “The contract is in your name. They won’t let Bianca’s wedding proceed unless you sign a transfer.”

I blinked.

I’d forgotten. Of course the contract was in my name. I’d signed it. I’d paid for it.

For the first time in my life, I held the keys, and my mother was standing outside the locked door.

“So sign it,” she said.

“Ask nicely.”

Her lips went thin. “Sloane.”

“You heard me.”

A long, ugly silence. Then: “Please.”

It should’ve felt good. It didn’t, quite. It felt like finally lifting something heavy and realizing how long you’d been

carrying it.

“I’ll sign,” I said. “If you answer one question. Honestly.”

She waited.

“Why her?” My voice cracked, and I hated it. “Every single time. Every recital you missed for her. Every birthday. Every boyfriend she stole while you told me to be the bigger person. Why was it always her?”

Mom looked at the oak trees. Then at me.

“Because Bianca needed me,” she said. “You never needed anybody. You had your grandfather and your engines/and your grades. You were fine. She wasn’t.”

“I was twelve,” I whispered. “I wasn’t fine. I was just quiet.”

Something moved across her face. Guilt, maybe. It vanished fast.

I took the pen and signed.

“I’m coming Saturday,” I said. “Not to smile. Not to hug anyone. I’m coming because I paid for every single chair in that

room, and I’m going to sit in one.”

She snatched the papers and got in the car.

The back window rolled down.

Bianca was in the back seat.

No makeup. Hair in a messy bun. Her eyes were red and swollen-real tears this time, not her Oscar ones. She looked

terrified.

“Sloane,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t come Saturday.”

“Afraid I’ll embarrass you?”

“No.” She glanced toward the front seat, where Mom was furiously texting. Then back at me, and her voice dropped so

low I barely heard it. “This isn’t about Ethan. It was never about Ethan.”

A cold finger slid down my spine.

“What does that mean?”

The engine started.

“If you come,” Bianca breathed, “somebody’s going to get hurt. And it won’t be me.”

The window rolled up. The Lexus pulled away.

I stood at the gate until Luca’s hand closed warm around mine.