Tied to My Ex

[Valentina’s POV]

* Five years ago *

The wedding dress is a mistake. I know this the moment I see myself in the mirror—all white lace and naive optimism, like I'm cosplaying as someone who has her life figured out.

The veil sits crooked on my head because neither Mama nor I know what we're doing with it. We're winging it. Story of my life.

"Hold still, tesoro," Mama says, fingers working the fabric. She's been adjusting this thing for ten minutes and it still looks like a decorative lampshade having an identity crisis. "There. Beautiful."

I turn to face her, and the look in her eyes makes my stomach twist.

It's the same look she had when Papa died. Like she's watching something precious slip away in slow motion while the universe refuses to hit pause.

"Mama, don't start."

"I haven't said anything." She smooths nonexistent wrinkles from my dress, which is Italian Mother Code for saying everything without breaking her silence streak.

It's like an emotional Morse code, and I'm fluent.

"You're thinking it so loud I can hear it from here. It's practically echoing." I catch her hands, stilling them. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?" She meets my eyes, and there's steel under the sadness. "Do you truly know who Dante Romano is, Valentina? What the Falcone family does?"

The way she says his name, like it tastes bitter going down, tells me exactly how this conversation is about to go.

"He's not like them," I say, and God, even I can hear how young I sound.

Twenty years old and absolutely certain I've cracked the code on fixing bad boys with my affection.