“Ugh. He’s so obsessed with that.” I bury my face in the pillow. “I shouldn’t have let his cuteness blind me.”

“Cuteness? He looks like he was drawn by my right hand.”

I laugh into the memory foam, the taste of damp linens in my mouth. And just as I’m about to ask Conor whether he’s a lefty, I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

6 days before the wedding

Chapter 12

Present day

Taormina, Italy

Sicily is not quiet. And yet, despite a handful of overactive, raucous gulls right outside my window, the droning buzz of cicadas, and the rhythmic wash of the waves along the shore, I don’t wake until midmorning.

I throw open the heavy silk curtains and tiptoe out on the balcony, not fully convinced of the solidity of nineteenth-century Italian engineering. Watch the sea shimmer, lazy, quiet. Down below, Lucrezia chats with other staff, sweeps the patio, gestures for the furniture to be rearranged; yells at a trio of teenage-looking boys who are taking a cigarette break on the steps of the gazebo.

The sun is already high, bathing the sand, the grass, the cobblestone paths in golden beams that have me itching to go explore. Back home, in Texas, the light is white-hot and relentless, and I do my best to avoid being outside. The heat here, though, feels qualitatively different. Drier, more ancient, punctuated by oleander-scented breeze and blocky stone walls that keep the inside of my room just cool enough, even without AC.

In the garden, no evidence remains of last night’s ravagement. I try to picture Jade’s reaction upon hearing that Mr. Axel McHockeyman, the most famous person we know, poisoned the entire wedding party, and chuckle to myself. I hope someone took pictures. Her birthday’s coming up, and a scrapbook of what happened would make for an excellent gift.

I get dressed quickly, cutoffs and a tank top, and go look for coffee, making a few stops on the way.

“I think I can sue him,” is the first thing Nyota tells me after opening her door. Even in a mysteriously stained Hot Girls Litigate T-shirt, she looks like a million bucks. “At the very least, I can murder him without doing any jail time. No one would convict. Jury nullification. It’s on Wikipedia, look it up.”

I bite back a smile. “Do you need anything?”

“Like what? His severed balls stuffed in the mouth hole of his severed head? On a platinum platter?” She sounds hopeful.

“I was thinking more like a glass of water, but—”

She slams the door in my face.

Rue isn’t doing much better, at least judging by the way her usually straight spine seems to coil around the doorjamb. “I feel stupid, being a food scientist,” she says, low voice raspier than usual. “I assumed that no bacteria would survive such a high-ethanol environment, but the alcohol content of limoncello-type drinks typically ranges from twenty-five to thirty-five percent, and anything less than fifty would leave a sizable margin of error. The main issue is the biofilm that Staph aureus can form. You know which ones, right?”