My eyes shift to Giana, who pats her on the shoulder. “Come on, girl. You are done.” I sit still as they work on me. I go for straight hair and dark makeup. My plan was to offset the sunshine yellow of my gown, but now I’m thinking it probably just looks like I chose the wrong dress. Giana and Ria are quiet as they prep me. They always are. They’ve been doing Mama since she was young, and now me. Other families use them too, but we are always priority.

After they’ve left, I scoop up my Chanel clutch and smile at Poppy. “You look beautiful. You ready?”

She nods, but I can see it in her eyes that she’s figuring out who I am. Or at the very least, guessing. Fortunately for her, she will never know.

We make our way down to the lobby. I’m laughing at Poppy over her bad reinvention of Chibbs from Sons of Anarchy when I notice her face change.

Her eyes widen and she beams a bright smile. I follow her vision to the front door, where Papa and Wicked stand.

Papa smiles up at me so tightly the wrinkles in his cheeks fold in. “Principessa…”

“Papa…” I wince, gazing at Wicked over Papa’s heavy arm that’s around my back.

It’s Wicked, but it’s not…

Aside from the blank expression on his face, it’s noticeable that whoever he was before meeting my father, no longer exists. I made a promise I didn’t have the right to make with Poppy, because it’s obvious now. Papa didn’t take him or Poppy for no reason at all, and if he’s linked to the Family, he’s here for a purpose.

“Where’s your mother?” Papa whispers into my hair, and I quickly divert my eyes away from Wicked.

“She’s getting ready upstairs.”

He squeezes my arm reassuringly, turning to look at Wicked. “You’ll go with Wicked.”

I freeze. No doubt shock spreads over my face because my father adds, “And don’t fight me on this, principessa. There’s been some changes. You will go with Wicked.”

My mouth slams closed and I slowly bring my eyes back to Wicked, who is glaring at me now. His eyes darken when I don’t pull them off him and goose bumps prickle the back of my neck. Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell did I do to him, and why do I feel the first signs of indentations of his wrath cut beneath my flesh? And again, what the hell did I do? I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt a little, but I should have known better.

I don’t get to tell Papa that I understand before he disappears down the long hallway that leads to his office.