Giordano’s POV
“Move the damn veil to the left—do I look like I want my mother thinking I’m marrying a damn scarecrow?”
The villa smelled like sweat, roses, and too much f*****g money.
Dressmakers swarmed the east wing like bees. Steam hissed from irons, scissors clicked, lace floated through the air like spider silk. White everywhere—veils, candles, petals on the goddamn marble. Even the fountain had been drained and filled with lilies.
“Watch the hem!” I barked at the tailor, nearly spilling my espresso. “I said floor-length, not funeral.”
Servants jumped. One dropped a tray.
“Pick it up. And if it happens again, I’ll have your fingers sent to the cake designer.”
My voice echoed through the hall like a blade. My wedding was tomorrow. The Virgin Bride. The Holy Union. The Rebirth o
