Lucia called me herself, three days after the reconciliation. Not through Adriano. Her own number, which I didn't even know I had until it lit up my phone.
"You're coming to the event," she said. Not a question.
"I am."
"Good. Then you need a dress that isn't whatever you were already planning to wear, because I already know what you were planning to wear, and it's wrong for this specific room." A pause. "I'm sending a car Saturday. Don't argue with me about it. I don't have the patience today."
I didn't argue with her about it.
The dress shop wasn't a shop, exactly. More like an apartment with racks in it, a woman named Teresa who'd apparently been dressing Marchetti women for three decades and treated the job like a surgical procedure.
Lucia sat in a chair by the mirror, drink in h
