NICO DI FIORE MARRIED Chloe Russo in a simple, elegant ceremony at the majestic, storied St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Christmas Eve in Manhattan. Dubbed one of the must-attend society events of the season, the nuptials drew guests from around the globe, including many of the famous personalities who represented the face of the Evolution brand.
Chloe, who had chosen the date because Christmas Eve had been her father’s favorite night of the year, walked down the aisle in a showstopping, tulip-shaped, ivory Amsale gown which left an inspired Chiara dying for a sketchpad and pencil, dress designs dancing in her head.
The five hundred guests in attendance remarked on Chloe’s serene, Grace Kelly–like beauty and timeless elegance. A dark-haired version, they qualified. Mireille, who preceded Chloe down the aisle in a bronze gown that matched the glittering metallic theme of the wedding, was her blonde equivalent.
Nico looked devastating in black Armani, as did his two groomsmen, Lazzero and Santo, whom Samara Jones cheekily underscored from her position in the gallery, had been on her summer must-have list. Humor, however, gave way to high emotion when Chloe began to cry the moment she reached Nico’s side, overcome by the significance of the evening. Nico held her until she stopped, which hadn’t left a dry eye in the house.
Then it was off to the magnificent Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Central Park for the lavish dinner reception and dance. With its immense domes, dramatic arches and marbled mosaic floor, it was suitably glamorous for the sophisticated crowd in attendance.
Chloe had wanted it to be a party, for the guests to dance the night away and celebrate. Which it surely was. As soon as dinner was over, the lights were dimmed to a sparkling gold, and the festivities began with the bride and groom’s first dance to Etta James’s “At Last,” sung by LaShaunta, the famous pop star who fronted Chloe’s wildly popular perfume Be.
Chiara found herself caught up in the romantic perfection of it all. With Lazzero consumed by his best man duties, she danced with partner after partner as the live band played. But all night long, she felt his gaze on her in the shimmering, sequined, off-the-shoulder dress she’d chosen especially for him, its glittering latte color somehow apropos.
Mireille, Chloe’s sophisticated, irreverent sister she was growing to love, gave Chiara an amused glance after one such scorching look as they stood on the side of the dance floor, recovering with a glass of vintage champagne. “He’s so crazy about you, he doesn’t know which way is north and which way is south.”
Chiara’s heartbeat accelerated under the heat of that look. She knew the feeling. And it wasn’t getting any more manageable, it was only getting worse, because Lazzero had been there for her every step of the way as she’d taken on the coveted incubator position with Bianca and worked to prove herself amidst so much amazing talent. Through her decision to go back to school. He’d come to mean so much to her, she couldn’t actually articulate it in words.
“I never thought I’d see it,” Mireille mused. “The Di Fiore brothers fall. Nico, I get. He was always the nurturer and he was always in love with Chloe. But Lazzero? I thought he was untakeable. Until I saw him with you.”
So had she. Her gaze drifted to Santo, entertaining a bevvy of beauties on the far side of the dance floor. “What about Santo? Do you think he’ll ever commit?”
A funny look crossed Mireille’s face. “I don’t know. There was a girl...a long time ago. Santo was madly in love with her. I think she broke his heart.”
Chiara rested her champagne glass against her chin, intrigued. “Is there any chance they’ll get back together?”
“I would say that’s highly unlikely.”
She was about to ask why when Mireille, clearly deciding she’d revealed too much, changed the subject. “Your dress is amazing. Is it one of yours?”
Chiara nodded.
“I need one for Evolution’s Valentine’s event.” Mireille tipped her glass at her. “Would you make me something similar?”
“Of course.” Chiara was beyond flattered. Mireille was a PR maven, one of the highest-profile socialite personalities in New York. Everyone noticed what she was wearing.
She was still bubbling over at the idea when Lazzero came to claim his dance, his official duties over for the evening. The champagne popped and sparkled in her veins as she tipped her head back to look up at him. “Mireille loves my dress. She asked me to make her one for Evolution’s Valentine’s event. Can you believe it?”
“Yes.” He brushed his lips against her temple in a fleeting caress. “The dress is amazing, as are you. Speaking of which,” he prompted, “when are you finishing up work at the bakery?”
“Next week. My aunt Gloria called me today to tell me she’s retiring. She’s going to take on my shifts at the bakery to give herself something to do, which is so perfect,” she bubbled, “because my father adores her. It’ll be so good for him. Oh,” she added, “and the jaw-dropping news? My father is playing briscola at Frankie DeLucca’s house on Friday nights. Can you believe it?”
Lazzero smiled. “Maybe you going to Italy was exactly what he needed.”
“Yes,” she agreed contemplatively, “I think it was.”
She chattered on until it became clear Lazzero wasn’t really listening to her, that absentminded look he’d been wearing all night painted across his face.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” she chastised.
“Yes.” He shook his head at her reproving look. “No,” he admitted. “I need some air,” he said abruptly. “Do you need some air?”
She looked at him as if he was mad. It was December and her flimsy dress was not made for this weather. But she knew Lazzero well enough now to know that when he needed to talk, she needed to listen.
They collected their coats and walked hand in hand out into a winter wonderland, Central Park covered in a dusting of snow that made it look as if it had been dipped in icing sugar. It was magical, as if they had the park all to themselves. She was thinking it had been the perfect idea, when Lazzero tugged her to a halt in a pretty clearing flanked by snow-covered trees.
She tilted her head back to look up at him. But now he was holding both her hands in his, and she thought she could detect a slight tremor in them, and her heart started to hammer in her chest. “Lazzero,” she breathed, closing her fingers tight around his. “What are you doing?”
He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, took a deep breath, then sank down to one knee. Her legs went so weak at the sight of him there, she thought she might join him.
He delved into the inside pocket of his dark suit. Pulled out his fist. Uncurled his fingers. Her breath caught in her chest as the moonlight revealed the magnificent asscher-cut diamond in his palm.
Her ring. The ring she’d dreamed about. The ring she wanted back. Desperately.
Her eyes brimmed with tears that spilled over and ran down her cheeks. A frown of uncertainty crossed Lazzero’s face. “You like the ring, don’t you? I’ve been going back and forth all week on it. I thought maybe I should buy you another, but I bought this one for you. Because it reminded me of you. Full of life, vibrant, impossibly strong.”
She stifled a sob. He made her feel strong. Impenetrable. Bulletproof. As if she could take on the world.
“I love the ring,” she managed to choke as she shoved her hand at him. He slid the ring on, the heavy weight of it sliding a piece of her heart back into place.
His face smoothed out. “I’m no Alfredo,” he said huskily. “But I want to have that once-in-a-lifetime love with you, Chiara. I want to be the guy who’s always there for you. The one who never lets you down. If you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Her fingers tugged at the lapels of his coat. Rising to his feet, he collected her against him and kissed her until she was breathless. And then buttons on coats were a problem in their haste to get closer to each other. When that proved too frustrating an exercise, Lazzero swung her up into his arms and carried her out of the park.
“You’re giving up your job at the café tomorrow,” he commanded, lifting his hand to flag a taxi on Fifth Avenue.
“You just want me to make you coffee every morning,” she accused, a massive smile on her face.
“Yes,” he agreed, his face an arrogant canvas of satisfaction, “I do. But only if it comes with you.”
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