“All right, we’ll just hop off here and take a walk,” Domenico suggested, and opened the door.
Two security guards got out of the car following us. They stayed at a distance, but didn’t stop trailing us.
“Will they always have to follow me, Domenico?” I asked, grimacing.
“Unfortunately, yes. You’ll get used to it. Where do we start? The maid of honor or the bride?”
I knew it wouldn’t be easy to find me a dress, so we started with me. I didn’t really care, as nobody was going to see me anyway, but at the same time I wanted to look beautiful for Massimo. We hopped from designer store to designer store but didn’t find even one thing that I could use. If not for the fact that Olga was lugging close to a dozen bags like some kind of fashion-frenzied vagabond, I would have been fuming by this time, but her joy made up for everything.
“All right, we’re not going to find anything here,” said Domenico. “I’ll take you to my friend’s atelier. She’s a great designer. We’ll have lunch there first, and then find you something. I’m sure she’ll have what you want.”
We walked down a narrow street, passing niches with stairs leading up and down and little cul-de-sacs, finally stopping in front of a small, dark purple door. Domenico punched in the code and we entered, taking the stairs up.
He must know the owner well, if she lets him pop by her workshop like that, I thought.
It turned out to be one of the most magical places I’d ever been to. The house was a large open space supported only on several pillars decorated with cotton ball lights in white and gray. All around the space, there were dozens of hangers exhibiting a wide array of evening, wedding, and cocktail dresses. A tall mirror hanging on the wall, flanked by windows overlooking the bay, reached the ceiling, at least thirteen feet high. The floor in front of it was covered with red carpet, which led to a huge white padded leather sofa. A door opened, and a woman appeared—tall, slim, and incredibly beautiful. Her long, straight, black hair fringed her thin face. She had unnaturally large lips and enormous eyes, like a Japanese manga doll. She was simply perfect. Dressed in a short skirt that brought out her impossibly long legs and very small breasts, she resembled me a bit. It was apparent that she worked out a lot, but her figure was very feminine and sexy.
Domenico walked over to the woman, allowing her to embrace him. For a few seconds, they stood in each other’s arms, as if neither of them wanted to let go first.
Slowly, I approached them, reaching out with a hand. “Hi, I’m Laura.”
The beautiful woman released Domenico and kissed me on both cheeks, her lips spreading in a wide smile.
“I know who you are. You look even better with blond hair,” she said. “I’m Emi. I saw your face on dozens of paintings in Massimo’s house.”
Her words wiped the smile from my face: “Massimo’s house.” Why had she been there? Are they close? I recalled Anna, Massimo’s gorgeous ex. Was Emi part of his collection, too? Domenico wouldn’t have exposed me to something so stressful, would he? My head was aching with all these questions.
“Domenico.” She turned her attention to the young Italian. “How is your brother? I haven’t seen him in a while, and I’m sure he could use some new suits.”
“Brother?” I repeated, frowning, sending Domenico a quick look.
He turned, his face impassive, and said, “Massimo and I had the same father. We’re half brothers. I can tell you all about it if you’d like. Back home. For now, let’s take care of your wedding dress.”
I stared at the two of them dumbly while Olga ogled the clothes hanging all around us. Meanwhile, I was wondering what was more interesting: Emi’s relation with Massimo or the fact that Domenico was my fiancé’s brother.
“Laura.” Emi turned to me. “Have you thought of anything specific? A shape? Material?”
I shrugged, making an uncertain face.
“Surprise us, my love,” Domenico said, slapping Emi on the butt.
My jaw dropped. I had been sure he was gay until now. “Wait a minute,” I said, raising my arms, while all three pairs of eyes turned to me. “Explain something to me. I’m lost. Who are you all to each other?”
Emi and Domenico burst out laughing, and the woman wrapped an arm around my young assistant.
“We’re friends,” she said, smiling. “Our families have known each other for years. Massimo and Domenico’s father was best friends with my dad since primary school. I even had a crush on Massimo back in the day, but he wasn’t interested. So I allowed the younger brother to take his place.” She planted a kiss on Domenico’s cheek. “If you need specifics: yes, we sleep together. A bit less often since you’ve arrived, but we manage,” she said, winking at me. “Want to know anything more, or shall we pick you a dress? I don’t fuck Massimo, if that was your next question. I prefer my men younger.”
I was embarrassed, but at the same time a wave of relief washed over me. Emi’s terse depiction of their relations brought back my good humor.
“I’d like it in lace. The more, the better. I want it Italian. Classic. Light and sensual.”
“Very specific indeed. But as it happens, I’ve made one dress lately that might just be your style. Come.” She took me by the hand and led me behind a heavy drape. “Domenico, order us some lunch and get some wine from the fridge, please. I always find it easier to think after a glass of white.”
Ten minutes of struggling with the dress and having it pinned with what felt like a million sewing pins, I left the changing room and stepped on the dais between the white sofa and the mirror.
“Fuck me sideways,” Olga grunted. “You look…” She trailed off, and tears streaked down her cheeks. “You’re so beautiful, honey,” she whispered, stopping behind me.
I raised my eyes and looked at my reflection. I was speechless. For the first time in my life, I had a wedding dress on. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen.
It wasn’t pure white, but slightly, delicately peach colored. The dress featured a bare back and was covered with thin lace. It was tight fitting from the waist up, while the lower part was flowy and loose, with a very long train—at least six feet long. The perfect V-shaped neckline went perfectly with my small breasts, allowing me to wear no bra. There was delicate crystal embroidery beneath the breasts, perfectly complementing the gown with its gentle glimmer. It was perfect. Ideal. I knew Massimo would love it.
“You need a veil,” Emi said. “One that will cover your back. We’re in Sicily, you know, and priests around these parts are crazy about those things.” She drew a circle on her temple with her index finger. “But I have something that will work.” The designer disappeared in the forest of hangers, only to return a moment later and cover me with thin, nearly translucent lace that shrouded me entirely like a cocoon. I was still visible beneath it, but at the same time it obscured my bare back enough for the priest to be happy.
“Now he won’t bother you,” Emi said, nodding with satisfaction.
Olga was sitting on the couch, drinking her third glass of wine. “I didn’t think it’d work. That was too easy, but you look amazing.”