Oh, she looked at Kael like he'd walked out of her favorite forbidden daydream. Like she was seeing the man she'd asked God for last night. Her eyes widened, lips parted slightly, and I swear if she blinked any slower, we were going to enter a new timeline.
They introduced themselves one by one—first the bride, all poise and sweetness, her soft "thank you for coming" directed at Kael with a respectful nod. Her husband followed, a man who looked like he probably owned several nightclubs and a body count, offering Kael a firm handshake without so much as glancing my way. The eldest sister went next, refined and polite, then shook Kael's hand too. Not mine. Not even a look.
And for a moment—I felt invisible. Like I'd stepped out of frame in a painting everyone else was still admiring. But I brushed it off. Mafia people had their own rules, and none of them had to do with manners. Still, it was the youngest sister—the one with big eyes and bigger ambition—who really made her point.
