Chapter Nineteen

Bianca

This was going to sound crazy, but with every wedding dress I sketched, I started thinking more and more about my brand. What would the name be? What would the logo look like? Would it be one of those logos that when people saw it, they thought of my designs? Would I have a tagline? Would I have a hashtag on social for wearers?

Told you, crazy, right? I was so far off from any of that happening. I mean, let’s be real, no one even knew I wanted to design.

And I didn’t plan on telling anyone any time soon, especially because it felt like a betrayal on my part. I worked for my family’s magazine. I should’ve been happy and content knowing I even had a job that allowed me to work alongside my sisters and best friends.

It was selfish, really, to want more.

That was why I sketched for myself. I shouldn’t want for more, it wasn’t fair.

Drawing inspiration from the bold looks I’d been seeing lately and my own style, I was currently working on a tasteful but sexy gown. It was a fit-and-flare with a plunging neckline because I’d always appreciated the way it elongated the form. To keep with trends and up the elegance, I decided on hand-beaded pearls scattered to the bottom.

Now, what I’d noticed was if a design had a plunging V-neckline, the designer usually avoided a high slit like the plague. Probably to keep it from competing with the neckline or generally from being too slutty, but not for this design. No, for what I was doing, I felt like the dress called for a leg-bearing slit even with the neckline.

You see, I had the time to do this because I was sitting at a café, cappuccino and an empty plate from my croissant in front of me, waiting for my dad. He had arrived last night and called, wanting to meet.

Go ahead, let the sounds of doom commence. I’d be right there with you, but you should know, Milan Fashion Week was unlike the others. So it was kind of a necessary evil, I supposed you could say, if you saw my dad as evil.

For years, Bellissima had been hosting a big party to close out the week. We chose this particular week because my mom’s family originated from Milan; plus, it’d been her favorite city for its fashion. Everyone from influencers to celebrities, designers to buyers, competitor publications, blogs, and other press and media were invited.

This year, it was more than a mix and mingle, too, because world-renowned international designer Paolo Gicchio was introducing his new collection with a runway show at our party. It was a collaborative effort Maria had been working on for quite a while.

Paolo Gicchio x Bellissima would be known everywhere for its bold and innovative designs. It was a big moment for the magazine and part of the reason Allie had secured a partnership deal with a platform to broadcast the show live online.

Finishing the final touches on my own design, I decided to complete the look with a statement-making train. I always loved trains, ever since my mom showed me her own wedding dress. She’d had it flown in from Italy and it was stunning. She’d worn an all-lace monarch train, which was about twelve inches long. In fact, her whole dress was all-lace with long sleeves and a high neckline.

She looked beautiful in the photographs when she walked down the aisle, regal even, like the queen she‘d been.

It was a very classic and elegant look. Not exactly my style, of course, but I did wish we still had it. Who knew, maybe my sisters or I would’ve decided to wear it. Crazier things had happened. Unfortunately, though, my grandmother had gotten rid of it in one of her moves, never thinking to ask my mom if she’d want to keep it.

Anyway, where was my dad coming from? He should’ve been here by now. I looked up and noticed him walking toward me, wearing navy blue slacks and a crisp white shirt.

I quickly shut my sketchbook and slipped everything in my bag before he got to me.

“Daddy,” I greeted, getting up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Back stiff, he sat down on the other side of the small table.

So things are going to be awkward.

“What took you so long?” I wondered, trying to get things on track.

“The venue was giving me a last-minute tour. They’ve made quite the transformation, building the stage into the place, but it went longer than I expected. Sorry I’m late.” He folded his hands on the table, looking stoic.

I could tell he didn’t want to be mad, but obviously still was. Ugh, this wasn’t going to be easy.

I waved a hand in the air and shook my head, smiling. “Don’t worry about it, I’m glad you got to see it.”

Nodding, he smiled and the lines around his eyes softened. “I don’t know how your mother managed all of this. I tried to help her over the years, but she insisted this was her baby. Dare I say this is just as much work as raising a child.”

I swayed my head back and forth and gave him a lopsided smile. “You know Mom, she’d always downplayed everything. A job that took ten, she did by herself and kicked butt doing it.”

He cocked a brow and cleared his throat. “That’s true. It was one of the things that drew me to her. She was incredibly confident and could do anything she put her mind to.” Then he grinned, as though going down memory lane in his head. “That and the way she drew people in. Everyone loved her, it was hard not to. And the way she dressed,” he went on and I could tell he was getting lost in his memories, “always to the nines. The embodiment of poise and sophistication.”

I sighed, looking away for a moment and taking in the scene around me before replying, “She was one-of-a-kind.” It was easy to get swept up in the past, but it wouldn’t do me any good, that much I knew, so I tried to stay in the present.

“Yeah, and gabadost ,” he added and laughed.

“Daddy,” I playfully admonished, finally relaxing a bit myself and leaning back in my chair.

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s true. She knew it, too. She was stubborn and wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was her way or the highway.” He pointed a finger at me. “You’re a lot like her, baby girl.”

Yes, maybe he’d just called me stubborn, but being like my mom? Now that was a compliment I’d take any day of the week. Frankly, I wished I was more like her.

“I don’t like the way things have been between us,” I started, knowing it had to be addressed. The Italian way, especially in this family, was to brush things under the rug and avoid talking about things that made us uncomfortable. The cycle: it happened, you let it go, you forgot about it. Because at the end of the day you were family and that was all that mattered. Blood quite literally bound us for life, and we took that seriously. Even knowing that, though, I still needed to get this out, so I continued before he could stop me, saying, “I’ve missed talking to you and I don’t want to fight.”

His hand found his chin and he looked like he was deep in thought. “Are you still seeing that boy?”

“His name is Knox.”

“Are you still seeing him?” he asked again, just as seriously.

“Yes, but no. I mean, yes, because we’re friends, but we’re nothing more than that right now.” Notice those two little words I tacked on to the end? Even though I wanted us to be more than friends, that was the truth. I didn’t want to lie to him, even if he did forbid it. If there was something more to tell, then I would, but for now it was what it was.

“Not ever,” he deadpanned, obviously catching on to my words.

I shook my head. “Daddy,” I pleaded, not sure what else to say.

“I’m not debating this with you, Bianca. My decision is final.” He narrowed his eyes and began playing with his Italian gold and diamond-encrusted horseshoe ring. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Bianca.”

My heart practically broke that he wouldn’t hear me out on this one and he didn’t trust my judgment.

What I wanted to say: I’m a grown woman, so if I want to be more than friends with Knox, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

I didn’t want to get into it with him, though. Frankly, I found it pointless. I was never one for avoiding things, preferring to deal with them head-on (most times). But this time was an exception, because we could’ve gone ten rounds with each other and still never seen eye to eye. Unfortunately, it seemed we were going to have to agree to disagree that Knox was no good for me.

So instead, I said this: “Why don’t we change the subject, okay?” It was just easier this way.

The waitress finally came over and he ordered himself a cappuccino, not getting a chance to answer me. So as she left, I decided to change the topic anyway. “I can’t believe there’s going to be a Morelli reunion here soon.”

“Yes, your sisters are excited,” he said, each word sounding strained.

“Perla told me Frankie wasn’t sure if he could get an associate to work an event he had booked.”

Frankie was a photographer, and he was quite talented, so he was always booked, even on the weekends for weddings. Sometimes it upset Perla that he was gone so much, but honestly, she was a workaholic, too, so she didn’t mind it as much as someone else may have.

Dad sat back as the waitress brought his cappuccino over and offered her a smile. To me, he said, “Frankie is coming, he was able to make it work. He wants to be here with Perla. It’s a big night for the whole family.”

He was referring to the new collaboration, I knew, but also the fact that every year the party seemed to grow in size. It was a testament to all the hard work we put into the magazine.

I leaned forward and grabbed my cappuccino, taking a sip before putting the cup back down. “You should order something to eat. The food here is delicious.”

“I know,” he agreed. “And I will. I just want you to know that’s what I want for you, baby girl. That’s what you deserve.”

He lost me. I arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Frankie is a good man. He’s a husband Perla can depend on. He comes from a good Italian family and was brought up well.” It seemed changing the subject hadn’t made a difference, because we’d ended right back where I didn’t want to be. I opened my mouth to speak, but he put a hand up. “I’ve said my piece, and I will move on now. What I do, though, is for your own good. I know what’s best, I’ve lived a lot longer than you and I know the cruel realities of this world, the people in it.”

Maybe he didn’t know what was best, I mused, but kept that thought to myself. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Is Dom staying in New York with Isabella?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I’d said anything but them. Why would I bring up Dom? If I could have slapped myself upside my head, I would have. What was wrong with me? Bringing up Dom was the equivalent to bringing up Frankie, if not worse. Dad held Dom on such a high pedestal, no one would ever measure up.

And they were both great guys, but Dad didn’t know Knox. He was a good man, too. If only he would give him a chance, then he’d see that.

“Angelina offered to watch Isabella so Dom could be here with Maria, but Dom insisted, said he’d been to these parties before and wanted to spend time with our peanut.”

Thankfully, he bypassed the whole Dom was a godsend thing, the type of man I should be with , blah, blah, blah. So I, in exchange, focused on how sweet Frankie’s mother, Angelina, was. “That was nice of Angelina.”

He nodded. “She’s very considerate like that.”

She had become part of the family in a short period of time. She kept my dad company, too, cooking for him and sharing meals with him. They even went to church together on Sundays. I was glad that he had someone to spend time with when my sisters and I weren’t around.

Clapping his hands together, he changed the subject himself, announcing, “Well, I think I’ll order sausage and eggs.”

“Daddy!” I admonished. “Sausage is no good for your heart.”

“ Merda ,” he mumbled in return, clearly not interested in my talk (or shit, as he put it) on heart health. Furrowing his brows, he added, “I have four girls, my heart has been through a lot more than a little fat. Plus, if the sausage doesn’t kill me, then something else will.”