Each glimpse of the manor through the trees makes it look more and more like something out of a fairy tale: a long, two-story building with a turret in the middle.

The ball has started, the elegant building calls to tell me. Hurry, hurry, come on in! It will be so much fun!

"Nina!" I cry out after I park, get out of my car and lean against its side for long enough to take in the whole thing. "This is fabulous!"

And it is!

A bronze wherewithal tops the turret's roof, squeaking every time it turns with the wind. It's simply adorable! Large square windows, at least five to each side of the oak doors, glow yellow, reminding me of that champagne dress. Wherever the light spreads over the façade, it picks out the sandstone's own soft honey-gold color. The dress I've almost picked on the way here would match this place so well! Is it a sign? It got to be a sign. I can see myself here, in this dress, next to Matteo.

Nina grins from ear to ear. "Told ya it's perfect. Let's go, okay?" She leads the way.

"You know what would have been nice?" I muse, "a grand staircase... pictures and all that."

"There is one inside the house, you gonna love it, if you hurry," Nina tempts me. "Totally glam. Plus, there's this front garden and a back garden too, you know? Both would work for the outdoor pictures better than any stupid staircase."

Yes, but... the front garden we're crossing needs some TLC. It's hard to say how much exactly in the twilight, but the flowerbeds gape emptily, and the overgrown branches reach out to grab on my clothes as if they're trying to stop me. I untangle one from the oversized knit I wear over a body-tight top. "Stop it... Play nice!"

Nina giggles ahead and the crunch of gravel on the path resumes as she walks the last few yards to the front door.

She's right not to worry about the outstanding pruning job. They could do lots and lots of landscaping between June and September. So long as the house isn't trashed inside, the garden could be spruced up and filled with flowers. But if the house is trashed...

"It's not trashed on the inside or something? Have you seen it?" Dumb question—of course she did, because she told me about the staircase. I chuckle apologetically. "I'm sorry... I don't mean to act like a typical bridezilla. I just... I used to dabble in urban exploring, so I've seen places ruined so badly, it would make your hair stand on ends."

"Sounds so cool," Nina says with the fake enthusiasm of a gen-Z person talking to a millennial. "But no worries, Bryn. I think you're going to be smitten once you see what's inside."

She pushes the red tresses out of her eyes. They sparkle at me, promising either delight or mischief or both. Something else flickers through them, something that I can't identify, but it gives me the willies. A shiver passes through me. It could be the night's chill, it could be a premonition, but I have no time to dwell. My guide swings one side of the huge front door inward with a grand gesture.

Also, she doesn't come inside all the way, but stops and holds the door with her back while imitating fancy flourishes with her hands. It's like she's stepped out of an anime about the court of Versailles.

Her giggles must be infections, because I giggle too. "Oh, gosh, all this pomp and circumstance! All for me?"

"Yup!" Nina replies.

My vision is still re-adjusting from the semi-darkness outside, and Nina partially blocks the view, but I could make out an edge of a burgundy carpet over tiles and a glimmer of light reflecting off crystal—a chandelier, perhaps?

That enchanted feeling returns with a vengeance, swelling my heart. I have the urge to pick up the non-existing skirts of my future gown and saunter inside. I'm a bride. Matteo Scali's bride... wow.

Wow! It's happening for us. We're actually getting married. Really getting married after all the delays.

With heart fluttering inside my chest, I step over the threshold, calling out a greeting for Steff.

Then someone—Nina?—shoves me forward. So rudely awoken from a romantic daydream, I skip forward, trying to keep my balance and twisting back to ask what the fuck?

The lights go off, disorienting me even further.

"Nina! Steff! What the fuck!"

"Hello, Bryn, dear. How wonderful of you to join us." This... this isn't Steff's throaty bantering.

This woman's voice is raspy in its own, special way. I know it fairly well, though I've never sought conversations with its owner. My knees give out. I don't slump all the way to the floor, because a pair of rough hands grab me from behind, start twisting my arms back.

The lights go back on, but not the full-on show-house mode. Just a lamp above the staircase. Nina wasn't lying about that, at least. It is winding all the way to the second floor and has a railing fit for Downton Abbey.

Leaning on that railing, on the middle landing, stands a statuesque figure in black-and-scarlet robes with gold decorations. Her face is covered by a Venetian carnival mask. The real thing, not the cheap knock-offs for the tourists.

Black almonds of eye holes peer from a perfect golden face. An elaborate head-dress is also black-and-red, with a plume of scarlet feathers streaming down to her back from its top. A cloth-of-gold veil drapes the woman's chin and neck.

As if all this splendor doesn't provide enough disguise, in her red-gloved hand, the woman holds another golden mask. This one has a long handle and is set in a frame of black velvet, also fringed by scarlet fluff. With so much gold, red and scarlet, I understand why she ordered dim lights. She'd have blinded me otherwise.

In the world of the Venetian carnival this character is called the Dama, a noblewoman of high station. The bosswoman, in modern speak.

Her name isn't Stefanie or Sue or Sarah. She has nothing to do with the wedding business.

"Irene," I whisper. "Irene, what are you doing here?"

"Good of you to remember me," Irene Tangorello says from behind one mask, as she plays with the second one in her hand. "Do you, perchance, also recall my husband? My husband, Rosario Tangorello?"

Rosario Tangorello, the man I shot dead.

I have a strange feeling like the scene between us is being filmed. We are not that far from Hollywood, and this is too surreal to be happening. The costumes, the dialogue, the emotions... How can any of it be true?

But the two men who hold me are dead-serious, despite their masks and black costumes. Their masks are also carnival-themed, but they are a simpler design, black-on-white papier-mâché, perfectly affordable for the simple tourists. Irene's henchmen grip me fast. They have my hands tied behind my back already.

My head spins: if this is all for show, if Irene just wants to scare me!

"Irene, please... You must know better than anyone what kind of man Sal was. He pointed a gun at me." And that's not even the worst thing Sal did to Matteo and me. "He was a monster, not I. He was a monster!"

Behind me Nina giggles, but Irene shushes her devious little helper. Her daughter. Sal's daughter. She tilts her masked face to one shoulder, as if she's considering my argument.

I swallow... swallow again, real hard, as the bit of hope springs in my heart.

"Come on, Irene, be reasonable," I plead. "We, the mobsters' women, we should band together. Nobody else understands us. Let's just sit down with a therapist or something. Talk our issues over and, yeah, Sal was a monster, and..."

"What kind of a man do you think Matteo is? Hmm?" Irene asks.

The mask's expression is serene, but I hear a cruel smile in her voice. Oh, snap.

"What? No reply? Hmm?"

My neck, bent backward to the straining point to look up at Irene, slackens. I hung my head. Tangorello men are irresistible. Being unsavory, dangerous, beyond the law, is a part of their charm.

When I met Sal, he was around fifty and I was twenty-four. But back in his day, Sal could have been as magnetic to Irene as Matteo is to me today. How could I've missed it? Oh God, oh God, oh my God!

Two men holding me push me toward the staircase, leading down, to a basement or a cellar.

"Where are you taking me?" I wail as horrid memories of being trapped underground flush in my mind's eye. Not again, please, not again!

Irene's voice is as calm as tea in a teacup. "Why, to see the owners of this charming place, of course. Since you seem unsatisfied with your wedding venue."

I struggle, despite it clearly being hopeless. My mind refuses to accept this. Worst of all, I know it's all my fault. Tears stream down my cheek, a lopsided expression of my horror. I wail, and I wail, and I wail. "Let me go, let me gooo!"

As I'm half-carried down the stairs, as I'm still squirming, trying something insane, I glimpse Irene. She follows right after us—and I know her mask is solid, that the golden lips on it can't move—but I see her smile. Or I imagine she does. It's the cruelest, most evil smile I've seen in my life.

The Dama means to inflict a world of pain on Matteo and me.