"What about Vittoria's dress?" Elisabetta suddenly interjects, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I'm sure she'd look stunning in Mother's gown. Don't you think, Father?"
The table falls silent. The tension is so thick I can barely breathe. I hold my breath, waiting for Cesare's response. His eyes narrow dangerously, and for a moment I think he might lash out at his daughter.
Instead, he turns to me, his gaze calculating. "What do you think, Vittoria? Would you like to wear Beatrice's wedding gown?"
It's a test. A cruel, impossible fucking test. If I say yes, I'm trying to replace their mother. If I say no, I'm disrespecting her memory. There's no right answer, and they all know it.
Cunning little bitch, Elisabetta.
I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "While I'm sure Beatrice's gown was beautiful, I think it would be more appropriate for me to have my own dress. Perhaps something that honors both our families' traditions."
Cesare's eyebrows rise slightly—the first hint of genuine surprise I've seen from him. My father's eyes narrow, but he says nothing. The children exchange glances, their expressions a mix of shock and what might be grudging respect.
"Diplomatic answer," Cesare finally says, his tone unreadable. "We'll discuss it further with the wedding planner."
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of forced small talk and fake smiles. By the time dessert is served, I'm exhausted. My cheeks ache from maintaining this polite mask.
As we prepare to leave, Cesare pulls me aside. His grip on my arm is firm, bordering on painful. "You did well tonight," he says quietly. "But remember, Vittoria, in this family, we value obedience above all else. I expect you to fall in line."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. One wrong word and he'll make sure my father knows about it.
As we walk toward the car, my father's hand on my back like a warning, I catch sight of Valentina watching from an upstairs window. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I see pain flash in them before she disappears.
In the car, my father is unusually quiet. It's not until we're halfway to the house he's rented while we're in America that he speaks.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Vittoria," he says, his voice ice cold. "Don't think I didn't notice your little act of defiance over the wedding dress."
I stare out the window, watching city lights blur past. "I was just trying to?—”
"I don't give a shit what you were trying to do," he cuts me off. "Your job is to please Cesare. Nothing more. Do you understand?"
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Yes, Father."
But inside, rage burns hot and bright. I'm sick of being treated like property, sick of being moved around like a chess piece for these men's games.
As we pull up to our temporary house, dread settles in my stomach like a stone. In three weeks, I'll be free of my father, and I can't fucking wait. But thinking back to the calculating looksI received from Cesare's children, and the possessive grip of my soon-to-be husband, I realize my battle is just beginning.
The lion's den is waiting for me, and I have no choice but to walk straight into it.
CHAPTER TWO
cesare
I watchas Domenico's car disappears down the long driveway, taking Vittoria with it. The girl performed well tonight, I'll give her that. Better than I expected, actually. But I caught that spark of defiance in her eyes, that flash of intelligence she tried to hide behind polite smiles.
It'll need to be extinguished. And soon.
I have to admit, I was caught off guard by her beauty. The pictures didn't do her justice, not even close. She's fucking stunning, and I know that'll bring unwanted attention. I've never been a jealous man, but the thought of other men staring at her, lusting after what's mine?
It infuriates me.
"Father?" Lorenzo's voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to face my eldest son, noting the tension in his jaw and the barely controlled anger burning in his eyes.
"What is it, Lorenzo?" My tone is clipped. I'm not in the mood for another argument tonight.
He takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to keep his composure. "I need to speak with you about this... arrangement with the Costa family."
I raise an eyebrow, waiting. Lorenzo's never been one to mince words—usually a trait I appreciate. Tonight, though, I can sense his hesitation, and it pisses me off.
