"Are you sure about that? Because you removed all your stuff from his apartment. You stopped texting him. You're pulling away from him in every way that matters." She crossesher arms, studying me with those perceptive eyes that see too much. "That's not sabotage anymore. That's protection."
"Protection from what?" I ask, though part of me already knows the answer.
"From getting hurt when he eventually takes everything from you." Her voice drops, becoming softer. "From caring too much about someone who's going to break your heart."
"I'm not going to get hurt," I say, but the conviction has drained from my voice.
"You already are hurt. I can see it all over your face." Her voice is filled with sisterly concern. "You like him."
"That's irrelevant to the situation."
"Is it?" She challenges. "Is it really?"
"Yes. Because liking him doesn't change anything about our reality." The bitterness seeps into my words now. "I still lose everything when we get married. He still takes over operations completely. I still become just his wife instead of who I actually am, instead of everything I've worked to become."
"Have you told him any of that? Have you been honest with him about what you're afraid of?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I stop, the words tangling in my throat. Because I've gone too far with the chaos act to suddenly pivot to honesty? Because I'm terrified he'll confirm my worst fears about what he wants from this marriage? Because it's easier to push him away preemptively than risk him choosing the business over me when it actually matters?
All of the above, if I'm being honest with myself.
"Because it won't change anything," I finish, choosing the safest answer.
Gia is quiet for a long moment, just watching me with that knowing expression. "What if you're wrong? What if he'd surprise you with his answer?"
"He won't." I'm certain of this, at least.
"You don't know that for sure."
"I know men like him, Gia. They want power. Control. A wife who looks good at events and stays out of the way of the actual business." I stand up, needing to move, needing to escape this conversation. "I need to get ready for dinner."
"Liana—"
"I need to get ready," I repeat more firmly, and the finality in my voice makes it clear the conversation is over.
She doesn't push any further, just watches me leave with worried eyes.
I go to my room and stand in front of my closet, staring at the array of clothes that represent different versions of myself. The bright colors and short dresses I wore to drive him crazy. The chaotic outfits designed to make him question my competence. The professional pieces I wear to the port when I'm actually working.
What do you wear when you're giving up? When you're accepting defeat?
Not the chaos outfits, that's for certain. Not the bright colors or short dresses or anything that screams "look at me, I'm worth noticing."
I pull out something simple instead—black, elegant, appropriate. The kind of understated dress that whispers old money and good breeding. The kind of thing a proper mafia wife would wear to a family dinner.
I put it on and look at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I look tired. The shadows under my eyes are visible even with makeup. I look sad in a way I can't quite hide. I look like someone who's already accepted her defeat.
I look like I've lost.
An hour later, I'm sitting in the private dining room of a restaurant downtown, one of those expensive places with private rooms for families like ours who need discretion. Both families are in attendance, filling the elegant space with their presence and expectations.
Papa and Vincent Marcello sit at the head of the table like the kings they are, discussing business in low voices like they always do. Mama and Giovanna have their heads together on the other end, talking about wedding details with the kind of enthusiasm I can't seem to muster. Various aunts, uncles, and cousins fill in the spaces between, their conversations creating a constant hum of noise.
