I type back reluctantly: Friday is fine.
Her response is immediate, like she was waiting: Perfect! I'll bring more things! See you then!
More things. More invasion. More chaos.
Fuck me.
I stare out at the city lights.
I'm starting to think I won't survive this.
Chapter 11: Liana
I'm lying in bed staring at my phone, scrolling through the seventeen unanswered texts I've sent Santo.
Seventeen.
He's responded to exactly two of them. Both were single-word answers. "Fine." and "Busy."
Most people would take that as a hint to back off. I'm taking it as confirmation that my plan is working.
Because here's the thing about Santino Marcello that I've learned since this nightmare engagement began: hehateschaos. He needs everything orderly, controlled, predictable. He wants a wife who will slot neatly into his life without disrupting anything.
Which is exactly why I've been systematically destroying every boundary he tries to establish.
The bathroom takeover was perfect. I watched his face cycle through about fifteen different emotions while I unpacked my skincare products—shock, confusion, frustration, barely contained rage.
But he didn't physically stop me. He didn't throw my containers into the hallway. He just stood there, objecting verbally while doing absolutely nothing to enforce those objections.
Which means he's still trying to be polite about this. Still trying to make it work because of the family arrangement.
That's the problem. I need him to snap. I need him to get so frustrated, so overwhelmed by my presence in his life thathe goes to his father and says "I can't marry this woman. She's completely insane. Call it off."
Then I'm free. No arranged marriage. No life sentence to a man I barely know. No pretending to be the perfect mafia wife for the next fifty years.
The bathroom invasion should have done it. Any reasonable person would have put their foot down, drawn a hard line, maybe even contacted my father to complain about my behavior.
But Santo just... absorbed it. Accepted it with gritted teeth and clenched fists, like he's determined to tolerate whatever I throw at him.
I need to escalate.
Again.
I roll onto my stomach, thinking through my options.
Moving more stuff into his apartment? No, that's just more of the same. Diminishing returns.
Calling him constantly? Already doing that. He's just ignoring me.
I need something bigger. Something public. Something that will embarrass him so thoroughly in front of people who matter that he'll have no choice but to reconsider this entire arrangement.
I sit up, grabbing my laptop from the nightstand. Time to do some research.
Where does Santo spend his time besides his apartment and the family estate? What places matter to him? Where would he be most embarrassed by a public scene?
I scroll through some searches, looking for information. There's not much—the Marcellos keep a low profile, as mostmafia families do. But there are a few mentions of business dealings, property holdings, known associates.
I need to find out where he'll be. When he'll be somewhere important with people he needs to impress. Then I need to show up and be absolutely mortifying.
