The message delivers but doesn't show as read. She won't see it until she turns her phone back on.
I start the car and head home. The apartment is still empty. Still silent. I pour a drink and stand at the window.
My phone buzzes. Finally.
But it's not Liana. It's Bruno.
Bruno: Boss, we have a problem. The Benedetti situation.
Me: Handle it. I'll deal with it tomorrow.
I toss the phone on the couch in frustration. And I stand there, drinking scotch in my too-quiet apartment, wondering when exactly I stopped being in control of this situation.
Or if I ever was.
Chapter 17: Liana
"I'm out of ideas."
I'm sitting cross-legged on Gia's bed, staring up at the textured ceiling like it might hold answers. In three hours, we have a joint family dinner scheduled—both families together for what Papa is calling pre-wedding planning.
I'd rather have a root canal without anesthesia.
"Out of ideas?" Gia looks up from her phone, her expression skeptical. "You've only tried what, five different approaches?"
"More, actually." I start counting them on my fingers, ticking off each spectacular failure. "The steak thing, the gun thing, inviting Nonna, moving into his place, the sex schedule, the crying. Nothing's working the way it's supposed to. He's not walking away."
"Maybe that's because you don't actually want him to walk away anymore."
I sit up abruptly, my heart jumping in my chest. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't psychoanalyze me. I know what I want."
"Do you?" She sets down her phone deliberately, giving me her full attention. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look miserable. And not because the plan isn't working. Because you're starting to realize you don't want it to work anymore."
"That's not true." The denial comes automatically.
"Isn't it?" She stands and walks to my window. "You've been different the last few days. Quieter. Sadder. Like something inside you broke."
"I'm just tired from playing this role. It’s exhausting."
"You're conflicted," she corrects, turning to face me. "There's a difference."
"I'm not—" I stop myself, taking a deep breath and trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "It doesn't matter what I'm feeling. The plan was to make him walk away from this arrangement. That goal hasn't changed."
"But your heart has." The words are gentle but uncompromising.
"My heart has nothing to do with this." I can hear how hollow the protest sounds.
"Liana." She says my name like a sigh. "What do you actually want?"
I want to run this family the way I've been trained to run it since I was old enough to understand what our business means. I want what Papa promised me before he decided a marriage alliance was more valuable than my capabilities. I want to matter in a way that doesn't depend on who I'm married to.
But even as I think it, even as I try to summon the righteous anger that's sustained me through this entire charade, the words feel hollow. Empty. Like I'm reciting lines from a script I no longer believe in.
"I want my birthright," I say finally. "That fundamental truth hasn't changed."
