The house has been quieter than usual the past few days. No one tells me anything, and I’ve learned better than to ask. All I know is that Giovanni's house was attacked, and he's gone, and Roberto is furious. Furious and newly appointed acting capo of the Giordano family.
He’s been mostly gone for days, strategizing, meeting with lieutenants, putting on the show of leadership, and for once, I’ve been left alone. I should savor the reprieve. I should enjoy the silence, the lack of his voice in my ear, his fingers on my skin, his punishments cloaked as play.And I have. I’ve savored every second of his absence like a starving woman hoards crumbs.
But unfortunately, I can't fully appreciate my solitude, because Giovanni isn't the only one who vanished; Cammie is gone too, and that worries me. After an unexpected encounter a year ago, we drifted closer in the quiet way people who share the same violence learn to trust. It happened at a Giordano dinner. I noticed Roberto’s eyes on the Giordano's forever houseguest, Cat. It was the way a man catalogs something he thinks he can own. My stomach knotted at the look.
Then Cammie spilled her wine, blaming it on Cat, who wasn't even in her vicinity, but it got Cat exiled to her room. A little while later, I ran into Cammie in the powder room. Cammie locked the door, and for a few minutes, the house’s lacquered cruelty fell away. She pulled me into her arms. "You too?" she asked, and I nodded.
"Oh, Soph, I'm so sorry."
It wasn't as though she hadn't warned me, or as though she could have done anything about it, but being in her embrace made all the difference. I hadn't been hugged like that… in a long time.
"I honestly didn't think he would mistreat you. You're his wife," Cammie shook her head.
I shrugged. "I don't think he cares about that."
We fell silent for a moment. Then it was my turn to apologize. "I'm sorry that I didn't believe you."
This time, she shrugged. "Well, you know Roberto, he knows how to fool anybody."
We became like sisters that night. She told me how she'd been trying to keep Cat from Roberto's attention since the girl hit puberty—worrying about what Roberto might do to her if she caught his attention in the wrong way. She kept her in ugly clothes and led us and the boys in ridiculing her, just to keep her off his radar.
The heavy front door slams and rips me from my reminiscing, making me freeze. A moment later, his footsteps echo through the marble hallway, louder than they need to be. I retreat to the far corner of the living room and brace myself; my hand tightens around the edge of a velvet throw pillow as he storms in. I notice his left hand is swathed in thick white gauze.
"Fucking Doc Brown," he snarls, kicking off his shoes. "Sadistic old bastard enjoyed it."
The sight of the bandaged hand should spark concern. But all I can manage is a curl of satisfaction. Doc Brown is the only person besides Cammie and my father who knows what Roberto is doing to me. If he added a little pressure while resetting those knuckles? If he didn’t numb the bone deep enough? Good. Roberto deserves so much worse.
I school my features and ask, "What happened?"
"Enrico fucking Sartori," he growls, collapsing onto the couch with a hiss of pain. "Stepped on my hand like I was a damn dog."
I raise my eyebrows, trying to appear shocked. "Why?"
Roberto glares at the bandage like he could will it to disappear. "Because he thinks he’s clever. Thinks he can take shots at me and walk away."
A thrill of fear twists through me, not for Roberto, but for what this might mean. If Enrico did this—openly, at a meeting—then something is changing. The rules are shifting. Maybe the alliances, too. I stay quiet. I’ve learned my silence is safer than curiosity. My opinion, my voice, even my gaze, any of it can earn me bruises. So I nod, say nothing, and let him rant.
"Don't just stand there, you lazy bitch, get me a drink and some fucking painkillers," He grunts, while still cursing Enrico.
Glad to escape his presence, even if only for a moment, I rush into the kitchen, where one of the maids sneers at me. They all know I don't have an iota of power in this house, and I know for a fact that Roberto has been fucking this one, Louisa, and several of the others, too. Their fear of Roberto is just as great as mine, but it comes with a smug layer of immunity I’ll never have. They can serve him, please him, and be forgotten. I’m the one he always remembers.
Louisa doesn’t move to help as I open a cupboard for the first-aid kit. She stands by the sink, arms folded, eyesnarrowed, while I pretend not to see her. Pretend I don’t hear the hissed insult under her breath in Italian, "Stronza inutile."—Useless bitch.
I grip the kit tighter than I need to.
It’s like this more and more now. The guards, the staff, even the new driver, they all act like I’m invisible. Or worse, a joke. Like I’m nothing more than a doll draped on Roberto’s arm. Pretty. Voiceless. Replaceable. The perfect accessory to a man who beats me. He doesn't even bother to close the doors anymore.
I return to the living room, get the drink, find the pills in the kit, and head to Roberto like I’ve been taught. When I place the glass and bottle on the side table, Roberto doesn’t even look at me. Just mutters, "Finally," like I kept him waiting too long.
Then his eyes snap to mine.
"You talk to Cammie?"
I blink, startled. "No. She hasn’t?—"
"She’s not answering my calls," he growls. "Little brat thinks she can ghost me now?"
I open my mouth, then close it again. There’s no right answer. If I agree, I’m criticizing his sister. If I defend her, I’m questioning him.
