“Oh,” she whispers. “Yes. I’ll… I’ll get ready.”
She heads inside, clutching her bags, excitement flickering across her face like sunrise.
I turn immediately to Rocco.
“Status,” I command.
Gia snorts. “Seriously?” She crosses her arms. “You’ve been getting updates all damn day.”
I give her a look. A very specific look. The one that usually makes grown men rethink their entire life choices. Gia just laughs. Nico, behind her, hides his smirk in the collar of his jacket.
But then Gia sobers—completely. Her expression shifts into something fierce and protective.
“I like her,” she says softly. “El. She’s sweet and quiet and funny when she forgets to be scared.”
My jaw clenches.
“And it’s fucked up,” Gia continues, “the way her family raised her. Controlling every minute of her life like that. No one deserves that.”
I feel the rage burn beneath my skin, low and violent.
“She deserves better, Sandro,” Gia says. “You better treat her—”
“Stop.” My voice is sharp. Hard enough that Rocco glances up.
Gia’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t tell me how to treat my wife,” I growl. “I know exactly what she deserves.”
Gia opens her mouth—No. She launches into a rant. “Oh, you know? You KNOW? Because as far as I can tell—”
Nico reacts before she can get going. He steps behind her, wraps his hand around her upper arm, and starts steering her toward the car. “Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs calmly.
Gia huffs, crosses her arms, then remembers she’s supposed to be mad at me and tries to twist back around.
But by then Nico has her halfway down the drive. She stops, points at me dramatically.
“Be nice to her!” she calls.
“Gia,” Nico warns.
She straightens, drops her shoulders like it’s all an act, and flashes a bright smile.
“Anyway! Gotta go!” Nico rolls his eyes, but she waves—big and exaggerated. “Love you, Sandro!”
Despite the chaos, the headache forming behind my eyes, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.
“Love you too,” I call back. “And thank you… for today.”
She winks and disappears into the SUV with Nico. The second they’re gone, we walk into the house.
I turn to Rocco again, raising an eyebrow.
He clears his throat and stands at attention. “Right,” he says. “Update.”
Rocco doesn’t leave anything out. He reports: The stores. The dressing rooms. The saleswoman Gia almost murdered. The laugh Elena let slip. The clothing choices she liked. The scent she chose for her hair. The moment she asked if I would like the dress. The way her shoulders loosened as the day went on. How her voice slowly grew steadier. How she started choosing things without hesitation. And the part that punches me hardest in the chest:
“She smiled a lot today,” Rocco says quietly. “Real smiles.”
