But most of all, I cry because I’m beginning to see who he could have been.
Who he might still become if someone could show him there’s another path forward.
The secret about the recording grows heavier with every moment of unexpected kindness he shows me.
I could redirect his rage toward the real culprit. I could change everything with a few words.
But what if he doesn’t believe me?
What if he thinks I’m lying to manipulate him?
Worse, what if he does believe me and decides I’m too useful as a witness to ever let go?
So I keep silent, and the secret burns deeper.
The sparrow chirps softly from its carrier, and I wipe my eyes, trying to pull myself together.
At least I can save the birds.
Even if I can’t save myself or Dad, at least I can fix these small, broken things.
12
LUCA
The conference room at the Drake Hotel reeks of overpriced champagne and bullshit romance.
I slouch in a leather chair at the head of the table, one hand wrapped around a glass of scotch I shouldn’t be drinking at one in the afternoon, while a wedding planner named Cristina—or Christiana, or maybe Christiane, I stopped giving a fuck after the first five minutes—gestures enthusiastically at fabric swatches spread across the mahogany surface.
“—and for the reception, we’re thinking ivory and gold with touches of emerald to complement the bride’s coloring,” she gushes, her perfectly manicured hands fluttering over samples that all look identical to me. “The floral arrangements will be absolutely breathtaking. Peonies, roses, and calla lilies imported from Ecuador?—”
“Whatever.” I cut her off mid-sentence, not bothering to hide my irritation. “You’re the expert. Just make it look expensive.”
Cristina’s smile falters slightly, but she recovers with the practiced ease of someone who deals with difficult clientsregularly. “Of course, Mr. Marchetti. We want everything to be perfect for your special day.”
Special day. As if this wedding is anything more than a carefully orchestrated business transaction dressed up in white silk and lies.
Across the table, Giuliana sits with her hands folded in her lap, her face a carefully maintained mask of polite interest. She’s wearing a simple black dress today, nothing like the expensive designer shit I’ve been forcing on her, and her dark hair is pulled back in that god-awful severe bun that makes her look older, more tired than her thirty-two years.
The exhaustion is my fault. I know that. Two and a half weeks of captivity and isolation is taking a visible toll. The shadows under her eyes have deepened, her cheeks look slightly more hollow, and there’s a haunted quality to her gaze that she can’t quite hide behind the facade of compliance.
The damn bird didn’t make it, and it’s destroyed her faster than any punishment I could give.
Good. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? To break her down piece by piece until nothing remains but obedience.
Except watching it happen makes me feel like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
“Ms. Conti?” Cristina’s voice pulls my attention back to the table. She looks expectantly at Giuliana. “What are your thoughts on the color palette? Your input is so important. This is your day too, after all.”
Giuliana’s smile is small and doesn’t reach her eyes. “Whatever Luca prefers is fine with me.”
The words are delivered with perfect submission, the kind of response that should satisfy me. Instead, they make me bite my tongue. This isn’t victory—it’s watching someone slowly disappear inside themselves, and I’m intimately familiar with what that looks like.
“Nonsense!” Cristina laughs, oblivious to the undercurrents. “Every bride has opinions about her wedding.” She smiles widely at Giuliana, her white teeth nearly glowing in the light. “Come now, don’t be shy. Do you prefer the ivory linens or the champagne?”
I watch Giuliana’s throat work as she swallows, her hands tightening imperceptibly in her lap. “The ivory is lovely.”
Cristina beams. “Wonderful choice! And for the centerpieces?—”
