I will brand myself onto her so thoroughly she wouldn’t even dream of believing she’s not completely, unwaveringly mine.
The car is already waiting when we land. I guide Lucia into it with a hand at the small of her back.
She stiffens but to her credit, she doesn’t pull away. And no, I don’t make the mistake of believing she’s in any way about to yield.
There will be many more skirmishes, perhaps even battles with my wife before this challenging period of our new life is over.
But this…this is progress.
Westchester air is cool, clean, deceptively quiet.
The Dragoni Estate rises through the trees like something medieval disguised as modern architecture, stone, glass, iron gates, surveillance so discreet it borders on invisible.
Exactly the way I wanted it.
Home.
My phone vibrates once just as the gates slide open.
I don’t bother to stifle a curse for the poor timing, nor do I need to look to know what it is. But I look anyway.
Unknown Number: Bellandi just met with a Russian intermediary in Brooklyn. Money moved. Names exchanged. You’re out of time.
My jaw tightens as the car rolls up the long private drive.
Luckily, Lucia is distracted, watching the house now, tension visible in every line of her body. She’s not sure whether it’ll be her prison or her sanctuary, and I don’t move to reassure her.
Because fear is good. Fear of what’s coming will keep her on her toes while I keep her safe.
I close my phone and slide it into my pocket, allowing myself a satisfied exhale.
I’ve completed a crucial phase of this dubious destiny.
I’ve brought my wife home.
Now I go to war.
9
LUCIA
It only takes four measly days for Giovanni Dragoni to erase every remaining trace of the woman I was pretending to be. Just a handful of days under his roof, our roof, as everyone keeps insistently calling it, and the world I built on a Caribbean beach feels like something I dreamed up during a fever.
As I expected, luxury presses in from every angle.
There’s the very obvious kind, the marble floors that feel warm beneath my bare feet no matter the hour, the windows that frame the Hudson like a living painting, the quiet hum of security so constant it fades into the background like white noise.
And then there’s the subtler kind.
Surveillance disguised as service. Men who open doors before I reach them while melting into the background.
Staff who glide into rooms to offer tea, coffee, silk robes, options.
And the most disconcerting thing of all?
They answer to me. Not around me.
To me.
