The night air is cold enough to steady me, the city glittering beyond the balustrade like it’s watching, waiting.
That’s when I hear Isabella’s voice.
“…the whore from Queens and a crosswalk she was probably too dumb to read,” she says, not bothering to lower her tone enough to hide the intent.
Laughter follows.
“And the only credible thing about that Pretty Woman fantasy,” Isabella continues smoothly, “was the whore part.”
Something in me snaps cleanly.
I turn away before my body betrays the urge to break glass with my bare hands andstab stab stabthe bitch, stalking across the terrace until the lights blur and my breathing turns sharp.
Giovanni finds me before I make it ten steps. “Lucia.”
I whirl on him, fury blazing. “Your parties have a charming way of segregating women like ornamental furniture. Is this your idea of modernisation? Serving our purpose before being patted on the head and dismissed to go gossip?”
He studies me, expression unreadable. “No. But some old-school ways change with gentle coercion, not C4.”
“Well, just so you know, I’d rather throw myself off this balcony than rejoin thatMean Girlcircus,” I add, the words tumbling out fast and hot.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he replies dryly. “I don’t have my cape handy, and the paperwork would be a fucking nightmare.”
My lips twitch despite myself, and then the anxiety floods back in.
“They all know I ran on our wedding night,” I say quietly. “They suspect we didn’t… you know.”
Giovanni shrugs. “I don’t care about suspicions. Only what people try to do with them.”
I lick my lips, thinking fast. “Maybe,” I say slowly, “we should stop glaring daggers at each other for tonight. Present a united front.”
His brow lifts. “You mean weaponise affection?”
“I mean lessen the danger.”
A corner of his mouth curves. “I like it when you think tactically.”
Before I can respond, his gaze shifts over my shoulder. “I believe someone wants to make friends.”
He steps forward, brushes a kiss over my mouth that steals my breath, then smiles at the sound I fail to suppress.
“Be good, miabella mugghieri,” he murmurs, and walks away.
I turn to face a young woman who looks about twenty-five, maybe younger, hovering near the edge of the terrace with uncertainty written all over her. She was seated next to an imposing man at the far end from me at the dinner table.
“Hi,” she says. “Mind if I join you? I’m Ella.”
“Not at all. And I’m Lucia,” I reply, then hesitate. “Dragoni.”
She waves it off. “No need to introduce yourself. Everyone knows who you are. Not least because we’re in your house, marionettes in your husband’s play,” she finishes with a dry laugh.
At my grimace, her hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“How did you mean it?” I ask, sharper than intended.
Her face falls. “I’ve offended you. That wasn’t my intention.”
I sigh. “You didn’t catch me on my best night.”
