She nods, then steps closer. “I heard what those feral bitches said…” She stops herself, eyes widening at her own swearing, and I snort before she turns beetroot. “Shit.”
Okay. I like her.
“Want to sit for a minute, get some fresh air?”
Her smile bursts free and I blink once. She’s hiding an ethereal beauty under a drab bushel. “I’d love to.”
We sit. We talk quietly, carefully, and when she mentions she’s here with her father, her hesitation tells me everything she doesn’t say.
Another woman enduring beneath the control of a powerful man, even if in this case, I suspect the man is her own father.
I try to shut out the ever-increasing decibel of Isabella’s laughter as she commands the women who seem to lap up herevery word. I try to concentrate on Ella as she leans forward to touch my arm.
“If it’s not too forward, I’d love us to meet for a coffee sometime, when you’re in the city?”
I’m long overdue a visit to my uncles. Giovanni wasn’t the only one I cut off when I was on the run. I’m sure they’ve been frantic with worry. The thought of returning to my childhood home buoys me up and I nod.
“I’d love to.”
She takes my number and we agree to text to set a date.
And having something to look forward to suddenly feels like oxygen straight to the bottom of my lungs.
After Ella heads back in, I rally, drawing a steadying breath, pulling my spine straight and my expression into something deliberate, and I walk back into the drawing room with purpose stitched into every step.
Giovanni looks up the moment I enter, as if he’s been tracking me by instinct rather than sight, and I don’t hesitate. I cross the room and slide into his lap with a grace that feels earned rather than borrowed, my arm looping around his neck as though this were the most natural arrangement in the world.
The silence is immediate.
It ripples outward in concentric circles, touching every face in the room before settling into something taut and watchful.
I register the reactions in a blink: disapproval from the old guard who believe wives should be decorative and quiet; irritation from the ambitious men who resent that I’ve shifted the room’s gravity; open amusement from a handful of players with no skin in the Dragoni–Bellandi feud, men who enjoy chaos as long as it’s not aimed at them.
I don’t care.
I settle more comfortably against Giovanni, the leather beneath my thighs warm, his body a solid, unmissable anchor,and I meet the stares with a look that says I’m not confused about where I belong.
Because I’m not.
Conversation restarts with a careful scrape, voices smoothing themselves into place as if nothing has happened, as if I haven’t just violated a protocol some of these people treat like scripture.
A senator chuckles softly and makes a dry remark about modern marriages. A financier grins into his glass, eyes bright with interest.
Through the open doors connecting to the smaller living room, two women glare at me with undisguised contempt, their mouths tight, their posture stiff with the offence of it, wives who have learned the rules and resent anyone who bends them without consequence.
Salvatore Bellandi lifts his glass slightly, his tone smooth enough to pass for polite as his gaze settles on me without apology.
“I know a little about your history, young woman. So I hope you will indulge me as I offer my opinion that appearances matter,” he says. “They always have. There’s a way things are done in our world, and there’s a reason those traditions exist.”
I meet it calmly, shrug, light and dismissive, with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, the words pitched just polite enough to pass and just pointed enough to land.
“I agree that appearances matter,” I say evenly. “Which is why I’m standing or… well, sitting, exactly where I should be.”
A quiet beat passes.
“And I know a few of you love to throw about that know-your-place line. But here’s the thing, Signor Bellandi. I didn’t ask to be here as decoration,” I continue, my voice steady. “I’m here because I’m Giovanni’s wife. If that makes anyone uncomfortable, I suggest they examine why.”
He inclines his head to me, respectful but immovable. “Be careful before you spit on tradition,picciridda.”
