By the time we pull up to the Lombardi estate, my shirt has dried, but I can still see the salt lines against the dark fabric.
The bruises on my ribs are screaming, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around what the hell I’m about to do.
The place is… not subtle.
Marble steps, towering columns, carved stone lions guarding the entrance like they’re watching for invaders—watching for us.
I smell like blood and sweat and leather.
My hair’s damp, my knuckles raw from the fight.
Raf told me I didn’t have time to clean up, but I don’t mind. Let them see me for what I am.
Let them understand exactly who they’re giving their daughter to.
Then we’ll see if they still want to agree to the arrangement.
A pair of tall oak doors opens before we even reach the top step.
Her parents are there—Matteo Lombardi and his wife, Maria.
He’s built like a man who’s carried authority for decades, his salt-and-pepper hair neat, his tailored suit perfectly pressed.
His eyes flick over me once, quick and assessing, before he extends his hand to Raf first.
“Rafael. It’s good to see you.” His voice is deep, steady—too steady. He’s sizing us up and hiding it under manners.
“Matteo,” Raf says, gripping his hand firmly. “Maria.” He nods to her.
She smiles at Raf before her gaze lands on me.
There’s a flicker—just a fraction of a second—where she takes in the sweat, the bloodstained shirt, the bruise blooming along my cheek.
But she doesn’t flinch.
She steps forward, her perfume soft, expensive, familiar in a way I can’t place.
“And you must be Sandro,” she says.
I take her offered hand. “Signora.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
Matteo’s handshake is solid, though I can feel the weight behind it, silently saying,It was your brother we wanted to marry our daughter. I just hope we’re not making a massive mistake by accepting theothertwin instead.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.
Inside, the air smells expensive—polish and flowers and something faintly citrus.
The ceilings are so high, my voice would echo if I bothered speaking.
But for all my life, I’ve preferred to let my fists do the talking.
“Evelina’s waiting for you in the drawing room,” Maria says, leading the way down a long hall lined with oil paintings of ancestors who probably came to Chicago a century ago.
My footsteps feel loud on the marble.
Raf’s are steady beside mine.
Then we round the corner, and I see her.
