"Vittoria?" Her brow furrows at whatever she sees in my expression. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Everything.
Your husband had another family. Another woman. Kids. He kept her hidden away like a dirty secret, and we found out after he died. Pietro knows. Nico, Lorenzo, Bruno—they all know. And we decided you couldn't handle it. That the truth would break you.
So we smile and we lie and we pretend that Giuseppe Sartori was the perfect husband, the perfect father, the perfect Don.
And every time you look at his picture with tears in your eyes, I want to scream.
"Nothing's wrong." The words taste like ash. "I'm just tired."
"You're pulling away from me." Her hand reaches for mine again, and this time I can't stop myself from flinching. "You've been pulling away for two years. Since Riccardo?—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Please. Don't bring him into this."
Her eyes fill with tears.
I can't do this.
"I have work." I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. "Security protocols for Valentino's arrival. I should?—"
"Vittoria Maria Sartori." Her voice stops me cold. The full name. The one she used when I broke her favorite vase at seven, when I snuck out to a party at fifteen, when I told her I was dropping out of MIT to work for the family.
First Amanda and now my mother.
I turn back slowly.
She's standing now, her hands clasped in front of her like she's praying. Maybe she is.
"I don't know what I did," she says quietly. "I don't know why you can't look me in the eyes anymore. But I'm your mother. Whatever it is, whatever secret you're carrying—I can handle it. I'm stronger than you think."
No. You're not.
None of us are.
"There's no secret, Mamma." I force my lips into something resembling a smile. "I'm just stressed about this whole marriage thing. You know how I get."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the slight narrowing of her eyes. But she's too much of a Sartori to push when she knows she won't get anywhere.
"Fine." She smooths her skirt, composing herself. "We'll talk later. When you're ready."
I'll never be ready.
I leave before she can see my hands shaking.
Dmitri
The velvet box sits heavy in my palm.
I've been staring at it for three minutes. Maybe four. The salesman hovers somewhere behind me, probably sweating wondering if I'm about to rob him blind or buy out half his inventory.
Neither.
I'm just standing here like a fucking idiot, thinking about last night.
Vittoria.
She's exactly what I imagined. Sharper. More infuriating.Perfect.
