Chapter 7
Dante
Fivedays.Fivedaysof watching my wife move through my house like a ghost afraid of disturbing the living.
I'd perfected the art of observation without detection. Doorways became vantage points. Peripheral vision became a weapon. I cataloged details I had no right to notice, built a mental archive of a woman I'd promised not to touch until she asked.
She hadn't asked.
The coffee ritual was the first thing I learned. Black, two sugars, stirred exactly seven times. Not six. Not eight. Seven precise rotations of the spoon, counterclockwise, before she lifted the cup to her lips. I'd watched from the hallway outside the kitchen three mornings running, telling myself I was just passing through.
She took her first sip with her eyes closed. A small pause, barely a breath, where something in her shoulders released.That pause was the most honest thing about her mornings—everything after was performance.
The library drew her like a magnet. She thought no one noticed. She was wrong. Every afternoon around two, when Donatella was out and the house fell into that particular post-lunch silence, Gemma would drift toward the east wing. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the library doors. Her hand would hover over the handle for a moment—checking, always checking, making sure she wasn't intruding.
She was never intruding. It was her house now. But she didn't seem to believe that.
I'd found her there yesterday, curled in the leather armchair by the window, a book open in her lap. Caravaggio, I'd noted. A heavy art history volume with glossy plates and dense text. She'd been so absorbed she hadn't heard me approach—a rare moment of unguarded focus, her brow slightly furrowed, her lips moving silently as she read.
I'd retreated before she could notice. Some moments weren't meant to be interrupted.
The way she moved through the house killed me. Careful. Contained. Taking up as little space as physically possible, like she was afraid of breaking something—the furniture, the peace, the fragile arrangement we'd constructed. She stayed close to walls when she walked down hallways. She never left anything out of place. She made her own bed even though the staff had explicit instructions to handle it.
"She says it's not necessary," Rosa had reported, her ancient face creased with concern. "She thanks me for offering and says she prefers to do it herself."
Not necessary. That was Gemma's favorite phrase. The help wasn't necessary. The driver wasn't necessary. Having someone else carry her bags wasn't necessary.
What she meant was: I don't deserve it.
What had taught her that? Who had taught her that?
She was unfailingly polite. That was the worst part. To the staff—gracious, grateful, remembering names after a single introduction. To Donatella—warm, engaged, laughing at my sister's jokes with what seemed like genuine amusement. To me—
To me, she was perfect.
Perfectly correct. Perfectly appropriate. Perfectly composed. The model mafia wife, fulfilling every expectation with a precision that made my teeth ache.
None of it was real.
I gave her structure because it was the only thing I knew how to offer. Breakfast at eight. Donatella will take you to meet the family accountant. There's a charity event Thursday; you'll need something appropriate. Each directive delivered in the measured tone of a man conducting business, not a husband trying to navigate the minefield of his wife's invisible wounds.
She accepted everything. That careful nod. That small "of course." That absolute compliance that looked like obedience but felt like armor.
I hated myself a little more each time.
This woman—sharp, beautiful, clearly brilliant—deserved to choose her own life. Instead, she was trapped in my house, bound to my name, sleeping in a room down the hall from a man she barely knew.
A man who stood outside her door at night like a fucking creep.
It had started three days ago. Two in the morning, and I couldn't sleep—the ledger burning in my mind, the weight of my father's secrets pressing against my skull. I'd paced the hallway, and somehow my feet had carried me to her door.
Light leaked from beneath it. She was awake too.
I'd raised my hand to knock. Held it there, suspended, while my heart hammered in my chest. What would I say? I heard you moving around. I wanted to make sure you were okay. I can't stop thinking about you.
I'd turned away instead.
The next night, the same. And the next.
