“Life’s too short for boring clothes,” Adele replies with unexpected warmth.
The three of us stand there, enemies by association but drawn together by something I can’t quite name. Fashion becomes our neutral territory.
“Are you new to Philadelphia?” Valeria asks, expertly shifting through a rack of cocktail dresses.
“Relatively. I’m from Los Angeles originally.”
“West Coast girl! What brought you to our humble city?” Valeria’s eyes sparkle with genuine interest.
“Marriage,” I answer truthfully.
“Ah, love conquers distance,” Valeria smiles. “Philadelphia has hidden treasures if you know where to look. The art museum is spectacular.”
“I’ve been meaning to visit,” I say, surprised by how easily conversation flows between us. “I paint a little myself.”
“Really? So do I!” Valeria’s face lights up. “Oils or acrylics?”
“Watercolors, actually,” I admit. “There’s something about the way they blend that feels... unpredictable. Like life.”
Valeria nods earnestly. “I’ve never mastered watercolors. They require a willingness to surrender control.”
Something in her words strikes me. Surrender control. Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been fighting against since my arranged marriage?
Adele runs her fingers over a silk scarf. “Val’s being modest. Her studio at home is filled with incredible pieces.”
“You should see them sometime,” Valeria offers casually, then checks herself. “If circumstances were different.”
The unspoken truth hangs between us. Our families. The blood feud. The current war.
“This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” Valeria suddenly says, her voice dropping. “Three women who clearly have things in common, standing here pretending we don’t know who each other is.”
I freeze, unsure how to respond.
Adele sighs. “Val...”
“No, I’m tired of it, Adele.” Valeria’s dark eyes meet mine directly. “My grandfather’s grudge shouldn’t dictate my life. This war is destroying both our families, and for what? Ancient history?”
“You know about Maria and Salvatore?” I ask cautiously.
“Of course. My father made sure I understood exactly why we’re supposed to hate your family.” Valeria shakes her head. “But I don’t. I can’t. It’s all so... senseless.”
Adele touches Valeria’s arm gently. “We’ve talked about it for months. None of us asked for this war.”
I study these two women—one born into the same world as me, one drawn into it—and see the same frustration I feel reflected in their eyes. There’s something captivating about their refusal to blindly accept the hatred they’ve inherited.
“Sometimes I think the men are too invested in vengeance to see what it costs,” I admit.
Valeria nods. “Exactly. They could be building something instead of destroying everything.”
“My father wasn’t always this way,” Valeria says unexpectedly, her fingers tracing the embroidery on a nearby blouse. “Before all this escalated, he used to paint with me on Sundays. Just us, in the sunroom, jazz playing softly.”
Something shifts in her expression—a softness I hadn’t expected from a Moretti.
“He raised us alone after our mother left,” she continues. “I was only two. Max was five. Dad would make terrible pancakes every Saturday morning—burned edges, gooey centers—but we ate every bite because he tried so hard.”
I watch Valeria’s face as she speaks, the way her eyes drift somewhere distant, somewhere tender. This isn’t the cold-blooded monster I’ve constructed in my mind from surveillance photos and threat assessments. This is a father who made bad pancakes.
“He used to read to me every night until I was twelve,” Valeria says, smiling at the memory. “Even when he came home exhausted, suit rumpled, shoulders heavy with whatever burdens he carried. He never missed a night.”
