He crosses to me and waits for me to drag my eyes off the wish in my hands.
“Don’t make a mistake that you will regret.”
Instead of explaining, I pass him the wish.
He reads it in silence, then asks, "How do you want to handle this?"
I stand and come level with Rafael. "First I have to figure out what it means."
Rafael nods and rests his hands on my shoulders. "Whatever it means, you don't face it alone. That's what this brotherhood is for." His grip tightens once, firm and grounding, before hereleases me and steps back. "But Luca, don't let fear make your decisions for you. That's not who we are."
With that, Rafael steps out. The lock clicks behind him, sealing me in with six words that have just rearranged everything I thought I understood about my marriage.
I read the wish again. And again. And again.
Each time, the words cut deeper, sharper, drawing blood I can feel dripping somewhere inside my chest.
I have to wonder when she found the time to slip away. While I stood across the room picturing decades of laughter and fights and makeup sex and growing old together, she dropped this bomb into a box and prayed someone would detonate it.
The words burrow under my skin and settle into my bones with a precision that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
What mistake? The question ricochets through my skull, hitting every vulnerable surface. The pregnancy? The marriage? The night that started it all? Me?
I've been operating under the assumption that what we're building has a foundation. That the attraction is real, the connection is growing, that time and patience will close the distance she keeps between us in bed. This wish suggests otherwise. This wish suggests she's been performing compliance while praying for an exit.
And I have no way to know which interpretation is true without showing her the card I'm holding.
The paper crumples in my fist before I can stop myself. I smooth it out again, pressing it flat against my desk. Six words from the woman I love and I can't breathe.
I should ask her. Should sit her down tonight and lay this wish between us and demand to know what she meant. Give her the chance to explain, to clarify, to tell me I'm wrong about what mistake she's referencing.
But the strategist in me knows that some questions change the landscape permanently. If I lay this wish between us and she confirms the worst interpretation, I can't unknow that. And I can't protect her from a position of weakness.
The wish disappears into my jacket pocket, the paper pressing against my chest like a second heartbeat. I'll carry it with me. A reminder of what I need to fix. What I need to become.
Tonight wasn't supposed to be about Enzo. Tonight was supposed to be about her. About us. The wish in my pocket has turned every plan I made on its head.
I'll show her this isn't a mistake. I'll prove it with every action, every touch, every moment of the life we're building. Starting tonight.
Tonight, I have a chance to prove it. The charity gala. Her in the emerald dress I’ve fantasized about all day, on my arm, under my protection. Every powerful person in Chicago watching us together. Let them see a man who will burn the world to ash before he lets her regret choosing him.
Tonight I prove to my wife that this marriage isn't a mistake.
And I show her father exactly what he's up against.
Ten
Luca
The hours crawl past in a haze of distraction. I sign documents without reading them. Attend meetings without hearing them. The wish burns in my pocket through all of it, a constant reminder of a question I've decided not to ask. Not yet.
By the time evening arrives, my nerves feel stripped raw.
The charity gala glitters like a fever dream of wealth and power, held in a historic ballroom that drips with old money and older secrets. Crystal chandeliers scatter prismatic light across a space packed with Chicago's elite, their diamonds and designer gowns competing for attention. Champagne flows like water from an endless fountain near the entrance, the bubbles catching light as servers circulate with silver trays. The orchestra plays something classical and forgettable, strings and piano weaving background music for deals being made in shadowed corners.
But none of it matters.
Because Ilona stands beside me in a blue gown that matches her hair tips, and every eye in the room tracks her movement like she's the only source of light in a world gone dark.
