CHAPTER ONE
GIA
Why the hell did I come back here?
The leather seat is cold under my legs, even through the fabric of my dress. I keep my hands folded in my lap, watching the countryside roll past the tinted window like the answer to where we're going is written somewhere in the trees. Fields give way to tall oaks and then forest thick enough to block the late afternoon sun, throwing shadows across Laura's face.
My baby sister sits beside me doing the thing where she grips the seat edge so hard her knuckles go white, like if she holds on tight enough she can control where we're going. She's nine years old and she already knows how to make herself small in our father's presence, how to keep quiet until spoken to, how to fold into herself when the air gets heavy.
I hate that she knows this.
I hate it so fucking much.
And even worse, I hate it so much because she learned it from watching me.
I reach over and cover her hand with mine, working my fingers between hers and the leather until she lets go. Her palm is sweaty. She looks up at me with those wide brown eyes that haven't learned hardness yet, and I squeeze once, trying to talk to her without words.
Hey Sweetie Pie, I'm here, I've got you, whatever this is I'll stand between you and it. I’ll always protect you.
God, I hope she understands me.
"Where are we going, Gia?" Her whisper is barely heard over the hum of the car’s engine.
I smile sweetly, "A wedding, Sweetie."
"Whose?"
Good question.
“Father?” I glance toward the front seat where our father sits beside his driver, his profile sharp against the window.
At fifty-eight, Salvatore De Luca looks like something carved from marble, all the softness eroded away. Silver threads through his black hair now, combed back with the same precision he applies to everything else in his life.
Hardness and violence.
He doesn't turn around. "An important political union. The whole family's presence is required."
Which in itself is weird, but I don’t comment.
But there's something underneath his words, something that makes the base of my spine go cold. And I'm definitely not trying to figure it out. Years of knowing my father taught me it's better not to know anything at all.
I've only been back a week after years away and I still haven't readjusted to the weight of his voice, the way every syllable feels like it's been calculated three moves ahead.
I’ll never get used to it.
"Especially after your brother's passing," he continues. "We must prove we're strong."
Laura's hand tenses under mine. She barely remembers Vittorio. She was five when I left, too young to have known him at all. She spent most of the last four years with me in Paris, tucked awayin our apartment in the Marais. My safe haven after… Stop, Gia. Don’t think about it.
Marais feels so far away already.
Then, six months ago, father decided it was time for her to come home. I couldn't stop him. I tried. God, did I. But Salvatore De Luca doesn't negotiate with his daughters. Or anyone for that matter.
I didn't even come back for my brother’s funeral three months ago. The truth is we were never close. I barely knew him, and standing over his grave pretending to grieve a brother who was practically a stranger felt dishonest in a way I couldn't stomach.
But when father called last week telling me to come home, I came. Because Laura is here and I will crawl through broken glass before I leave her alone in that damned house.
Being back feels like wearing a coat that doesn't fit anymore even though it was tailored to my exact measurements. It feels wrong. Constricting. Like I've stepped back into a version of myself I spent four years trying to bury.
