Isabella sits across from me, her hair a dark halo in the sunlight, her fingers tracing the rim of her porcelain cup. Outside the window, Luca stands by the black SUV, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a reminder of the cage I live in.
"You’re staring at your coffee like you expect it to confess something," Isabella says, her voice light but her eyes incredibly sharp.
I force my fingers to loosen around my mug and sigh. "Just a long night. The house is... tense."
"I know right? They’re not taking the hit on the transport lightly," Isabella nods, her expression sober. "Enzo was up until four. They’re all on edge. When someone touches the Brotherhood’s money, they’re really touching their pride. And men like our husbands? They don’t have much else."
"Is that all this is to them?" I ask, and I hate how much I need the answer. "Pride and money?"
Isabella reaches across the table, her hand warm and steady over mine. Unlike me, she isn't pretending. She actually belongs in her skin. "For the world? Yes. But for us? No. If a transport hit is successful, it is like they hurt us, that’s really what’s making them so tense. Enzo would burn this city to the ground if it meant keeping me safe for one more hour. That’s the trade, Gia.We live in the dark so they can be the monsters that keep the other monsters away."
She speaks about him like he’s a… sanctuary.
"Don't you ever feel like... an impostor?" I whisper, the words escaping before I can filter them. "Like you’re occupying a space meant for a woman who could actually give him what he thinks he has? Someone whose heart isn't a divided territory? Someone who can offer him a version of herself that isn't just a very convincing lie?"
Isabella studies me. She doesn't look away, and she doesn't offer a platitude. She hears the tremor in my voice, the sound of a woman drowning in her own secrets.
"I think every woman in this life feels like an actress at first, Gia. We’re raised to be assets. We’re raised to be quiet. But loyalty—the real kind, the kind that matters—isn't a feeling you're born with. It’s not about having a 'clean' heart." She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It’s a decision you make every morning when you wake up next to him. It’s deciding which side of the line you’re going to stand on today, regardless of who put you there."
"And if the line is moving?" I ask, my throat tight. "If choosing him means destroying the only other thing you love?"
"Then you make the choice you can live with," she says firmly. "I love Enzo. Not because he’s a good man—he isn't always. I love him because he’s mine. He’s the only truth I have in a worldbuilt on scripts. You have to decide if Rafael is your truth, or just another part of the play."
He’s the only truth I have.
I have no truth. Isabella has a marriage; I have a mission. She chooses her husband every morning, while I betray mine.
The words sit in my gut like lead. I think about the burner phone. I think about the map I drew in my mind of Rafael’s study. Every moment of "truth" I’ve shared with Rafael has been a weapon I’ve handed to my father.
"Rafael is different," Isabella continues, her voice dropping an octave. "He loved Elena with everything he had. When she died, something in him just... stopped. Seeing him with you, Gia... even the boys have noticed. He’s coming back to life. Don't be afraid to let him."
I can’t do this.
I pull my hand away, the heat of her touch suddenly feeling like a burn. "I think I should go. I have... I have things to attend to."
"Gia, wait."
I don't wait. I stand up, the chair scraping loudly against the tile, and I walk out into the bright, judgmental sunlight. Luca is at the car door in two seconds, his face neutral, but I can feel the weight of the Brotherhood behind him.
The world isn't just getting smaller. It’s getting tighter. It’s becoming a noose.
The estate feels a tomb when I return.
The tension I felt this morning has solidified into a thick, suffocating dread. I don't see any of the usual staff in the main hall. Even the air feels stagnant, heavy with the scent of old wood and the metallic tang of something I can't quite name.
I need to find Rafael. I don't know why. Maybe I need to see the "gentleman" who carried my shoes to remind myself why I’m failing my sister. Or maybe I just need to see the man I’m killing so I can look him in the eye.
He isn't in the study. The door is locked, the new digital keypad glowing a faint, angry red. He isn't in the dining room. He isn't in the garden.
Where in the world is he? He’s not out because the cars are all packed in the huge garage.
I find myself wandering toward the rear of the house, past the kitchens where Marco is nowhere to be seen. I reach the service corridor, the one that leads to the wine cellar and the utility rooms. The temperature drops ten degrees. The stone walls here are rougher, older, stripped of the silk wallpaper and gold leaf of the upper floors.
And slowly walking further, I realize I’ve stepped into the belly of the beast. Up until now, my life at the Caruso estate has been a montage of velvet, polished marble, and expensive crystal. This part of the house, the part hidden behind the heavy oak doors and service passages, is scary. The walls here are damp, grey stone that seems to swallow the dim light. There are no paintings here, no rugs to muffle my footsteps.
What the hell is this place?
The silence here feels heavy, thick and suffocating. I pass a row of steel lockers, their surfaces rusted at the edges. The air smells of damp earth and something sharp—bleach, perhaps, used too frequently and in too much quantity.
