I know he's right. But hearing it stated so bluntly makes it impossible to ignore. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to be more convincing. I want you to act like a man who's in love with his wife, who's excited about becoming a father. Who's building a life with her," he pauses. "I want you to sell it, Luca. Make them believe it."
My jaw works. "And if I can't?"
"Then you'll stoke a vulnerability that our enemies will exploit, and I won't tolerate that." His voice hardens. "You made your choice when you got my daughter pregnant. Now you need to live with the consequences. All of them. Or deal with the personal consequences of failure.”
I don’t need to ask what those might be. In some ways, I expect that my death might be preferable to Dante. With Giulia a widow, he might be able to marry her off to some old don, someone who needs an heir and a wife to keep his bed warm for as long as he can still get his cock up.
The thought makes me suddenly, irrationally angry. I don’t want her, but the thought of anyone else having her makes my blood boil. The thought of another man touching her makes me feel murderous.
The meeting ends, and I leave his office feeling like I've been given an impossible task. How am I supposed to act likeI'm in love with her when I can barely look at her without feeling like I'm suffocating? How am I supposed to touch her, to be affectionate with her, when every interaction feels like a betrayal? But I don't have a choice.
That night, there's a family dinner at Dante's house, not just the immediate family, but trusted, close associates and their families as well, a small, intimate gathering. I've been to dozens of them over the years as Romeo’s second and friend, but this is the first one since the wedding.
Giulia is already there when I arrive, standing in the living room talking to Savannah. She's wearing a dark green dress that hugs her curves, her hair swept up in an elegant twist. She looks beautiful… and so fucking sad it makes something twist in my chest despite myself. She looks devastated, and I know I have to do something about it. This is exactly what Dante is talking about.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I see the flash of anxiety in hers, the uncertainty. She doesn't know what to expect from me tonight.
Neither do I.
I cross the room to her, and I can feel everyone watching, assessing. Judging.
"Hi," she says softly when I reach her.
"Hi." I lean in and kiss her cheek with a brief, chaste touch that's appropriate for public. Her skin is warm and soft, and she smells like jasmine. "You look beautiful."
The compliment clearly surprises her. Her eyes widen slightly, and I see color rise in her cheeks. "Thank you."
I take her hand. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly. I thread my fingers through hers. The gesture is possessive and intimate—exactly what Dante wants me to project. It feels like a lie, but I hold on anyway.
Throughout dinner, I play the role perfectly. I touch her hand when I'm making a point, put my arm around her waist when we're standing together. I lean in close when she's speaking, like I'm hanging on every word. And she responds.Fuck, she responds, and it makes it all so much fucking worse.
She leans into my touch like she's starving for it, smiles when I say something that could be construed as affectionate. I can feel her desperation like a physical thing, can see how much she wants this to be real, how much she wants me to mean the touches and the looks and the carefully chosen words.
It makes me feel like a monster. Because I don't mean any of it. I'm just performing, playing a role to satisfy her father and protect the organization. And she knows it, deep down. I can see it in her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking, the way the hope fades when I pull away. Her smile becomes brittle and forced every time.
But she plays along and laughs at my jokes, touches my arm. She looks at me like I'm her whole world. The dinner ends, and we say our goodbyes. Dante pulls me aside before we leave. "Better," he says simply. "Keep it up."
I nod and go find Giulia. She's waiting by the door, her coat already on, her expression carefully neutral. The drive home is silent. I can feel the tension radiating off her, the way she's holding herself so carefully, like she's afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile thing was happening tonight. I can tell some part of her is still hoping it’s real.
We're three blocks from the house when she finally speaks. "Thank you," she says quietly. "For tonight. For... trying."
The word 'trying' lands like an accusation. I wasn't trying, I was performing.
"It's what your father wanted.” I hear how cold my voice sounds. She flinches like I've struck her.
"Right. Of course." Her voice is barely audible. "I just thought?—"
"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't think. Don't hope. Don't read anything into tonight except what it was—a performance for your father and his associates."
"I just?—"
I open the door the moment the car is in park. "I have some work to do. Don't wait up." I get out of the car before she can respond, before I can feel guilty about the way I'm treating her.
I can't afford to feel guilty or let her in. But partway through the third week of our marriage, I started noticing things I wished I hadn't.
She's sick in the mornings. I hear her once or twice, passing down the hall or passing a bathroom on the first floor. I can hear her vomiting, and then the sound of running water. Once, I see her come out of the bathroom pale and shaky, and I pretend I don't notice. But I do notice. I notice everything.
