Lorenzo steps forward to sign the marriage certificate. His pen moves in quick, economical strokes. He hasn’t spoken a single word since the ceremony began. Hasn’t smiled, hasn’t frowned, hasn’t given me anything to read. Just that flat, assessing stillness that makes my skin want to crawl off my bones.
Giada signs next. She’s beautiful in the way of women who’ve never had to try. Dark hair swept back, simple pearl earrings, adress that costs more than my car. Next to her I’m wrinkled linen and bitten nails. But when she finishes signing, she catches my hand.
A squeeze. Brief. Warm.
Her eyes meet mine, the corners soft, her grip steady. Not pity. Not performance.
I don’t know what to do with that. I’m not used to people being warm without wanting something.
From the corner of the room, Nico smiles at me. It’s a nice smile, open and genuine, the kind that makes you want to smile back. So I do. Social response programmed into me after twenty-four years of making myself pleasant.
But his eyes don’t match his mouth. They’re narrowed at the edges, tracking me the same way I just took note of his sister’s unexpected kindness. He’s reading me like a balance sheet, looking for discrepancies.
I look away.
Marco stands by the door with his shoulders rigid and his jaw set. He wasn’t asked to witness. I noticed that. Lorenzo signed. Giada signed. The other two brothers just watched.
Giada catches his eye across the room, offers him a small nod. Marco holds her gaze, then drops it. Some silent sibling communication I can’t translate.
Marco doesn’t relax.
The judge gathers his papers, accepts an envelope I pretend not to see, and disappears with murmured congratulations that mean nothing. The study empties, one sibling at a time. Lorenzo first, as silent as he came. Nico with that unsettling smile still curving his lips. Giada squeezes my hand again on her way out.
“Welcome to the family.”
Then she’s gone, and it’s just me and my husband in a room that smells like leather and old paper and jasmine from the garden below.
My husband.
God.
“Your parents,” Dante says. “You should call them.”
Not a suggestion. An instruction. He’s already crossing to the desk, picking up the phone, holding it out to me.
I don’t move.
“They’ll hear about it eventually,” he continues. “Better from you.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But the thought of hearing my mother’s voice, of trying to explain this, makes my stomach clench.
I take the phone anyway.
The dial tone hums against my ear. I punch in the numbers I’ve known my whole life. One ring. Two.
“Neri residence.”
My mother. Her voice sounds hoarse, worn thin. She’s been crying.
“Mamma. It’s me.”
A sharp inhale. Then.
“Cassia? Cassia, where are you? Your father said you left without. We’ve been calling for hours.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” The words scrape on the way out. “I’m at the Santoro compound.”
Silence. The kind that stretches and warps, that turns seconds into small eternities while my mother’s breathing goes ragged on the other end.
