I grabbed an espresso cup harder than necessary. “She’s not my wife yet.”
“Mm.” Sergio laughed quietly. “Not denying it.”
I said nothing. Coffee hissed from the machine beside me, rich and bitter-smelling. The scent filled the quiet penthouse while irritation crawled slowly up my spine. Sergio, unfortunately, knew me too well.
“So?” he pressed casually. “Did the little wildcat finally scratch hard enough to leave marks?”
“Careful.” The word came out low and sharp enough to cut skin.
Silence answered me. Not fearful silence. Observant silence.
Sergio had worked for my family since he was a kid. He knew exactly how to read my moods, and right now, he was reading too much.
Then his voice changed. No teasing now. “Something happened.”
I poured the espresso slowly, watching dark liquid fill the cup while Chiara’s face flashed through my head again. The tears in her eyes. The desperation. The way she looked at me like she hated herself for wanting me at all. My jaw tightened.
“Leo,” Sergio said carefully.
“I’m fine,” I bit out.
“Right.” A pause. “You don’t sound fine.”
I leaned one hand against the counter, staring out at the city below me. The skyline stretched endlessly beneath the clouds, cold steel and glass glowing in the early light.
All of it was mine. Every building. Every street. Every man worth knowing feared my last name. And somehow none of it quieted the mess in my head.
“I arranged the dock meeting for noon,” Sergio continued after another second. “Santino and Angelo will both be there.”
Of course they would, those goddamn vultures. My cousins circled every conversation involving the estate now, pretending concern while calculating what pieces they’d inherit if I failed to produce an heir. The thought darkened my mood further.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“And the wedding?” Sergio probed carefully.
My eyes drifted toward the hallway leading to Chiara’s room. Locked. Safe. Still mine.
“In seven days,” I replied. “Start planning.”
Byeleven,Iwantedto strangle every wedding planner sitting across from me. The first one wouldn’t stop talking. The second kept staring at me like she expected poison in her champagne. This third woman, at least, hid her fear behind polished professionalism. Barely.
“SignoreMoretti,” she said carefully, sliding a leather portfolio across the black dining table, “these are some luxury floral concepts that are currently trending among upper society weddings.”
I flipped through glossy pages without really seeing them. White roses. Crystal chandeliers. Gold silk runners. Meaningless. All of it. Chiara would hate every single one if she thought I chose it myself.
“What does the bride like?” the planner asked carefully.
The question caught me off guard. Because I didn’t know. Not really.
I knew she liked coffee with milk and sugar. I knew she braided her hair to piss me off. I knew she pretended to hate praise while melting under it anyway.
But favorite flowers? Favorite colors? I didn’t know a fucking thing. Something sharp twisted low in my chest. I closed the portfolio slowly.
“Tell me something,” I said.
The woman straightened. “Of course,Signore.”
“If a woman spent her entire life trapped,” I said quietly, “what kind of wedding would make her forget that for one night?”
