Teresa’s cousin. Because even Teresa gets to be part of conversations that have to do with me. Even she gets a voice in the decision.
Hell, everybody probably knows.
I know Roberto doesn’t keep anything from Olivia. Olivia, my best friend. My roommate at Wharton. A part of my family for less than three years and already given a seat at the table.
Everyone probably knows everything about him, has discussed this whole thing in one of a dozen conversations I was not included in. That part alone is enough to make me furious all over again.
Everyone knows.
Everyone discusses.
Everyone adjusts.
And I’m the one expected to smile and accept it once the final version gets handed down. After all the details have been hammered out without my input.
I set down the mascara wand and stare at myself in the mirror.
My dark eyes look back at me, sharper now with makeup on. More like me. More like the version of myself that walks into the casino every day and gets things done without asking permission.
Good.
Because if nothing else, I am not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
Not Papà. Not Vito. Not this Adrian.
Especially not this Adrian.
After blow-drying my hair so it falls in perfect layers over my shoulders and down my back, I walk to the closet for my shoes, selecting a pair of black heels that strike the exact balance I want: polished, expensive, and practical, though still feminine. They make a satisfyingly sharp click as I walk.
I sit on the bench to fasten the straps and catch myself thinking about what Vito must have told him last night.
Probably that I’m difficult.
Probably that I’m stubborn.
Probably that I won’t be happy about any of this.
None of which would be wrong.
Still, it rankles.
Because I can already feel how this will go. Men meeting in private. Men sharing a quiet look over my head. Men deciding what is best for Caterina.
Men expecting me to object, then treating those objections like charming inconveniences instead of valid points.
I fasten the second shoe tighter than necessary.
No.
I am not doing that.
I am not going into today defensive and shrill and proving every easy assumption they’ve already made about me.
I loosen the strap and do it again, then rise and cross to the dresser for perfume, then stop with the bottle in my hand.
The truth is, I am tense.
There is no point pretending otherwise, at least not to myself.
