Chapter 19
Lucia
Marco doesn’t tellme he’s coming in a town car. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He just texts a time and a curb address like I’m luggage that needs to be collected.
I’m standing outside the cheap hotel with my borrowed gown hidden under a coat that doesn’t match it, fingers curled around my burner phone, when the black sedan rolls up and stops with the smooth inevitability of a decision already made.
The driver gets out first. Not in a hurry. Not in a rush. Calm. Professional. A man who has done this a thousand times and never once asked himself if the person getting in wanted to. He opens the rear door.
And Marco leans out, wearing a tux like he invented the garment. Hair slicked back, jaw clean, eyes bright in the way they get when he’s about to perform. He looks… polished.
It’s the most dangerous version of him.
“Get in,” he says, smiling like we’re late for dinner and not walking into a trap.
I don’t argue. Not because I’m scared of him anymore. Because I’m scared of what arguing looks like on paper. Because my lawyer’s voice is still in my head:It’s about optics, Lucia.Judges love cooperation.Because cooperation is a costume I can put on without letting it touch my skin.
I slide into the car. The leather smells expensive. The interior is too clean, too quiet, like it’s been designed to erase any evidence of panic. The door closes behind me with a soft, final sound.
Marco looks me over. His gaze catches on the neckline of the dress, the shape of my throat, the fact that I’ve managed to do my hair with the cheap hotel mirror and a prayer.
“I told you to wear something nicer,” he murmurs.
“It’s fine,” I say.
It isn’t. It’s a black gown from a consignment shop, conservative and plain, chosen specifically to disappear. It fits, technically, but there’s a difference between fitting and belonging, and I can already feel tonight sharpening around that difference.
Marco’s mouth twists. “It’ll do.”
He shifts closer, not touching, but close enough that my body registers proximity like an alarm. His hand lands on my knee with casual ownership. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I just lift my eyes and meet his.
He smiles wider. “That’s better.”
My stomach turns. I keep my face smooth.
The car starts moving. Streetlights blur past. Neighborhoods change. The city begins to thin out, buildings giving way to trees and long stretches of darkness that feel too quiet to be real. I keep my hands folded in my lap.
Stillness is safety. Stillness is survival.
Marco talks like this is normal. He tells me about donors. About press. About how the Mancini name “still matters” and how “people love a redemption story.”
I nod in the correct places. I say nothing that can be repeated. Outside the window, the world shifts into something manicured.Stone walls. Iron gates. Security at the entrance with earpieces and blank expressions. The kind of men who look at you like they’re already deciding where you’ll bleed if it comes to that.
The car slows. The gate opens.
And my mouth goes dry, because the estate appears through the trees like something built to intimidate God.
It’s enormous. Not just big. Intentional. Architecture as dominance. Warm lights spilling from tall windows. A long drive lined with trimmed hedges and statues and the quiet suggestion that the people who live here don’t worry about consequences because consequences are for other people.
My heart starts counting exits before we’ve even stopped. The driveway back the way we came. Side paths through the hedges. Service entrances I can’t see yet. Doors. Windows. Guards.
My mind is a map-making machine when I’m afraid.
The car stops at the front steps. A valet opens the door. Marco gets out first. He offers his hand like a gentleman. Like a husband. Like a man who hasn’t ever wrapped those same fingers around my wrist and tightened.
I place my hand in his. His grip closes. Firm. Possessive. A reminder.
We climb the steps. The doors open before we reach them. Warm air hits my face. Perfume, champagne, expensive food, flowers, and something sharper underneath it. Something metallic. Not literal. Emotional.
