I can’t pretend that I’m looking forward to it, yet I nod because that’s what’s expected of me.
Outside the window, I see Lia disappearing into the house. Her hands are now empty. I wonder if Marco helped her spread the linen clothes under the sun. Surely, he can’t be that stupid.
But I know him. And yes, he is that stupid. Maybe reckless is the better word. Nevertheless, he still does whatever he feels like doing without thinking of the consequences. Sometimes, I envy him in that regard. Other times, like right now, I wish I could knock some sense into him.
I stare after her until she’s out of my eyesight.
The Elders continue their conversation, their distorted voices buzzing through the study like a swarm of insects. They give my father their expectations for the gathering.
I listen, nod when appropriate, and answer when called upon. But inside, I am somewhere else entirely.
By the time the meeting is over, I’m barely holding my anger and frustration in. My father shuts the laptop without a word, and when I turn to leave, he still doesn’t say anything.
I need air. Despite how large the estate is, I feel like I’m still breathing in the scent of her. I need space. I need distance from her and everything else.
But as I stalk through the halls of this towering house, I know the truth.
It’s only a matter of time before I stop pretending I can resist her.
5
LIA
It’s been three days since the devil sons returned to the estate, and the atmosphere has shifted dramatically. The air feels noticeably colder and tense, not just to me but to all the maids and servants who have become more cautious in their every step. Having two Romano men in the house was one thing; now, with four, it feels even more daunting.
Over the past few days, I’ve gotten very good at disappearing. I time my movements with theirs like it’s a game of shadow tag. Only, I don’t want to be caught. Not by any of them, especially not Francesco.
But no matter how hard I try not to think about him, his name takes up space in my thoughts. Since I’ve gotten so good at avoiding him, I’ve only spotted him once passing through the west hall. He didn’t look at me. But I felt him, like a current under my skin.
He hasn’t come to my room since he got back. He hasn’t watched me sleep. I know because, for some reason, I stay awake, a part of me thinking he’ll show up. A part of me wanting him to show up. It’s fucked up. But that’s what living with the Romanos for two years has done to me.
I see Marco more than any other Romano, even more than I see Elio, even though I’ve lived under the same roof with the latter for longer since I was brought here.
Marco always manages to find me, no matter how good I think I am at hiding from him, from them. In the courtyard the other day, the hallways, even the kitchen. He acts like his appearance is just a coincidence, but he knows that I know it’s not. That doesn’t stop him, though. He doesn’t care if there are other people around. Instead, he cracks jokes that make the maids blush and the older staff shake their heads. He doesn’t act like someone important, but he is. And I can’t let myself forget that.
I smile when he talks to me. Laugh sometimes. At first, it was because I didn’t want to seem rude. He was the only Romano who didn’t either ignore my entire existence or try to make my existence miserable. I had to be polite. But lately, I’ve realized I actually like him. He’s decent, quite funny, and ridiculously charming. I see why there’s always a buzz around his public relationships, and he’s been in a lot of them.
I know his type. Men like Marco Romano play with fire for fun. He’s just passing time by flirting with me. Maybe he’s bored. He’s back after two years of being away, and he’s looking for anything to occupy his time. I’m not stupid enough to think his flirting means he’s actually interested in me. And even if he is, men like him never stay interested in girls for too long, and girls like me get left with the burns.
The kitchen is hot tonight, like it always is, but tonight feels different. The Morettis are having dinner with the Romanos, a custom that’s been passed down for years. I overheard the older maids saying this might be the last dinner before the families officially become in-laws. For generations, the Romanos and Morettis have paired off their children, one from each family, tying them closer with every marriage.
I know it’s common in mafia households, but I still don’t understand why they do it—marrying into the other family, as if it’s the only way to ensure loyalty. But I guess that’s just how it works.
I know for a fact that a family like theirs deems it important to keep their power and wealth within the family and maintain loyalty. Marrying cousins is a way of preserving bloodlines, ensuring that power stays concentrated within the family, and preventing outsiders from gaining too much influence.
In many mafia families, where loyalty and secrecy are crucial, these arranged marriages serve both strategic and cultural purposes.
By marrying within the family—whether it’s cousins, nieces, or other close relatives—the family ensures that the bloodline remains “pure” and that there is less risk of betrayal or leaks of information. These marriages also solidify alliances, strengthen family bonds, and help avoid conflicts that could arise from introducing external influences.
External influences like me. Who hasn’t been able to stop thinking about a man who is engaged to someone else, no matter how hard I try.
Long marble counters are covered in bowls of chopped vegetables, granite pots bubble away on the stove, and the room smells like garlic, rosemary, and parsley. Pans clang. Knives thud against chopping boards. Everyone’s moving fast, like a messy, well-rehearsed dance.
One of the ovens is slightly broken, so it lets out a soft, mechanical hiss every few minutes. I’ve grown used to the sounds this place makes. Every creak, every clink of metal, or scrape of knives. It has its own kind of language.
There’s a huge pot bubbling on the stove, and two maids are arguing about whether the lasagna needs more béchamel. An older cook, Marta, is shaping meatballs by hand, her thickfingers working with the kind of focus that makes me think she’s picturing someone’s face in every one. It reminds me of my mother.
I’m peeling potatoes and listening half-heartedly to the usual gossip swirling around the room. A few of the maids are talking about how big Francesco’s wedding will be. Of course, it’ll be a big ceremony. The first son of the Romano family is marrying the eldest daughter of the Morettis.
