I stare at her. “Because I saw you,” I say. I saw you, I sign again, gently this time. And I couldn’t look away.
She stares at me like she wants to hit me. Or cry. Or both. And maybe she will. But she doesn’t turn away. She stands her ground.
And God help me, I want her even more for it.
4
LILIANA
“So do you agree?”
Giovanni’s voice is low and smooth, like he already knows the answer and is only giving me the illusion of choice. I roll my eyes and let out a sharp huff through my nose because I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I don’t trust myself not to fling something at him.
He doesn't flinch. Of course, he doesn't. He continues to look at me with that practiced ease that grates on my nerves more than anything.
My heart is thrashing in my chest, louder than it should be. My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to scream. Or punchsomething. Or disappear entirely. I have always felt caged, and now the bars that make up my confinement are made of his calm voice, my father’s greedy silence, and the walls of this suffocating house. I can’t breathe in here.
My hands speak before my thoughts can catch up.
I’d marry him over my dead body, I sign to my father—even though he only knows the basics and likely doesn't understand me—every gesture slicing through the air with mean intent. I’d marry him over my rotten, maggot-infested corpse.
Then, because I need to breathe past the heaviness in my chest, I turn and run out.
I hear Giovanni call my name, softly, like he thinks it’ll tether me and I'll stay and listen to his silly words meant to soothe. It doesn’t. I don’t stop. I don’t turn. I half walk, half run.
I hear the chair scrape, then my father’s voice rises behind me as if he's coming after me. “Get back here, ragazza ingrata!”
There’s venom in his voice, the kind that used to make me freeze as a little girl. But I don’t freeze now. I round the corner and hear Giovanni snap something low and furious, definitely a command, telling him to stay. And the silence that follows is the kind that makes you certain it was obeyed.
I don't stop. I keep walking.
I storm into the garden without thinking, my feet moving faster than my thoughts. The air shifts the moment I cross the threshold. It's cooler here, quieter. Everything behind me blurs, but I don’t stop until I’ve reached the farthest edge, the place tucked just out of view from the house.
I grip my elbows, standing still. My heart pounds like it wants to claw out of my chest. I try to breathe, try to calm the roar inside me, but it doesn’t help. It never does. The ache is everywhere. My throat. My hands. My ribs. Like something inside me is trying to break free.
How dare he? How dare he come into my life and try to disrupt the careful, familiar order? Yes, it isn't perfect, but it's my life. Who the hell does he think he is? Everyone has always ignored me, and I have come to accept that. So why does the Don himself, who can have any woman he desires, want to disrupt my familiar life?
And then I hear him. His footsteps are not rushed. They're steady, sure. Of course, he'll come after me. You’d think I’d be given space. A little dignity, at least, after what he just threw at me.
I whirl around the second he turns the corner. I won't give him time to say shit.
Shove your offer up your arrogant ass. I sign it so fast I nearly jab a finger into his chest. I won’t agree. You can’t make me.
He doesn’t blink. He signs back. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do, cara.
I blink at him, the endearment throwing me off balance.
He signs again, as if using a term of endearment on me is second nature to him, while I'm here, still getting my bearings. Your anger is understood. But you need to hear me out.
No.
He stops signing. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Marrying me is in your best interest.”
I blink at him like he’s grown two heads. Is he serious?
He must see the disbelief on my face, because he keeps going.
“I know your father is a jerk. I know he doesn’t treat you right. If you marry me, he’ll be forced to let you go. You won’t owe him anything. You’ll be off his hands.”
