She crosses the room with a drink in her hand and sinks into the chair across from me. She crosses one elegant leg over the other. “So, you’re actually going through with this,” she says, voice cool and amused.
“Seems that way,” I answer, lifting my glass to my lips.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a piece of art she never thought she’d see hung on the wall. “You always said you wouldn’t.”
I give a slight shrug. “People say a lot of things.”
She exhales, almost a scoff, and rolls her eyes in that Camilla way that’s more fondness than disdain. “No. You didn’t just say it. You swore it, Giovanni. You said marriage was a leash for weak men.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You don’t change your mind.”
I don’t answer that. She knows I’ve never been one for shifting tides or sentimental turns. That’s exactly why she’s watching me now like she’s searching for something beneath the surface, something not adding up.
“She better be worth it,” she murmurs, taking a sip from her drink.
A soft knock interrupts us, and I know who it is before I even say, “come in.”
Liliana.
She steps in, and it's like my breath has been sucked out of me. God, she's breathtaking.
She's wearing a muted gray dress, cinched at the waist, the fabric flowing around her like a vision. Her hair is pinned up with lazy effort because already, a few strands have escaped to kiss her collarbone. There is a line of delicate silver around her throat. Her lips are bare, but my eyes are drawn to the fullness of them. I want to plunder that mouth.
She's not looking at me, but I can't peel my eyes away from her. My heartbeat stammers, then picks up, fast and low in my chest. My pulse tightens at my throat. And lower—God—my cock twitches, full and inconvenient, pressing against the line of my pants like it’s got a mind of its own. I shift slightly, discreetly, one hand curling over the armrest to anchor myself.
She doesn’t have to do anything, she just has to exist, and I yearn for her. I want her with a fierceness that should scare me, but it doesn't. I want to make her mine in every way possible. Not in passing. Not in theory.
I want to touch her. I want to feel the lustrous silkiness of her hair. I want to feel what her silence feels like when it’s pressed against my skin.
I see Tomasso stand from my periphery. He's clearly taken. “Bellissima,” he says, with a slight bow. “I’m Tomasso. A friend and consigliere to this brooding man. In that order.”
Liliana glances at him, then gives a quiet, polite smile.
I clear my throat, standing. “Liliana, this is—”
Camilla steps forward before I can finish, already extending a hand. “Camilla Moretti,” she says. “And you?”
Liliana doesn’t respond. Her hands stay by her sides. I step forward gently. “She can’t speak.”
Camilla blinks, then recovers quickly. “Oh.” She steps back.
There’s no awkwardness in Liliana’s silence, only in the way others try to fill it.
Tomasso glances between us, reading the air the way only he knows how. “We’ll leave you two to it,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, he motions to Camilla.
They slip out, leaving the room quieter than before. Liliana remains by the door, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, uncertain but not afraid.
I motion to the couch. “Come. Sit.”
She moves slowly but deliberately, her gaze passing over the room before settling on the chair across from me. When she sits, her posture is careful, guarded.
I wait until she sits, silent and composed, folding her hands neatly in her lap like she’s here for a business deal and not a conversation that could very well reshape both our lives.
“You said you wanted to discuss terms,” I say, my voice low.
She nods, and without preamble, raises her hands.
