No. I married you because I saw you and wanted you, he'd said. The memory warms me, and for the first time, I let myself believe he might mean it.
Maybe I’m a fool, but I want to sink into the possibility that he meant it, that what he feels for me is real, not some passing sense of duty or desire. I want to wrap myself in that moment like a second skin, hold it close even if it slips through my fingers in the end.
The days melt into each other. Mornings blur into afternoons, and somehow I’m still here, still learning him. Not just the public version of Giovanni—the Don with a name that coils like power in every mouth that says it—but the man behind the title. The one with quiet rituals and sharp edges.
He is cold, ruthless when the world requires it. I’ve watched him conduct business from the threshold of the study, my presence unnoticed. His voice is always sharp over the phone, each word deliberate, each command laced with quiet steel.
I’ve seen him pace the length of the room, his hand slicing through the air as he lays out instructions that sound more like sentences. Secure the shipment. Handle the leak. Make the problem disappear.
There’s no hesitation, no tremble in his voice, no question of morality. Just action. Just control. Just a man forged in the fire of power, wielding it with unnerving precision. It’s no wonder they follow him. No wonder they call him Don. He doesn’t just wear the crown. He is the kingdom.
And yet, when he turns to me, he softens in a way that unravels me. His touch loses its edge, his voice gentles. When his eyes settle on mine, there’s something warm in them, something that holds me like a whisper meant only for me. As though I’m not one more thing to command or possess, but something sacred. Something he protects.
And that contrast cleaves something open in me every time. I don’t know how someone can be both fire and balm. But he is. And with every passing day, the way he moves around me, the way he treats me, makes the ache in my chest swell in quiet, terrifying ways.
Since that night I gave myself to him, we haven’t crossed that line again. Not once. The hunger between us hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it burns fiercer, more unruly.
Every time he walks into the same space as me, something in me tenses. My body remembers. It reacts before I can stop it. My breath catches when he brushes past me. My pulse flutterswhen he presses a kiss on my forehead, or when his gaze lingers a second too long. He never says a word about it, but I feel it in the air between us. The weight of wanting. The pull of something that won’t let go.
It terrifies me. How much I want him. How much I crave his mouth, his hands, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his gaze when it settles on me like I’m the only thing that matters. I feel it everywhere. Like a string pulled taut beneath my ribs, threatening to snap. Sometimes, when he leans close, when he looks at my mouth like he’s thinking about tasting me again, I forget how to stand. I forget who I was before him.
And still, I wonder why me.
Why did he choose me? When there are others who are better, brighter, whole. Women with voices that don’t tremble. Women like Camilla.
She comes around more often now. I see her heels click across the marble. Hear her laughter sometimes. She always smells like expensive flowers and something sharper underneath. Her presence is like perfume: lingering, cloying, and impossible to ignore.
I see the way her eyes follow him. The way she leans in a little too close. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. It’s not friendship she wants. She wants him. And I don’t know if he sees it. I don’t know if he cares.
I stay away from her. Carefully. Quietly. I’ve learned how to disappear when I need to. So far, it’s worked. Our paths don’t cross often. And when they do, I keep my head down and my hands to myself.
Instead, I fill my days with soft things. The kind of things that give me structure. That keeps me grounded when everything else feels uncertain.
I knit. I read. I lose hours in the garden, letting the sun warm my skin and the earth stain my fingers. I spend time with Maria, who brings me light in small, quiet doses. I see Dario when he visits, and surprisingly, Giovanni doesn’t bristle the way he did that first time. He lets him stay now. He watches, but he doesn't interfere. That means more than I can say.
Lately, I’ve taken to hovering around the kitchen. Growing up with my father, I was never allowed near a stove. What could a defective girl probably cook up?
But I'm learning, without the restrictions that bound me in my father's house. I want to know how to cook for Giovanni.
So, I watch how the cooks work. I want to learn how to make something with my own hands and offer it to him. I learn the rhythm of their hands. I want to understand. A meal. A dish. A small act of care I can give him without needing words.
The first time I stepped in, the staff looked at me like I’d wandered into the wrong place. But they didn’t turn me away. They let me stay. I listen. I watch. I learn.
One day, I told his mother. Quietly. Carefully. I thought she might laugh, or dismiss me, but instead, she smiled. Softly. Proudly. There was something in her eyes, something kind, something approving. She didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. The fear in me that I am not fit enough to rule beside Giovanni always vanishes whenever I am with her.
That woman sees me in a way I never expected. She looks at me like I belong. Like I’m not a mistake in this house. Like I matter.
And sometimes, I let myself believe it.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine this version of life continuing. Imagine the heat in Giovanni’s eyes never fading. Imagine giving him the scarf I knitted, watching him wear it like something precious. I imagine serving him something I made with my own hands, imagine the pride on his face when he tastes it.
I imagine love.
And maybe it isn’t smart. Maybe it’s reckless. Perhaps I am still that same foolish girl who's too desperate for affection, too starved for warmth, too willing to accept the barest flicker of kindness and build a world out of it.
But when you’ve been cold your whole life, you don’t turn away from the fire. You inch closer, even when it scorches. Even when it might consume you.
If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up. If it’s borrowed time, I don’t want to give it back. I want to let it settle into my bones, carve itself into my memory, become part of me. I want to believe that this—whatever this is between us—was mine, even if just for a fleeting heartbeat. I want to believe he was mine.
