Whoever stood behind the men who touched my shipment will have a name before the day is out. My informants are thorough. They always have been. I trust them to dig through the silence, to pull the truth to the surface. And when I have that truth, the weight of their mistake will crush them. It will serve as a clear warning to anyone else watching what happens when they interfere with what belongs to me.
The city rolls by, the steady movement of the car a backdrop to my thoughts. My mind slips back to the morning: Liliana's hands, small and careful, as she placed the scarf in mine. The gray of it matches my eyes. The way she kept her gaze turned away, her wrist moving in that nervous rhythm I have come to know so well.
It was such a simple gesture, but it settled in me like something permanent. I know how long it must have taken her, and the effort, too.
The memory stays with me now, anchored in the middle of everything else, steadying the sharp edge of my temper. It pulls my mind back from the place it wants to go, gives me something solid to hold on to that is not driven by anger alone.
It keeps my focus sharp, my purpose clear. The storm waits beneath the surface, ready to break when I have the truth I came for. And I will have it.
14
LILIANA
Maria’s voice is sharp with mock impatience, and it makes me look up from the book in my lap.
She is sitting across from Dario, a skein of deep green yarn in her lap, her hands moving quickly as she demonstrates a neat row of stitches. Dario’s fingers, much larger and far less disciplined, fumble over the needles, his movements uneven.
“You’re pulling too tight,” she scolds, reaching forward to adjust his grip.
“I’m trying,” he says, his tone quiet, almost meek, which makes me bite back a smile. Dario does not take corrections from anyone, except, it seems, from Maria.
I sink back against my chair, watching the exchange. It doesn’t take much to see what’s happening. I know my cousin too well. Dario is smitten, and that’s why he sits there, patient under Maria’s careful instruction, letting her chastise him like a schoolboy. He could have walked away long ago, but he stays, obedient and focused in a way that is almost comical.
Maria shakes her head, muttering something about stubborn pupils. Her hands move quickly, undoing the mess he’s made. I turn my gaze back to my book, though my eyes don’t follow the words on the page. The sound of their voices blends into the background, comfortable and warm, something that feels like it belongs here.
I try to focus on the lines in front of me, but the words refuse to stay. My thoughts drift, circling the changes of the past weeks. Dario lives on the estate now. Giovanni made it happen. I still don’t know what convinced him, but he tolerates my cousin now. I couldn’t be more grateful.
It feels easier with Dario here. He fills the quiet in ways that don’t weigh me down. He makes himself useful by helping in the stables, running errands for the staff, fixing whatever needs repair. I see him in the courtyard sometimes, sleeves rolled up, a rare smile breaking across his face.
I’m not alone here anymore. That feeling surprises me most of all.
The staff has warmed to me. It’s slow and steady, but I can feel the shift. They no longer just greet me with polite deference.There is familiarity now. In the kitchen, they’ve started letting me for as long as I want.
Sometimes they let me help with small dishes. I’ve learned to make caprese salad, bright with basil and mozzarella, and bruschetta brushed with garlic and oil. Yesterday I tried frittata, watching the eggs puff just right in the pan.
Yesterday morning, I made breakfast for Dario and me. It was simple—scrambled eggs, fresh bread warmed just enough to crisp the crust—but it was mine. I had put it together with my own hands. The satisfaction stayed with me the rest of the day.
I’ve begun to take on small responsibilities, things that make me feel settled in my role here. Just yesterday, the head housekeeper brought me a selection of fabrics for new curtains for some of the guest rooms. I spent an hour going through the textures and colours, imagining how they would fall in the rooms. When I made my choice, it left me with a quiet sense of fulfillment.
It’s strange to realize I want to tell Giovanni about these things. I want to see his expression when I describe them, to see if he understands how these small pieces fit into the life I’m learning to live here.
He’s been gone for almost a week. Tomasso came back two days ago, but Giovanni hasn’t. The absence is cutting in ways I didn’t expect. I miss him. I miss his presence in the halls, his voice, the warmth of his touch. I miss the ease that’s begun to build between us, the quiet that feels less like distance now and morelike understanding. It's a small victory that I'm warming up to him—my husband.
This morning, Tomasso came to check in on me over breakfast. His expression was sharp as always, but there was a teasing glint when he looked at me. He glanced at my plate, then at me, and commented that I was looking pale. He made a joke about me missing my husband already.
I suspect Giovanni asked him to return early for my benefit, to keep an eye on me. The thought doesn’t unsettle me the way it should. I'm starting to really settle into the belief that he truly cares for me, and as such, he's obligated to protect me.
I teased Tomasso back, signing something that made him shake his head and smile faintly. It’s easy to be at ease with him. There’s no pressure, no formality that feels heavy.
Still, the ache remains. I miss Giovanni. One of these days, I’ll cook for him. Something simple, something that will surprise him. The thought makes me almost look forward to his return more than I already do.
I didn’t expect to feel so settled here. It is more than I imagined, more than I thought I would be allowed. I am safe, and the safety feels like a solid thing I can stand on.
Except my father is trying to threaten that safety.
He has tried to reach me again. The message came quietly. I suspect he doesn't want Giovanni to find out. It pleases me that he somehow fears the presence that he wields.
I refused his invitation, of course. Just as I did before. I don’t want to see him. I know he doesn’t want to see me for reasons that would matter. He wants something. That’s the only reason he'd ever come looking for me without Giovanni's knowledge.
