2
LILIANA
I'd only gone in there for a book.
The study is my father’s domain. A place I usually avoid when he’s around. But it was mid-afternoon, and I knew his routine. I knew he wouldn’t be home.
I know his schedule by heart. It's like clockwork, and even with the Don’s death, and the power shift, he hasn't changed it much.
So, I’d cautiously walked towards his study with soft feet and slow breath, already picturing myself curled under the sunlight in my room, diving back into the dense political theories that would keep the silence in my mind company. I'd been cautious because one of his men could be sniffing around, and if hecaught me and ratted me out to my father, I'd be resigned to forceful confinement for the rest of the week—my father's way of punishing me.
I just wanted one of his books. Something on comparative politics. I may be mute, but I’m not stupid. I love to read, to learn, to build a world of my own that isn't soaked in my father's contempt. One of the few mercies of being Renato Marchelli's daughter is that he had me homeschooled, if only to get me out of both his sight and that of the public.
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was obligation. I don’t care. I took what I could from it. I’m not grateful for many things, but for that, I am. Education gave me something to hold on to.
The door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. There was an unusual stillness in the air, and I should have noticed it, but I didn't, and I stepped in. Then my eyes adjusted. There he was, my father, seated, his bulk unmistakable in the chair behind his desk. And then… him.
I recognized Giovanni Renzetti instantly. Of course I did. Everyone in the underground knows him. He’s the son of Massimo Renzetti, and now that his father is dead, he wears the title. The new Don of the Renzetti famiglia. One of the most powerful men in Italy.
I’d seen his photos in tabloids, clipped mentions in political essays, glimpses of him in the corner of grainy surveillance footage that sometimes made its way into the files I stole from my father’s cabinets. Although I’d never paid much attention.They called him ruthless, brilliant, untouchable, unforgiving. And most of all, devastatingly handsome.
The tabloids had not exaggerated.
He had a presence that swallowed the room whole. It was like everything that existed was immersed in him. Standing, his stance had been threatening, as if the walls bowed inward just for him. My breath had stuttered in my throat, a reaction so intense I hated.
I hate when I can't control my reactions, but in my defense, he was like a statue, carved out of something cruel and ancient. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with that deep-set jaw and storm-gray eyes that sliced straight through me. He had no business being beautiful, not in the way that made my mouth go dry. And then those eyes. Dio. They warmed when they landed on me. For a fleeting moment, I'd held his gaze, until I was almost squirming, and I looked away.
I remember how I stood in the doorway, barefoot, unsure whether to flee or apologize. I’d signed the latter, hoping it would suffice. But of course, my father had barked at me, the usual sting of his words lashing across the room like they belonged to someone who had never loved me. As if I was less than dirt. I’m used to it. I've believed for the longest time that he doesn't really love me. His voice always drops to a growl when he speaks to me. Like my silence offends him more than anything else in the entire world.
Only this time, someone else had been in the room. And that someone had looked at me like he saw me.
Giovanni Renzetti had watched me with a quiet intensity that made my skin flush and itch. When my father shouted again and ordered me out, Giovanni had snapped. Told him to shut up. Told him he should be ashamed.
No one speaks to my father like that. No one. And yet there Giovanni was, every line of him taut with anger, facing down my father in his own house, over me.
And then he'd done the strangest thing, he'd turned to me and apologized with that gravelly, dangerous voice of his.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
No one has ever apologized to me, not once, not for anything. Not the guards who slammed doors in my face, because they saw my father doing the same thing, and they mirrored his actions. Not the tutors who pitied me and made it no less obvious that they thought my defect made me less of a human. Not my father, who'll forever look upon me as an unnecessary inconvenience.
But this man, this dangerous man, offered it freely.
And I hated it. Hated the heat that rushed to my face. Hated the tightness in my chest. Because I knew what it was. Pity.
I don’t want his pity. I don’t want his attention. I don’t want anything from anyone. I've been self-sufficient for a very long time.
And because I couldn't breathe through the anger that clogged my nostrils, I fled the study before I could combust. Before I could crumble into pieces in front of two men who would never see me whole: one, my father—the other, a total stranger I have no intention of seeing again.
Now I’m in the garden, barefoot still. The soil is soft beneath my feet, warmed gently by the sun that filters through the clouds above. It’s quieter here. Softer. I always come here when I need to breathe. When I need to remember that I am something more than my father’s shame.
Here, I’m not deaf, not mute. Not strange. I’m just… me.
The flowers don’t care that I have a defect. They bloom for me anyway. The lavender leans toward my hands like it knows me. I move slowly through the garden, kneeling in the patch I favor the most, where the light hits in stripes through the hedges and the scent is always strongest. I breathe it in, trying to steady the rhythm of my thoughts. Trying to forget how raw I felt walking out of that study. How stripped bare I was beneath two sets of eyes.
Lou is here. One of the gardeners. He doesn’t talk much, which suits me fine. We communicate in our own language—nods, small smiles, gestures passed between the quiet. He never looksat me like I’m broken. He never flinches when I raise my hands to speak.
He hands me a trowel without a word. I nod my thanks and crouch beside him, my knees pressing into the damp earth. My gloves are already stained, dirt creeping beneath the fabric to cling to my skin. I don't mind. There’s something cathartic about it, something grounding. The soil listens. It absorbs everything without asking for explanation.
