It’s at the estate.
With her.
The drive back feels longer than it should. The road heavy under the tires, the hum of the engine steady and low, each mile an anchor against the impatience building under my skin.
When I step through the doors, the house is as it always is—quiet, controlled, every detail in place.
I don’t have to ask where she is.
Liliana is in the garden.
I see her from the terrace. She's seated near the far edge, sunlight spilling across her hair. Her posture is easy in a way that makes me stop for a moment, just to watch. When she hears me, she looks up. Her eyes find mine with that same quiet steadiness she’s been carrying lately.
It’s different, the way she looks at me now.
“Come inside,” I say, my voice even.
She rises without hesitation, falling into step beside me as we walk back through the halls. Her steps are measured, her silence calm, but there’s something beneath it that pulls at me all the same.
We don’t speak until we reach my study. I close the door.
“Another shipment was hit,” I say.
Her brow pulls faintly. She doesn’t speak, but I see the small shift in her expression, the slight tightening.
I step closer. “Vittorio Greco.”
The change is small, but I don’t miss it. The stillness in her posture is the kind she wears when she’s deciding how much she will let me see.
“You know him,” I say.
Her hands move slowly, deliberately. My father’s friend.
It’s not enough.
“Not just a friend,” I answered, my voice sharpening. “A man your father promised something to. A man who thinks my marriage to you is the reason he’s been denied what he’s owed.”
Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. But there’s something there—anger, hurt, something I can’t name threading through the space between us.
Greco isn’t hitting my shipments because of business. He’s hitting them because of her.
And that makes this a different kind of war.
Her stillness tightens something in my chest. “You knew he would come for you,” I say, my voice steady.
Her eyes don’t move. Her hands lift slowly, the signs careful. I knew my father owed him. I didn’t know what he would do.
It’s a measured answer. Too measured.
My jaw tightens. “He’s not just circling my business, Liliana. He’s hitting it because of you.”
Her hands falter, just slightly, before she signs again. I didn’t ask him to. I don’t want anything from him.
“That doesn’t matter to men like Greco,” I say. “He’s waited years. He thinks patience makes him entitled. My marriage to you burned whatever fantasy he’s been holding on to.”
Her eyes flash at that, the first real break in her composure. It’s quick, but I see it—the shift beneath the still surface.
“You think this is about him being denied something he was owed,” I say, my voice quieter now, sharper. “I think it’s about him thinking he still has a claim.”
