Tomasso exhales slowly through his nose. He walks to the far wall and taps one of the frames as if it offends him. Then he turns. “Do you feel responsible for her?”
I stare at him, knowing he's getting somewhere. I don't answer.
“Is this because of Alessio?” His voice is soft when he says it. Too soft. Like he knows he’s stepping on broken glass. My spine stiffens anyway.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice flat.
Tomasso blinks, not because he’s surprised, but because he’s crossed a line and he knows it.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I just… you’ve been different since—”
“I said don’t.”
He goes quiet and nods once, his mouth pulling tight. “Sorry.”
I don’t want to talk about Alessio. Not here. Not ever. The grief is too old to reopen, too raw to be touched. It lives in me like a second pulse, and it’s mine. No one gets to poke at it. Not even him.
Tomasso is already turning away, probably thinking the conversation’s done, when I speak again.
“I’m getting married.”
He stops mid-step and turns slowly, brows drawing together like he didn’t quite hear me right. “You’re what?”
I meet his eyes. “I’ve had time to think,” I say. “About Marchelli. About the debt. About what he’s worth.”
Tomasso blinks like he’s waiting for the punchline. “And you’ve decided marriage is the answer?”
“I’ll write it off,” I say. “All of it. If he gives me his daughter.”
“The mute.”
“Liliana.”
His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. It takes a full second for him to recover, and when he does, he’s more cautious than surprised. “You're serious.”
“I am.”
“You want to marry her. A girl you’ve seen once.”
I nod.
“Since when did you start trading debts for brides?”
“Since five days ago,” I say. “Since I saw her in that study.”
“You're letting him off easy. You never do that.”
I shrug again. “I was going to destroy him,” I say, quieter now. “Ruin him completely. Make an example of him so loud the streets would buzz with it for decades. But then I saw her and I knew. If he gives her to me willingly, if he signs her over… I’ll wipe the slate clean.”
Tomasso leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. “She’s Marchelli’s daughter,” he reminds me. “That man has rot in his blood. You want to touch anything that came from him?”
“She didn’t come from him,” I say. “Not really. She’s not like him. I saw it. She’s quiet, but she burns. I don’t know what it is. I can’t name it. But it’s there. And it’s not pity. Don’t mistake it for that.”
Tomasso studies me, and something shifts in his expression. “Dio. You’ve made up your mind.”
“I have.”
“And you think Marchelli will agree?”
