He huffed a laugh. “I didn’t do this.”
Adriano didn’t say it outright, but he implied thatMilanhad done this, that perhaps he’d decorated a space for me and not the rest of his own house, that he’d bought a clean space only to sully it with colors that he thought I might like, just like he’d predicted that I’d love the colors on my ring.
Milan was the biggest contradiction, and I didn’t know what this violent muddle of hatred, confusion, and softness was, but I knew I felt it all for him.
And I hated that.
I loved that I hated that.
Thankfully, Adriano nodded toward the dark corridor before I could contemplate that all night. I followed him, staring at the colorful couches until they were entirely out of sight. He tapped on the first door, labeling it ‘the bathtub’,the second one ‘the bathroom’, and then he opened the last door, and I couldn’t control my gasp.
It was so much more than a bedroom. It was a creative masterpiece with floral bedsheets atop a bed so large it could fit six of me, tall ceilings adorned with art in mismatched frames, some gold, some silver, some simply glass, and windows towering two stories high with a balcony overlooking the pool and gardens.
In a daze, I ran my fingers over the soft sheets, wondering if this was real, or rather, what parts of it I wanted to be real.
“Our doctor will be in to stitch up your hand, and then you can get some sleep,” Adriano said with a shy smile, forced this time. “As shitty as things were today, you still have places to be tomorrow, so I suggest you get up on the early side so we cantalk about it. I doubt you’d want to hear it from Milan; I certainly wouldn’t.”
He turned to leave, but I stopped him as I said, “Adriano?”
The Consigliere didn’t turn but twisted his head over his shoulder and raised a brow.
“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?”I hated feeling weak, like I was fulfilling the reputation that men put on women, but I couldn’t control the prickle of tears in my eyes. “I mean, we just got attacked at our wedding, and he—” I couldn’t say the words again, couldn’t make my brain relive the sight of the body.
“No.” Adriano shook his head. “This is your life now, Sicily. It’s going to be fucking hard being the Capo dei Capi’s wife, but it’s gonna be even harder being Milan’s wife.”
He walked away, leaving me in a room that was fit for me, in colors and details and art, but here in my bloodied gown, I had never been more aware that I was alone in a house that was not meant to be mine.
I hadn’t slept well.It didn’t feel like my bed to sleep well in.
I missed my sister, Matt, Elena, even my mother and father. I was homesick, and I slept for no more than forty minutes at a time before the muddle of Milan and the attack woke me in a fit of gasping breaths and cold sweat.
That didn’t stop the bed from being warm and so soft that I could’ve never moved again, but the familiar scent of coffee sparked the desperate need for something normal. Still in my bright pink pajama shirt and shorts, because I was absolutelynotchanging for Adriano or Milan’s sake, I padded barefoot through the hallway until I reached the kitchen to find Adriano and a pot of coffee fit for fifty people.
The kitchen was as grand as the rest of the house, empty apart from obvious essentials liketwoespresso machines. The counters were white marble and clinically clean, but the rest of the room followed the same warm, sunlit kind of white, and it made me want to be there despite it not being mine at all.
It settled my homesickness a little to see Adriano in gray sweatpants, a crumpled black T-shirt, and hair like a bird’s nest as if he was not the boss’s Consigliere but justAdriano.
“Morning.” I yawned.
He smiled at me from across the kitchen, not giving two glances at my pajamas, and continued pouring his cup of coffee. “Morning. You sleep okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He feigned a scowl, taking another matching mug from the cupboard. “Liar. You look like shit. Sit down.”
I scoffed, taking a seat at the kitchen island beside the one occupied by his laptop. “You must charm a lot of ladies with that attitude.”
A look crossed Adriano’s face, something between surprise and a hidden emotion that I couldn’t name, but it was darker. I didn’t push; I suspected that whatever Adriano was hiding behind that mask was not up for discussion, especially not with me.
He stayed silent as he set the mugs in front of us, throwing creamer, milk, and sugar onto the counter like this was a coffee buffet. A small droplet of milk dripped onto the surface, and I noted how Adriano wiped it instantly.
“Okay, what’s the deal?” I sighed.
“Deal?”
“Are you both insane clean-freaks or…?”
“I’m not,” he said with a look of feigned offense. “But Milan is, and I respect that.”
