Chapter 30 Luca
The flight back to Rome passes in careful silence.
Gabriella—I'm still adjusting to her real name—sits across from me reading a magazine, but I see the tension in her shoulders. She's playing Sofia again, returning to the careful posture and soft mannerisms of the woman I thought I married.
But now I know it's an act.
Now I see the effort it takes for her to contain her natural positive energy, to speak in whispers instead of the confident voice I heard in Prague.
She glances up occasionally, trying to read my expression. I keep my face neutral, professional. The concerned husband returning from a honeymoon that was interrupted by business concerns.
Paolo handles the logistics of our arrival, ensuring we have privacy as we disembark and transfer to the waiting car. No photographers, no curious family members. Just a quiet return to the villa where I'll have time to think.
"We’re home," Gabriella says softly as we pull through the gates. She's looking at the gardens, the familiar stone walls, and I wonder if she sees them as her home or a prison.
Rosa greets us at the door with her usual warmth, fussing over our luggage and asking about Prague. Gabriella slips seamlessly back into her role, describing tourist attractions and restaurants with just the right amount of enthusiasm.
"The architecture was incredible," she tells Rosa. "And Luca was such a wonderful guide."
"I'm sure he was. You both look rested. The honeymoon was good for you."
If only Rosa knew how complicated that statement really is.
I excuse myself to handle some business calls, leaving Gabriella to settle back into the routine of being Sofia Romano. When I close the study door behind me, I place a call.
Detective Alberti answers on the first ring.
"Romano. How was Prague?"
"Educational. I need you to close the file on my wife."
"Close it? Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I found what I needed to know. How much do I owe you for your discretion?"
There's a pause. Alberti is smart enough to understand what I'm really asking. "For complete discretion? For ensuring this investigation never happened? To seal any records I found?"
"Yes, complete."
"Fifty thousand euros should cover any administrative costs."
"Done. The money will be transferred today. And Alberti?"
"Yes?"
"If anyone ever asks questions about Sofia Romano's background, if anyone else tries to investigate her past or present, I want to know about it immediately."
"Understood. Consider the matter sealed permanently."
The detective's investigation ends here, buried under enough money to ensure his silence. Whatever questions might arise about my wife's identity in the future, they won't come from official channels.
But that still leaves the question of what I do with the truth I've discovered.
My phone buzzes. An unusual text from Dante Mancini: "Enjoyed meeting your charming wife in Milan. Look forward to seeing you both again soon for another poker game."
I read the message again. Dante isn't the type to send social pleasantries. If he's reaching out, it's because he wants something.
Or because he knows something.
"Luca?" Gabriella appears in the doorway, still wearing the conservative dress she chose for travel. "Is everything all right? You look concerned."
"It’s business. Nothing that can't wait."
She nods, but I can see her studying my face. She's trying to determine if my mood has anything to do with her confession or if it's genuinely about work.
"Rosa said your father called earlier," I tell her. "She told him you'd call him back when you had time."
She rolls her eyes. Not even trying to hide her feelings about him anymore. "Of course. I should check in with him."
"Probably wise. I'm sure he's anxious to hear about the trip."
"Yes. I'm sure he is."
She turns to leave, then pauses. "Luca? Thank you. For Prague, I mean. For giving me that time away."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I feel like I do."
After she's gone, I sit in the growing darkness of my study and think about choices. About the woman living in my house who isn't my wife but makes my house feel like a home when she’s here.
About the way she looked at me in Prague when she thought I might destroy her, and how she never once begged for mercy.
My phone rings with Paolo calling.
"Boss, we've got the weekly security briefing scheduled for tomorrow. And there's a message from your stepmother about a dinner party this weekend. She wants to know if you and Mrs. Romano will attend."
A dinner party. Public appearances. The careful choreography of maintaining our marriage in front of people who can't know the truth.
"Tell her we'll be there," I say. "And Paolo? I want extra security for that event. Discrete, but thorough."
"Any particular concerns?"
"Being cautious is all."
But it's more than caution. It's instinct. Something about Dante's message, about the timing, feels calculated. And in my world, calculated timing usually means trouble.
I head upstairs to find Gabriella on the phone with her father, speaking in careful, measured tones about Prague's beauty and our wonderful time together.
She's protecting him from the truth just like she protected Sofia. Taking responsibility for problems she didn't create, shielding others from consequences that should be shared.
When she hangs up, she looks tired with dark circles under her eyes that weren’t there before.
"Everything all right?" I ask.
"He’s still worried. Wanted to make sure nothing had... changed."
"And what did you tell him?"
"That everything was perfect. That you're a wonderful husband and I'm very happy."
"Are you? Happy?"
The question slips out and surprises us both. She looks at me with those dark eyes that I now know belong to Gabriella, not Sofia, and I see honesty there.
“I’d be happier if I knew I’d be alive to celebrate our first year anniversary,” she says in the first spark of life from her since Prague.
"There’s a dinner party this weekend," I say, changing the subject. "My stepmother is expecting us to attend."
"Of course. I'll make sure I'm prepared."
"Good. Because there will be people there who knew Sofia before our marriage. People who might notice if anything seems... different."
"Yes, I understand."
"Do you? Because if you make a mistake, if someone becomes suspicious, it won't just be your life at risk."
"I won't make a mistake."
But even as she says it, I'm thinking about Dante's message. The look in his eyes in Milan when he realized he'd been played by my wife. How men like him don't forget humiliation and don't forgive being made to look foolish.
"Get some rest," I tell her. "Tomorrow, we return to our normal routine."
Whatever normal means now.
As I watch her head toward our bedroom—toward the bed we share under false pretenses that somehow feel more real than anything else in my life—I make a decision.
Or perhaps the decision has always been made and I only now acknowledge it.
The investigation is closed. The secret is buried.
Anyone who threatens to expose it, anyone who puts her in danger, will discover exactly how far I'm willing to go to protect what's mine.