Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Ginni
The house is perfect.
Not just the decor, though I’ve spent days making sure every detail is exactly right.
Fresh flowers in crystal vases, candles at precisely the correct height to create ambiance without overwhelming the conversation, table linens pressed to mathematical perfection.
Everything arranged with the kind of dedicated attention to beauty that I bring to all my favorite projects.
But it’s more than that. It’s the warmth filling every room, the sound of laughter drifting from the sitting room where Carlo is entertaining the first of our guests, and the knowledge that this elegant space is ours. Really ours. Home in a way I never thought I’d have.
My dreams of Carlo and I choosing a house together were unnecessary. I fit perfectly here, and there is something magical about that.
I smooth my hands down the front of my sapphire silk shirt, the one that makes my eyes look like jewels, and check my reflection in the hallway mirror one more time. I want to look perfect tonight. For Carlo, for our friends, for this beautiful life we’re building together.
It’s been three months since the rescue.
Three months of healing and learning to trust that this is real, that I’m not going to wake up in that prison cell and find it was all another delusion.
Carlo has been endlessly patient with my fears and my nightmares.
I’ll never get tired of him holding me close and whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
This house helps. It’s so much bigger than the basement, with proper windows and natural light and rooms I can wander through whenever I need space. There is a lovely room to paint in and my art has never flowed so freely through my fingers.
Carlo says I can go out soon, once we sort out a proper disguise and maybe some documents that don’t have my real name. For now, though, I’m happy to stay here in our beautiful sanctuary.
The police won’t look for me here, in Carlo’s home. They have no idea that we are connected. They have no reason to look for marriage records. And if they somehow find the connection… well, Carlo has contacts that can make it all go away.
I may be a wanted criminal, but I’m safe. And I get to host dinner parties.
The sound of voices grows louder as the last of our guests arrive. Everyone is here now.
Dario and Molly, Nicolo and Liam, even Dante who rarely socializes but who agreed to make an exception for our first official dinner party. Our chosen family, gathering to celebrate the fact that Carlo and I survived everything the world threw at us and came out the other side stronger.
Of course, none of them know that I kept Carlo chained to my bed for two weeks. Carlo wishes to keep it a special secret just for us, and that’s just fine by me. A pretty version of events, where he courted me as he always should have, is a lovely setting for our love story.
I slip into the kitchen to check on the final preparations. The canapés are arranged on silver platters with the kind of geometric precision that makes my heart sing. Prosciutto-wrapped figs, truffle-infused crostini, delicate salmon roses that took me hours to perfect. Each one a tiny work of art.
“Need a hand with anything?”
I turn to find Liam standing in the doorway, looking elegant in charcoal gray, his engagement ring catching the light as he gestures toward the platters.
“No, thank you,” I say, adjusting the angle of a garnish that was already perfect. “Everything’s under control.”
Liam steps further into the kitchen, his expression shifting to something more serious. “How are you doing, Ginni? Really doing?”
The question catches me off guard. Not the words themselves, but the genuine concern behind them. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking about.
Prison.
I feel my chest tighten with something that might be gratitude.
Of all the people in that sitting room, Liam is the only one who truly understands what those concrete walls can do to a person.
He spent five years locked away, five years of surviving in a place designed to break people into smaller and smaller pieces.
“It was only a week,” I say with a casual shrug. “I could never have survived five years like you did.”
Liam gives me a rueful smile that speaks of hard-won wisdom. “I’m not sure I did survive. Not the person I was before, anyway.”
The quiet honesty in his voice makes me shiver. I think about the man I was a few months ago, so desperate for love that I thought kidnapping someone was a reasonable romantic gesture. So convinced that dramatic tragedy was the only way to preserve something beautiful.
That person feels like a stranger now. Someone I used to know but can barely understand.
“I’m so very lucky I have Carlo,” I whisper, more to myself than to Liam. “A wonderful man who came to rescue me.”
“You are,” Liam agrees gently.
Before I can respond to that, he continues with what sounds like practiced casualness.
“Molly and I have lunch every Wednesday. We talk nonsense and practice our awful Italian. It would be nice if you joined us sometime. We could definitely use the help of a native speaker.”
I just stare at him.
The words don’t make sense at first. Or rather, they make sense individually but not together. Lunch. Friendship. People wanting my company for reasons that have nothing to do with obligation or pity.
Liam’s expression shifts to confusion, then concern. He takes a small step backward, clearly misreading my silence.
“I should probably get back to the others,” he starts to say.
“Wait!” The word comes out sharper than I intended, making him pause in the doorway. “I’m sorry, I just...” I struggle to find the right words, my hands twisting nervously in front of me. “I’m not used to people wanting to make friends.”
The truth of that statement hits like a slap in the face.
All my life, the only attention I’ve received has been negative.
Disapproval from family, concern from doctors, fear from strangers who sensed something dangerous underneath my careful facade.
The idea that someone might actually want to spend time with me, just for the pleasure of my company. ..
Liam’s face softens with understanding. “You’ll get used to it in no time at all,” he says simply. “Trust me.”
And somehow, I believe him.
This dinner is everything I dreamed it would be.
The food is perfection, each course timed to flow seamlessly into the next. The wine pairings are inspired, the conversation flows like music, and everyone seems genuinely happy to be here. To be celebrating Carlo and me, our love, our future together.
I watch from my position by the head of the table as Molly tells an elaborate story involving a mishap with hair dye that has everyone laughing. Dario contributes dry observations that make the story even funnier. Nicolo and Liam exchange the kind of fond looks that speak of deep contentment.
And Carlo... Carlo watches me watching them, his dark eyes warm with love and approval. Like he’s as pleased with my success as a host as I am.
This is everything I ever wanted. Not just the elegant dinner party, though that’s lovely. But this feeling of belonging. Of being part of something larger than myself. Of having people who choose to spend their evening in my company not because they have to, but because they want to.
“Carlo,” Dario says, raising his wineglass with mock solemnity, “I have to say, this dinner is absolutely incredible. This is all clearly Ginni’s work, you couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.”
The words turn the room dark and cold. I don’t understand the English phrase, I’ve never heard it before, but I understand the tone. I understand that Dario, Carlo’s boss, a powerful and dangerous man, has just questioned my husband’s competence in front of a room full of people.
Something dark and violent unfurls in my chest.
Because Carlo is brilliant. Carlo is capable and strong and absolutely worthy of respect. And no one, no matter how powerful they are, gets to speak about him with such casual dismissiveness and put his reputation in jeopardy.
The knife is in my hand before I consciously decide to reach for it. Not the chisel knife that’s laid out ready for the cheese course, but one of the sharp blades for the penultimate main course service. The weight of it feels comfortable, familiar, like an extension of my own hand.
I’m halfway to my feet, the blade angled toward Dario’s smirking face, when Carlo’s hand covers mine.
“Menace,” he says quietly, his voice carrying just enough warning to pierce through the red haze clouding my vision. “How about you don’t stab my boss.”
The word ‘boss’ penetrates where nothing else could. Dario is the Ajello heir. He’s going to be The Don one day. Stabbing him might not help Carlo’s career at all.
And maybe Dario isn’t actually attacking Carlo, he’s simply expressing appreciation for my work. Perhaps Carlo isn’t being diminished, he’s being celebrated in a way I don’t understand.
I blink, suddenly aware of the silence that’s fallen over the table. Everyone is staring at me with expressions ranging from alarm to fascination. Even Dante looks impressed, which is probably not a good sign.
“It will ruin the dinner party,” Carlo adds conversationally.
The practical consideration is what finally breaks through my protective fury. He’s right. Stabbing someone would absolutely ruin the lovely evening I’ve worked so hard to create.
I take a deep breath and release my grip on the knife, letting it clatter back onto the table with what feels like enormous self-control.
“More wine, anyone?” I ask brightly, as if nothing at all unusual has just happened.
Dario immediately extends his glass, his expression shifting from wary to amused. “Please. And I apologize for the poor phrasing. It’s just a light-hearted English expression that means someone couldn’t organize the simplest thing. I was joking. No insult to Carlo was intended.”