Chapter 5
LIA
It’s been three days since the devil sons returned to the estate, and the atmosphere has shifted dramatically.
The air feels noticeably colder and tense, not just to me but to all the maids and servants who have become more cautious in their every step.
Having two Romano men in the house was one thing; now, with four, it feels even more daunting.
Over the past few days, I’ve gotten very good at disappearing. I time my movements with theirs like it’s a game of shadow tag. Only, I don’t want to be caught. Not by any of them, especially not Francesco.
But no matter how hard I try not to think about him, his name takes up space in my thoughts. Since I’ve gotten so good at avoiding him, I’ve only spotted him once passing through the west hall. He didn’t look at me. But I felt him, like a current under my skin.
He hasn’t come to my room since he got back. He hasn’t watched me sleep. I know because, for some reason, I stay awake, a part of me thinking he’ll show up. A part of me wanting him to show up. It’s fucked up. But that’s what living with the Romanos for two years has done to me.
I see Marco more than any other Romano, even more than I see Elio, even though I’ve lived under the same roof with the latter for longer since I was brought here.
Marco always manages to find me, no matter how good I think I am at hiding from him, from them.
In the courtyard the other day, the hallways, even the kitchen.
He acts like his appearance is just a coincidence, but he knows that I know it’s not.
That doesn’t stop him, though. He doesn’t care if there are other people around.
Instead, he cracks jokes that make the maids blush and the older staff shake their heads.
He doesn’t act like someone important, but he is. And I can’t let myself forget that.
I smile when he talks to me. Laugh sometimes.
At first, it was because I didn’t want to seem rude.
He was the only Romano who didn’t either ignore my entire existence or try to make my existence miserable.
I had to be polite. But lately, I’ve realized I actually like him.
He’s decent, quite funny, and ridiculously charming.
I see why there’s always a buzz around his public relationships, and he’s been in a lot of them.
I know his type. Men like Marco Romano play with fire for fun.
He’s just passing time by flirting with me.
Maybe he’s bored. He’s back after two years of being away, and he’s looking for anything to occupy his time.
I’m not stupid enough to think his flirting means he’s actually interested in me.
And even if he is, men like him never stay interested in girls for too long, and girls like me get left with the burns.
The kitchen is hot tonight, like it always is, but tonight feels different.
The Morettis are having dinner with the Romanos, a custom that’s been passed down for years.
I overheard the older maids saying this might be the last dinner before the families officially become in-laws.
For generations, the Romanos and Morettis have paired off their children, one from each family, tying them closer with every marriage.
I know it’s common in mafia households, but I still don’t understand why they do it—marrying into the other family, as if it’s the only way to ensure loyalty. But I guess that’s just how it works.
I know for a fact that a family like theirs deems it important to keep their power and wealth within the family and maintain loyalty.
Marrying cousins is a way of preserving bloodlines, ensuring that power stays concentrated within the family, and preventing outsiders from gaining too much influence.
In many mafia families, where loyalty and secrecy are crucial, these arranged marriages serve both strategic and cultural purposes.
By marrying within the family—whether it’s cousins, nieces, or other close relatives—the family ensures that the bloodline remains “pure” and that there is less risk of betrayal or leaks of information.
These marriages also solidify alliances, strengthen family bonds, and help avoid conflicts that could arise from introducing external influences.
External influences like me. Who hasn’t been able to stop thinking about a man who is engaged to someone else, no matter how hard I try.
Long marble counters are covered in bowls of chopped vegetables, granite pots bubble away on the stove, and the room smells like garlic, rosemary, and parsley. Pans clang. Knives thud against chopping boards. Everyone’s moving fast, like a messy, well-rehearsed dance.
One of the ovens is slightly broken, so it lets out a soft, mechanical hiss every few minutes. I’ve grown used to the sounds this place makes. Every creak, every clink of metal, or scrape of knives. It has its own kind of language.
There’s a huge pot bubbling on the stove, and two maids are arguing about whether the lasagna needs more béchamel.
An older cook, Marta, is shaping meatballs by hand, her thick fingers working with the kind of focus that makes me think she’s picturing someone’s face in every one. It reminds me of my mother.
I’m peeling potatoes and listening half-heartedly to the usual gossip swirling around the room. A few of the maids are talking about how big Francesco’s wedding will be. Of course, it’ll be a big ceremony. The first son of the Romano family is marrying the eldest daughter of the Morettis.
The Morettis, one of the other most influential mafia families in Boston. A girl from a family like that is perfect for a man like Francesco.
So why does the thought of him being married to someone else invoke such a strong, bitter feeling in my chest?
“It’s about time they finally got hitched,” one woman says as she stirs a pot. She’s one of the recent cooks. I haven’t bothered to learn her name. “They’ve been promised to each other for forever now.”
I ignore the way my chest tightens at that. Promised to each other. I internally huff.
Allegra, one of the housekeepers, leans across the counter, her voice dropping into a juicy whisper.
“Why do you think they are suddenly rushing the engagement proceedings? Signor Dante wants Francesco to have a child soon!”
She says it like she’s so sure, like Dante told her himself over tea or something.
“Soon, we’ll have another Romano baby running down the halls,” Marta says with a hint of emotion in her voice. I heard she’s one of the oldest cooks here. She watched the four Romano sons grow up.
I wonder what Francesco was like as a child. Was he as mischievous and charming as his brother? Or has he always been cold? I picture a proper boy, with dark hair and even darker eyes, doing whatever his father wants and trying to keep his siblings in place.
My mind is so distracted that I almost slice my finger.
When I tune back into the conversation, they’re still talking about Francesco’s future wife.
“…I think she is the perfect ice queen for the ice prince.”
A sharp laugh cuts through the air while another person snorts.
“They’re exactly alike. Sometimes I wonder what their conversations are like.”
I wonder too. I bet he treats her like the queen she is. I bet he doesn’t say crass things to her face. I bet he is a perfect gentleman to her.
“I wonder how she’ll rule this household when the time comes,” another younger maid says. “She’ll never be as good as Donna Caterina.”
Caterina, Dante’s late wife.
Living in the Romano estate has made me learn things about the Romanos that were once a mystery.
I heard she died when the boys were still very young.
She slipped on a staircase during a blackout caused by a storm.
Lorenzo wasn’t even five yet. I heard she was kind and soft, the perfect calm a man like Dante needed.
The Romano household hasn’t been the same since she died.
A part of me wonders if that’s why Francesco is the way he is. A cold, murderous bastard because he lacked his mother’s love.
The conversation moves from Silvia’s competence—some arguing for and against her notion—to the other Moretti siblings. There’s not much to say about Giulia and Dario. They are too quiet to be engaged in any scandal or gossip.
But Lucia, the youngest girl of the Moretti family, is a female version of Marco, according to Allegra, and a walking scandal.
I keep my eyes on the potatoes, but I’m listening. Lucia. I’ve only seen pictures of her. Sharp jawline, body of a model; it’s not shocking why she’s got people obsessed. A stunning woman who does whatever she wants despite being raised under the vicious grip of the mafia? Abominable.
She and Silvia couldn’t be more different. Silvia is poised, quiet, and always looks like she’s posing for a portrait. She’s the perfect daughter, the one that does whatever is asked and brings pride to the family.
“Did you know Lucia once got arrested in Paris for fighting at an underground club?” Allegra whispers again. “She laughed in the mugshot.”
Scattered laughter fills the kitchen, but it quickly dies down when a heavy presence steps into the almost crowded space.
We all freeze as Dante’s consigliere, Olga, walks in. The only sound that can be heard other than her black heels clicking against the tile is the boiling soup on the fire. She’s a tall, middle-aged woman with a perpetual frown on her face. I’ve seen her a few times. I don’t like her.
Today, she’s wearing tailored pants with a black silk blouse tucked neatly into them, and her brown hair is twisted into a sleek knot. As usual, her face is bare of any kind of makeup.
I’ve heard things about her as well, like any other person who walks within these walls.
She’s the mind behind Dante’s power. Olga handles family business, settles disputes, and even dishes out punishment when needed.
Some say she once caught a traitor before he made it out of the estate gates and killed him herself.
I’m glad she doesn’t live here. There’s only so much I can deal with.
I glance up at her, and our eyes meet.
“You. Come with me.”
Shit.
I wipe my hands on a cloth, ignoring the way the other maids stare at me, and follow her out into the hallway. It’s dim out here, only the soft glow of wall lamps lighting the corridor. We walk a few feet before she stops and turns.
“You should know your place here,” she says.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Olga whips and takes a step closer to me. It’s supposed to be intimidating. It is. “Three days ago, you were spotted in the garden with Master Marco.”
My heart thuds against my chest, but I don’t say anything.
“I’ve also heard other reports. That’s not the only time you’ve been caught talking to him. Nothing goes unnoticed here.”
I’ve been caught talking to him? He’s the one who talks to me.
“I only respond to him out of respect,” I finally say. “If Master Marco wants to talk to me, do you suggest I… refuse?”
I catch the twitch in her jaw. “Don’t try to play smart with me. I am not one for games.”
“I wasn’t—”
She cuts me off with a raised hand. “Your job is not to catch the attention of men who are above your station. It reflects poorly on this household.”
My blood boils in anger, and I bite my tongue to hold back a retort.
“It doesn’t matter if he wanted to talk to you or not,” she continues. “It’s what it looked like. One of the Romanos entertaining himself with the help?” She sounds disgusted by the thought.
I ball my hands into fists. “I wasn’t seeking attention. I didn’t even ask to be here.”
“Sure, you didn’t, but you’re here anyway, and you must obey the rules.”
She leans in slightly. “Someone kept you alive even when you didn’t deserve it. Don’t mistake kindness for weakness.”
Kindness? I grit my teeth.
Only one person is responsible for this bullshit message.
“Francesco sent you.”
It’s not a question, yet seeing the curl on the corner of her lips makes my blood boil even hotter.
“You’re messing up the order he’s tried so hard to maintain.” She takes another step closer to me, and this time, I stare right into her soulless eyes. “Keep doing that, and you’ll be gotten rid of. Permanently.”
Olga smiles like she didn’t just threaten to kill me as she hands me a folded note. “Go to the cellar. Fetch the bottle listed and take it to the dining room before the guests arrive.”
She turns and walks away without waiting for a response.
I stand there, fists clenched around the note, heat rising in my chest. Rage and humiliation mix together until I feel like I might explode. He doesn’t even have the guts to say things to my face. He just sends his messengers to do his dirty work.
I storm away in a blind rage, and instead of heading toward the cellar, I find myself drifting toward the west wing. The only maids allowed on this side of the mansion are specially selected cleaners and personal servants to the Romano men.
It’s where the masters live, where I know he is.
Every inch of this corridor feels colder than the rest of the house. The lights here are dimmer, and the silence hums in my ears. There’s no staff chatter that I’ve grown used to. No clanging dishes or whispered gossip. Just the quiet echo of my footsteps on marble.
I tell myself this is about hearing the message straight from his mouth. If he wants to threaten me, he should do it himself.
But my coming here is more about the relentless pull I feel toward him.
I need to see him again, even if it’s to tell him “fuck you” to his face.
I find a door I think is his. My hand reaches for the handle, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. But before I can turn it, I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps moving closer.
I’m going to get caught, and then I’ll land myself in deep trouble. I certainly didn’t think this through properly.
My eyes quickly scan around for a place to hide, and I spot the next door. It’s slightly open, just a crack. Without thinking, I dash into the next room and shut the door quietly behind me.
When I’m safe inside, I rest my forehead against the door and exhale in relief. That was close.
But when I turn, I freeze.
Bare chest, damp hair, and a towel slung lazily over a shoulder.
Marco.
My eyes widen, and his narrow into mischievous slits. And then, he smirks. That slow, dangerous kind of smirk that melts into something unreadable.
“Looking for me?”