Chapter 6 Francesco
FRANCESCO
Ending up in Marco’s room wasn’t part of my plans tonight.
I was only on my way to double-check the final details for dinner and make sure everything’s in place when I heard it—the low murmur of voices behind Marco’s bedroom door.
At first, I didn’t think anything of it.
Marco’s always got a woman or two around. Nothing new there.
But when the laughter came, I halted. It was her laugh.
Now I’m standing in front of my brother’s bedroom door, my hand resting on the doorknob as I listen to the sound of her laughter again.
It floats through the walls, soft and light, like she hasn’t got a care in the world.
Marco’s voice comes after, too low for me to make out, but the tone? I recognize it. He’s flirting with her.
Without thinking too much about it, I push the door open and storm inside.
They pull apart like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Lia stumbles back from her initial position, which was a little too close to my brother. My half-naked brother.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are a bit glazed, but other than that, she looks the same. I trail my eyes over her for any signs that he touched her… inappropriately, like I’ve touched her before. I see nothing.
Still, it doesn’t tame the fire inside me. Marco is now leaning against the dresser, shirtless and still damp from his shower. The smug tilt of his lips makes me want to punch him in the face.
And that’s when I realize it’s not just anger I’m feeling. It’s another emotion, painfully familiar ever since I came back to this house. Jealousy. It is ugly, twisting relentlessly in the pit of my gut.
“Out,” I say, my eyes locked on Lia.
She hesitates, glancing between me and Marco like she wants to say something. That only infuriates me further.
“I said get out,” I repeat, my voice colder now.
Her mouth opens as if to protest, but nothing comes out. She brushes past me quickly, and I will myself not to look at her. Instead, I savor the way her scent lingers in the air and settles in my lungs.
The moment the door clicks shut behind her, Marco scoffs. “Really?” he asks, wiping his hair aggressively with the towel.
“Stay away from her.” I say it in a low, warning tone, careful not to reveal how angry I truly feel.
He laughs, a harsh sound, and leans further back against the dresser. “Why? Last time I checked, she doesn’t belong to you.”
I resist the urge to claim her, to tell him that she does, in fact, belong to me. Instead, I take a step toward him, my jaw tight. “Don’t argue with me on this, Marco. This… warning is for your own good.”
Marco’s grin sharpens, and his eyes light up with something darker. “For my good?” He scoffs. “Or for yours?”
“Don’t—”
“I’m not stupid, Francesco,” he says in a low tone now. “I know you want her, but for your own selfish, twisted desires, not in a way that counts.”
I can feel the rage building, but I hold it in.
The last thing I need is to make this worse.
“Grow up, Marco. This is not the time to be unserious. You think I’m the only one who has to live by La Mano Nera’s rules?
They are watching you, every one of us. Your name doesn’t protect you from their wrath.
They’ll give you your kill soon. You need to start acting like a man. ”
Marco shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t give a fuck. In fact, I’ll give them a wonderful show while I’m at it. And I don’t care about their blood rites or masks or fake honor.”
Does he really mean that? I know Marco can be careless, but he’s smart. He knows when to take important things seriously.
Right?
I let out a frustrated breath. I don’t have the time to think about what might be going on in that head of his.
“You might not care now, but you will care when you’re marked for death.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes are angry. I walk out of the room.
Dinner starts not long after, and I’m already half-checked out.
My fiancée sits beside me like the prize she is, poised, perfect, and beautiful as always.
We are a perfect picture of what the Romanos and Morettis would look like together.
No one would argue that, on paper, we look perfect for each other.
The two families have been very close for years.
My father and Giovanni Moretti, Silvia’s father, have been friends since they were young.
The friendship naturally passed down to us.
We and the Moretti siblings grew up around each other.
I was seven years older than Silvia and a few more older than her younger siblings, but it didn’t matter.
We had family dinners regularly, attended the same private schools, and hung around the same social circles.
With Silvia and me married, the age-long family bond will turn into a blood union.
We’re seated at a long, polished table, silver gleaming under the chandelier’s light.
Giovanni and my father are seated toward the right end of the table.
Elena, Giovanni’s wife, is seated lovingly by his side.
Giulia, Dario, and Lucia, Silvia’s siblings, are seated opposite Elio and Marco.
Silvia sits beside me at the left end of the table.
Easy conversation flows through the space.
Wine glasses click together. Cutlery scrapes against fine china.
Lucia is already halfway through her second glass of wine, and she’s not holding back. She’s got a mouth on her, always has. I can hear her rattle off something about a big scandal in Naples, distracting everyone, as usual. I don’t care to follow the conversation. My mind is elsewhere.
I haven’t seen her yet. I know she’s avoiding me, tonight even more than she has for the past three days. But it’s no use because I made sure she’s on duty tonight.
My mind flashes back to a few hours ago. Seeing her in Marco’s bedroom, of all places, made me feel indescribable emotions. I can feel Marco’s stare across the table. There’s a smugness in his posture as he leans back, looking completely at ease, as if nothing matters except his own amusement.
As if by coincidence, Lia comes into the dining room with a replacement bottle of wine.
My eyes immediately zoom in on her. I can’t look away from the way she moves.
There’s something about the way she doesn’t belong here but still carries herself with that quiet dignity that’s hard to ignore.
She doesn’t try to make herself small or invincible.
She doesn’t try to capture attention, either.
She just moves like she’s completely indifferent, like she can’t give us any more ammunition to ruin her life.
She quietly drops the bottle on the table and turns to leave before Elena calls her attention and tells her something. I watch the way she nods stiffly before moving to leave. When she walks past Marco, he says something that makes her smile.
I cut aggressively into my steak, earning a look from Marco. He’s trying to rile me up to prove that he meant what he said earlier about not giving a fuck about expectations. Or maybe he’s just doing it because he knows how I feel toward Lia.
I don’t even know what it is that I feel toward her.
Lia returns to the room with a basket of extra bread and places it beside Elena. I take a bite of my tender meat as I watch Marco call her attention, this time talking to her for a bit longer than he did before.
“Isn’t this fun?” Silvia whispers in my ear, her hand slipping over my wrist resting on the table. I cast her an absentminded glance and nod, but my gaze strays again when I hear a faint laugh from Lia.
I feel my blood heat up.
I can’t tell what’s worse—the fact that she doesn’t look at me at all or the fact that she lets Marco talk to her like that in my presence, after I just caught them together a few hours ago.
It’s like they’re both in on saying a big “fuck you” to my face.
I can’t stop the words that slip from my mouth. “You think this is a whorehouse?”
My voice cut through the conversation, sharp enough to silence everyone. They all turn to look at me, including Marco, who looks furious. But I don’t look at any of them. My entire focus is on her. Everyone looks between me and Lia, and the tension in the air tightens even further at her silence.
Lia blinks, confusion flashing across her face. My gaze flicks to the few undone buttons down her neck, a careless detail I latch onto. She’s not showing any skin. She probably unbuttoned them to receive a little more air and not choke herself. But I don’t care.
I use my fork to gesture toward her exposed neckline. “Maybe next time you dress to serve us, try not to confuse the dining table for a street corner.”
The words are cold, harder than I intend them to be, but there’s a part of me that wants her to feel the weight of them. I want her to feel as small, stupid, and humiliated as I do.
There’s scattered laughter around the table. Some are polite, others a bit careless. Lucia’s laugh is the loudest. I suspect she’s a little drunk, as her wine spills across her plate from how hard she’s giggling. But Lia doesn’t react.
With her head still held high, she moves toward Lucia to collect her ruined plate.
“Rosalia.”
Her body stiffens. It’s the first time I’m calling her by her name. She doesn’t say anything in response to my call. She just turns to look at me.
“Bring my fiancée a new napkin,” I say, trying to control the hardness in my voice.
I feel the heat of Marco’s glare on me, but there’s nothing he can do.
Lia nods, moving toward the sideboard to retrieve one when I speak again.
“No,” I stop her.
Her expression shifts to a confused one as she looks back at me.
“Use yours.”
“Mine?” she asks, incredulous.
I smile, but it doesn’t touch my eyes. “Yes. The one tucked into your apron. That’ll do.”
Her lips part as if she wants to say something, but she pulls it free without a word and crosses the room to hand it to Silvia.
“Wipe her hands,” I add, my voice dropping.
The room grows dead silent. The weight of the moment hits everyone, and they sit, frozen, as Lia hesitates.
I can see the tension in her face, the anger flickering in her eyes.
But she does as she’s told. She reaches for Silvia’s hand.
I catch the equal confusion and slight annoyance in Silvia’s expression as she raises her hands to let Lia dab at them.
That’s when her hands start to shake.
I watch it, watch her humiliate herself like this, and part of me hates myself for doing it, but the other part of me is seething.
Lucia’s voice breaks the silence. “This is better than dessert.”
More chuckles. Something twists in my stomach, but I ignore it. I’ll hate myself later. But for now, I revel in the pleasure of making her feel every second of this. Her hands still tremble as she finishes, then steps back, her face flushed as she avoids my gaze for the first time.
I want her to look at me.
“Anything else?” she says through gritted teeth.
Oh, silly girl. She doesn’t seem satisfied.
“Yes, actually,” I say casually before tipping my wine glass to the side. The red wine spills across the white tablecloth, blooming like blood near my plate and dripping onto the polished floor.
“Clean it,” I say, my voice smooth and empty.
She stares at me for a beat before speaking. “Of course.”
She moves toward the spill, reaching for the cloth at her waist.
“No,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Kneel.”
“What?” she whispers.
I don’t repeat myself. Slowly, she sinks to her knees before me and dabs the cloth against the floor, her face burning. Everyone is watching her, and no one is hiding their amusement. My father laughs softly for the first time.
Marco shifts in his seat, almost like he’s holding himself back from stopping her. Or me. I watch her. Watch the shame ripple through the lowered frame. She isn’t crying, but I can tell she wants to.
And still, she stays on her knees. Obeying me.
When she finally stands and steps back, her hands stained red with the wine, she doesn’t wait for another word. She turns and walks out without a word.
I flex my jaw as I watch her retreating figure. There’s an ache in my chest, but I’m too damn stubborn to acknowledge it.
Silvia leans in, her voice a soft murmur beside my ear. “What’s going on with you tonight?”
I don’t answer her. I can’t. Instead, I refill my wine glass and take a drink. The wine tastes bitter now, the lingering taste settling on my tongue.
Dinner continues. The Morettis chatter away, their voices blurring into the background of my brain. At some point, Silvia rests a hand on my arm and says something in my ear. I don’t hear it. All I can think about is her.
Through the remaining torturous hours, I feel Marco’s cold and furious eyes on me. I meet his gaze and hold it, pretending not to care.
When the last toast is made and our guests prepare to leave, I go through the motions of saying polite goodbyes. I kiss Silvia’s hand and pretend I don’t notice her cold smile before walking away.
My feet don’t take me to my room.
I find myself heading toward the servants’ quarters. The last time I was here was two years ago. The dark hallways are still familiar as I follow the path that leads me straight to her bedroom door.
My hand is raised, ready to knock before I can stop myself. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m here. And I won’t leave until I see her.