Chapter 27 Lia
LIA
The ballroom is grand and lavish. The walls are lined with gold, and the towering crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the polished marble floors.
The scent of expensive perfume and vintage wine wafts everywhere.
But the atmosphere is cold. There’s no warmth in the air, no real joy in the soundscape of clinking glasses and low, honeyed voices.
To keep up appearances, we have to attend events like these together—hand in hand, smile in place, as if this is some love story and not a tightly scripted performance.
This particular dinner—from what Marco told me—is hosted by the Salvatores, one of the founding families of their secret society.
A bloodline older than any government, and twice as cruel.
According to him, these events are orchestrated every so often under the guise of something else entirely, such as charities, galas, or business milestones.
But everyone here knows better. These are not parties.
These are performances for the high-ranking commanderies.
Invitations come with an invisible demand: Show up, shut up, and look loyal.
La Mano Nera doesn’t want the truth of these gatherings made public, but they still want to be seen.
That’s the trick: Make it look beautiful so no one questions the rot underneath.
I did ask Marco once what kind of activities they were hiding behind all this elegance, but of course, he brushed it off. Told me not to “bother my head with such details.” As if my head were something delicate, ornamental, and not already full of the ghosts they’ve put there.
Marco has his days. Sometimes he’s sweet and charming, all soft eyes and subtle touches, desperate for my attention in a way that feels almost boyish.
Other times, he’s stiff, rigid. On those days, he’s less smiley, more calculated, like he’s wearing his skin like armor, afraid to be caught off guard.
I get it. He has a reputation to uphold now.
The new Keeper of the Black Hand can’t afford to look weak, or sentimental, or even human.
But it’s hard to read him. Harder to reach him.
I miss the version of Marco who used to be my friend, the one who didn’t look over his shoulder at every laugh, who didn’t make me feel like we were both under surveillance every second we breathed.
And since this is hosted by a prominent member of La Mano Nera, every member is expected to attend. No excuses. No absences. Which means—
Francesco is here.
The thought settles like lead in my stomach.
I walk beside Marco, our arms lightly touching as we glide past the glittering chaos.
I’m dressed in an emerald gown picked out by one of the family stylists.
It hugs my figure like a second skin, stitched tight with the kind of perfection that’s meant to impress.
The weight of the diamonds around my neck tugs against my collarbones, a jeweled reminder of what I’m really here for: to be seen, admired, claimed.
“Smile,” Marco murmurs, his breath brushing against the shell of my ear. His voice is low, but it lands like a command. “You’re a future Mrs. Romano. Act like it.”
And so I do. Because in this world, pretending is safer than truth. And love—real, messy, reckless love—has no place in rooms like this.
Only power. Only performance.
I haven’t seen Francesco yet, but I know he’s somewhere in here. I feel his gaze on me, and it makes my spine stiffen.
Yet I offer a soft, polite grin to the crowd, with my arm wrapped around Marco’s.
His hand rests gently on my back as he leads me to our reserved table.
Over dinner, he laughs easily and loudly.
He kisses my fingers, speaks to me in a low voice, and involves me in whatever conversation he’s having.
He looks like the perfect fiancé. He looks like a man madly in love.
I play my part, the way I’ve learned over these past few weeks. I smile, laugh when I have to, whisper things into his ear.
My pretense pays off because everyone praises our union.
“You two look beautiful together.”
“Oh, you’ll make such gorgeous babies.”
“They’re just perfect!”
At some point, I zone out of the conversation, diving into the delicious food before me. The main course is black truffle risotto with Parmigiano-Reggiano, accompanied by duck-fat roasted potatoes and asparagus tips.
The conversation shifts seamlessly between talking about business, old money gossip, and politics.
Marco makes a point to randomly feed me from his plate or ask me if I’m okay. The stares I’m getting don’t go unnoticed. A few women eye me with envy, others with curiosity.
But it’s the glance from one of the other older wives that tightens my spine.
Regal. Dressed in dark velvet with a brooch shaped like a dagger pinned to her shoulder. Her stare pins me in place. It’s not curious or envious. She looks at me like she knows something. She lifts her glass to her lips, eyes still locked on me, and gives the smallest smirk.
It sends a dark chill down my spine.
I swallow and look away.
“What’s wrong?” I hear Marco whisper close to my ear.
I almost forgot how observant he is.
I don’t say anything, but he glances in the direction I was just staring at.
“She’s trying to intimidate you. Pay her no mind.”
He squeezes my hand lightly, but I barely register it. My thoughts are already spiraling. How much does she know? Does she know about Francesco? About the baby?
As if on cue, Francesco walks right down the aisle toward the bar. My eyes follow him across the room.
Francesco sits at the bar, and when his drink is served, he just stares at it, his jaw tight. He hasn’t looked at me once all night, but I can feel him. Like gravity. Like fire pressed behind my ribs. He’s here, and it’s killing me to pretend he isn’t.
Marco leans in again. “You’re trembling.”
I straighten my spine and look at Marco. “I’m fine.”
His thumb brushes my cheek, and he leans in for a kiss.
My spine stiffens, but I let him kiss me. What I think will be a quick peck gets deepened into a heated kiss as Marco grabs my head and pushes his tongue further into my mouth. I grab a fistful of his chest, resisting the temptation to push him away.
I hear some laughter and chuckles around us. A camera flicks in our direction. His kiss is firm as he claims me publicly.
But all I care about is the heated gaze I feel from across the room.
When the kiss ends, Marco pulls away slowly, cupping my face. “You’re mine, Lia. I don’t want anything to make you forget that.”
He brushes a thumb over my lower lip. His eyes look at something behind me, but then come back to meet mine almost immediately.
“He might be the father,” he whispers so low that nobody else can hear, “but I’ve taken responsibility.”
I nod, unsure of his intent.
He continues, his tone hardening. “Francesco is on a path to ruin. Don’t follow him.
Whether or not he’s the father, our child deserves stability.
I’ve already explained this to you, Lia.
As Keeper of the Black Hand, I’m the only one with enough authority to make sure this baby is safe.
You know that. So don’t try to do anything funny. ”
My head spins. I nod again.
Dinner continues, but I don’t feel like myself. My mind keeps flashing back and forth between Marco’s words and Francesco.
“We should go home,” Marco says after a while.
I don’t want to leave with him, but a part of me feels guilty. We say our pleasantries before he leads me out of the room.
Silence stretches between us as we get into his car. He’s driving, and I’m seated beside him in front. At one point, he reaches for my hand. I let him take it.
“You looked tired and bored,” he chuckles softly. “I didn’t want to keep you there for too long.”
“Thank you.”
He glances at me as we pull into the estate. “I want us to start sleeping in the same room. We’re engaged. People might start to talk if they notice the woman I got pregnant doesn’t even sleep in the same room as me.”
I don’t say anything.
But when we get inside, I head straight to my room.
I kick off my heels the moment I step in and let out the breath I’ve been holding all night.
I take off my dress and grab my robe to go shower.
I don’t want to think about anything. Not what Marco said to me or the way Francesco looked at me.
I just want to take a shower and go to bed.
The shower is long, mostly because I spend over thirty minutes scrubbing my body while my mind wanders to a place I don’t know. When I step out, I tie my robe around my waist and walk to the vanity.
I’m applying lotion to my arms when I hear him come in.
Marco shuts the door behind him before turning to look at me. I gulp as I see him watching me through the mirror.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” he says. “I almost couldn’t control myself.”
I glance up at him through the reflection. “I played my part.”
He walks closer. Slowly, in that calm, confident way of his. Like he owns the room. Like he owns me.
“I know you get uncomfortable at events like that, knowing we have to appear a certain way in front of all those people,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to my shoulder. “But it’s more than just an appearance now, isn’t it?”
His hands slide down to rest on my hips.
“We’re going to be a family,” he continues, but his voice is like he is trying to convince both of us. “You, me, and the baby. It’s time we started acting like one.”
He turns me gently to face him, fingers trailing up my spine with a kind of reverence that feels more rehearsed than real. A performance dressed up as tenderness.
“Do not even think about rejecting me this time, baby,” he says, his breath brushing my cheek softly, but edged with a clear warning.
I swallow the words that rise to my lips—unforgiving words that would cut through this fragile moment—and instead I say nothing. I let the silence wrap around us. I let it choke the truth down.
Then he leans in.
The kiss is warm. His lips are soft, moving against mine with the kind of ease that only comes from practice, not passion. He knows what to do, how to angle his mouth, how to press just hard enough to make it feel like something it isn’t.
I try. God, I try. I shut everything else out—the noise in my head, the ache in my chest—and kiss him back. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? This is the script I was handed.
He pulls me up to my feet, hands circling my waist like he’s claiming territory. I bury my fingers in his hair, trying to fake that spark, that flicker of something real beneath the motions.
But it doesn’t feel the same.
As much as I want to fall into the moment, as much as I want to believe this could be enough, my body won’t lie for me. It stays silent. Unmoved.
And all I can think is how easy it is to fake a kiss. How easy it is to mistake possession for love.
He pulls me to the bed beside us, and we collapse on the soft surface together.
His kisses get rougher, hotter, and more insistent.
His body slides over mine as he grinds into me.
All I can think about is how Francesco and I have never had sex on a bed.
We’ve never savored each other patiently, knowing that we have all the time in the world.
Our undeniable passion is only permitted to happen beneath the shadows. Hidden. Rushed. Secret.
When Marco’s hands slide under my robe, my body stiffens, and I pull back.
“Marco, please, don’t make me do this,” I whisper.
For a second, he says nothing. Just stares at me. His lips are swollen, and his breaths come out in heavy pants above me.
“Why can’t you look at me the way you look at him—just once?”
His voice isn’t angry. It’s raw, almost quiet. Like the question’s been bleeding in his throat for days.
Then he rises from the bed, slowly. The pain of my rejection settles over him like dust, soft but permanent. His face stays mostly still; he’s always been good at wearing masks, but something behind his eyes flickers. Something that looks a lot like heartbreak. Or rage. Or both.
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks again.
“You don’t have to love me, Stellina,” he says, his voice almost too soft. “But you will learn to love the life I give you.”
A beat passes. Then, without turning, he adds—
“And our child.”
His voice deepens. “He’ll be raised the right way. I am going to make sure of it.” It sharpens. “Even if you’re not part of the picture.”
My entire body freezes as I watch him walk out of the room without another word.
The silence he leaves behind is thick and suffocating.
I rise on shaky feet and walk over to the vanity. I don’t realize how badly I’m trembling until I try to grab my bottle of lotion and it slips from my hand, clattering to the floor.
He said it so easily. So calmly. Like he didn’t just threaten me. Like he’s already imagined a life without me in it, as long as he gets to keep the child.
Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?
Not just the baby. Not just me. It’s about power. Legacy. Control.
He doesn’t need me to love him. He just needs something—someone—that ties me to him forever. My child.
Because in this world, I belong to him. I was given to him as a trophy, and by La Mano Nera rules, he can take my child away from me, and it would be deemed legal and acceptable.
I let out a shaky breath.
Marco has made the only options I have left very clear. He’s in the good books of the Society, so I will be safe if I stick by him. But if I try to side with Francesco, I will lose it all.
My child.
My life.
Francesco.
I look at myself in the mirror. At the robe slipping off my shoulder. At the fear in my eyes. And I know one thing.
This ends soon. One way or another.