Chapter 29 Lia
LIA
The gown is heavy on my shoulders. The satin material hugs my frame, showcasing my delicate curves. Streaks of silver line the bodice, catching the light with every movement I make.
I look like a Romano bride already.
“Do you like it?” asks the private designer standing behind me.
I nod absentmindedly, running a hand over the soft material and staring at my reflection in the mirror.
It’s a little too much, especially since this is just the engagement ceremony dress. But I’m not shocked. The Romanos take their engagement ceremonies seriously, maybe even more so than the actual wedding.
My room is filled with people. It’s a bit too early for so much activity, but there’s a Romano wedding to plan, so that does not matter.
Maids pin the curls of my hair into place while someone—a member of the planning crew, maybe—rambles on about flower arrangements and guest lists. One of them rushes past the open door, calling out for imported orchids and crystal place cards.
Everyone in this house has started treating me like I’ve already married into the family. A Romano bride. A mother-to-be of a Romano child. A pawn who has accepted her place.
Some bow their heads when they pass me in the hallway. Others, mostly the older women, watch with cold smiles and murmured prayers. I’m not sure if they’re praying for me or cursing me.
No one dares say it out loud, but I see it in their eyes: I’m still one of them. A maid. A prisoner. The only difference is that I’m donned in expensive clothes and closer proximity to my masters.
Marta is the only one who doesn’t treat me differently. She hasn’t since the news of my pregnancy broke out. She still calls me by my first name, still jokes with me when she can, and still cares about me like I’m her ward. That makes me comfortable.
By evening, I feel like I’m sleepwalking through the corridors. The hallways seem like they are shining too brightly. The chandeliers seem to burn like interrogation lights. Just when I try to slip away to get some air, a butler appears in front of me, informing me that Dante wants to see me.
Dante’s study is darker than the rest of the house. The walls are the color of walnuts, and the fireplace at the center of the room has no fire. Books line the shelves in neat, obsessive rows. He sits behind a massive mahogany desk like a judge about to sentence someone already condemned.
I try to ignore the fact that it’s just me and him. Alone. No Francesco. No Marco. No guards hanging around. That has never happened before.
I close the door behind me and turn to look at him with a rigid expression on my face.
“Sit, Rosalia,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I cross my arms. “I’d rather stand.”
He watches me for a long beat, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to read.
“You’re just like him,” he says after a beat. “Your father.”
My heart starts to beat faster. I resist the urge to clench my fists. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Why did you call me here?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I realized we’ve never had a proper one-on-one. You and I. And now that you’ll soon carry the Romano name—”
“Nothing has changed,” I cut in. “It doesn’t matter whose name I carry. I still despise you.”
“You’ve managed to grow even braver,” he chuckles to himself, but he doesn’t sound amused.
“I’ve grown smart,” I correct, lifting my chin. “I’ve learned how this game works. Power isn’t loud, Don Romano. It’s quiet. It’s who gets to speak last and still be obeyed. You destroyed my family, and I’ll never forget that.”
Silence stretches between us like a tight wire.
Dante doesn’t blink. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands on his chest. “Your father destroyed it himself. I killed him because he made himself a problem.”
“Wrong,” I say, stepping forward. “You killed him because he saw the rot in this family and had the audacity to name it. He discovered things about your filthy family and your filthy traditions.”
“He made all the choices,” he replies evenly. “Some of them were good. Most of them were foolish. He was warned, and I gave him more chances than you know. He knew what he was getting himself into, yet he did it anyway. You think I wanted to make a martyr of him?”
My hands ball into fists on their own accord.
“You really believe that?” I ask. “Or is that just the lie you tell yourself to sleep at night?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Actions have consequences, Rosalia. Adriano knew the consequences of digging into where he didn’t belong. Breaking rules has a price.”
“You think I care about your damn rules?” My voice cracks. “You killed a man who would’ve died for me. For what? To keep your twisted empire intact?”
He exhales slowly. “This conversation isn’t about the past.”
“Everything is about the past,” I snap. “Including this child.”
His eyes narrow, just slightly.
“A child with both Romano and Ricci blood,” I say, stepping closer. “Did you think marrying me off to your son would erase history? That pretending this baby belongs to him protects you?”
He rises from the chair slowly, walking to the window behind him, where the sun has dipped on the horizon, giving way to the moon.
“This marriage does protect you,” he says quietly.
“And the child. That’s why you’re here. We both know who the father really is.
But if you want to survive, and you should want to, then you’ll keep your mouth shut.
Let Francesco believe what he wants. Let the world believe it too. ”
“And if I don’t?”
He turns to face me, his voice colder than the room. “Then you’ll be making the same mistake your father did. Fighting a battle you can’t win. And believe me, not even I can protect you if this all goes to shit.”
I take a breath. “I don’t want your protection,” I say.
“I want you to bleed the way my father bled. I want you to wake up every night hearing the sound of his voice. The sound of mine. Because unlike my father, I don’t want justice.
I want ruin. I want you to wake up every day wondering when it’s coming. ”
He watches me for a moment that feels too long. Then:
“I’ve buried a hundred enemies,” he says quietly. “But you’re the first one who came back as a daughter. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
My throat tightens. I hate that he says it like that. Like I mean something.
“This baby…” I press my fingers to my stomach. “This baby is my war against you. My reminder. My legacy. I will tear your name apart the same way you tore mine.”
He watches me with that unreadable expression of his. Then, he nods. It is slow and deliberate. A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.
“Then raise the child well,” he says. “Live up to that threat.”
There’s a pause, thick with everything unspoken. But his mask is back on, and I can’t read him. Maybe this is all just a game to him.
But to me, it’s as real as it gets.
“I will never forgive you,” I say.
He nods once. “Forgiveness is a luxury I’ve never deserved. I’ve made peace with that long ago.”
He pauses. Then adds, almost too calmly, “Just play your part, Rosalia. There are bigger forces at work here. You’re a chess piece in something older and crueler than either of us. Stay where you are on the board, and you might survive the game.”
There’s a cold, quiet understanding that passes between us, one soaked in blood and burden.
I turn and leave without another word.
It’s nearly midnight when I slip into the east wing. The halls are quiet, lit only by low golden sconces. My footsteps barely echo against the stone floors, but an old grandfather clock in the distance ticks like a warning.
I easily find him.
The door to what appears to be a study is cracked open, and Francesco is seated inside.
He’s leaning forward on the edge of his chair, elbows resting on his knees, a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table beside him.
The light from the fireplace casts flickers of gold across his tired face.
He doesn’t look up when I enter.
“You chose to drink alone over coming down for dinner?” I ask, my voice breaking the silence.
“It’s better than sitting there, pretending that I don’t want you by my side.” His gaze lifts to mine, and the only thing I can recognize in his eyes is the exhaustion.
I walk in slowly, then lower myself into the chair across from him. The flames crackle quietly between us.
“Are you okay?”
“You should go back to your room before he starts looking for you.”
There he goes again, pushing me away. Like me standing right here isn’t enough for him to know how I really feel.
“You didn’t fight for me,” I say, almost too softly.
He exhales through his nose, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Lia…”
“You let them choose Marco for me. Let them put my life in his hands like it meant nothing. You let me face this nightmare alone. You did nothing. You said nothing.”
His jaw shifts, but he doesn’t speak right away. He runs a hand down his face, like he’s trying to scrub away the guilt.
“Because anything I said or did would have made it worse. For you. For the baby.”
“So you think you were protecting me by staying silent?” I ask, crossing my arms on my chest.
“Silence can be a way to survive. Sometimes.”
He blows out a heavy breath, running his free hand over his face.
“I am trapped too. I have been since I was born,” he says through clenched teeth. “Everything I do, every move I make, is being watched. La Mano Nera owns pieces of me that I can never get back.”
His voice is hoarse, and I feel my chest squeeze at how broken he sounds.
The fire continues to crackle in the air as we sit in a silence thick with everything we’ve buried.
“Do you ever wish you’d left?” I ask after a while. “Before this all swallowed you?”