9. Gianna
GIANNA
T he city unfurls beneath the car window in soft, blinking lights and the shimmer of glass towers waking under a dull sun as my brother drives us to the Salvatore estate.
It has been many years since I last rode in a car driven by Rafa Salvatore, and the irony does not escape me now, though neither of us is in the mood for words that lighten or decorate.
The man behind the wheel speaks only when he must, and when he does, it’s without warmth.
The twins, strapped into their car seats in the back, are wide-eyed and murmuring between themselves about everything that passes.
They’ve grown up in a city, yes—but not like this.
Not where highways give way to winding roads flanked by ancient stone walls, or where wild cypress and manicured hedges blur together beneath the press of history.
They press their faces to the glass as we pass vineyard rows, weathered villas, sleek security gates.
One of them points at a faded chapel half-swallowed by ivy.
The other gasps at a glossy black car emerging from a narrow lane.
Their noses leave faint marks on the window as they try to see more, their voices hushed with curiosity.
And despite the knot coiled tight in my stomach, a part of me finds comfort in their wonder.
"They should’ve grown up here," Rafa mutters, not looking at me. His jaw has been tight since my arrival, and though his tone is soft enough that the girls don’t hear, there is no mistaking the edge. "Not in whatever backwater Valentina tucked you into."
"Don’t start," I reply, staring ahead.
The road before us cuts through the city like a blade, and I feel the pressure of it in my ribs. "Not now."
"You lied to all of us," he says, still not raising his voice. "You kept them hidden. You think that was your right?"
I glance back at the girls.
One is unwrapping some crackers with exaggerated care.
The other is still peering out at the skyline, her hair falling loose from the ribbons I tied this morning.
"I did what I had to," I say, keeping my voice level. "You think they’d be better off knowing what they are? What this family would make of them? Of me?"
"They’re Salvatores," he snaps, finally turning his head. "They could have had the world. Instead, they got secrets and exile. And we—" he swallows hard and looks back at the road. "We could’ve had leverage. Christ, Gianna. We lost years."
I fold my hands in my lap.
My fingers tremble slightly and I press them together harder to still them. "You want to talk leverage in front of them? You think they need to hear this? You think they should know their lives were currency?"
Silence settles in again.
He doesn’t apologize, but he doesn’t speak either.
I can feel his frustration radiating off him, and I don’t blame him for it.
I just can’t do anything about it.
The car slows as the estate gates come into view.
The iron is freshly painted.
There’s no rust or wear, and when they part for us, it’s with a mechanical precision that speaks of control and money and power.
The Salvatore estate remains untouched by time.
Its stone facade, pale and stern, rises in the middle of a manicured spread of land with trimmed hedges and driveways so smooth they feel unnatural.
The girls fall quiet as we approach the house.
Their chatter gives way to silent awe, and I wonder if they sense something in the bones of this place.
Maybe they do.
We’re met by staff at the doors.
Valentina is already waiting inside, her arms open, her expression betraying nothing.
She crouches to the twins’ level, not rushing them, speaking softly as they take her in.
Then, with a smile that they return, she takes their hands and gestures toward the playroom.
"I’ll look after them," she says to me. "Go."
I nod once and look to Rafa.
He doesn’t wait for my agreement.
He’s already turned, already walking down the hall that leads to the west wing where the study sits like a heart behind closed doors and secrets.
We walk in silence.
The hallways are warm, heavy with the scent of polished wood and old leather.
Nothing has changed here either.
Not the paintings on the wall, not the dull gleam of the sconces or the tastefully muted rugs that line the corridors.
When we reach the doors, Rafa pushes them open without knocking.
Luca is standing behind the desk, one hand resting on the back of the chair as though he had been halfway to sitting when we arrived.
Marco is by the fireplace, his shoulder leaning against the mantle.
His face is unreadable.
His suit is dark, crisp, and unwrinkled despite the early hour.
There’s a glass in his hand, half full with something amber and old.
And Dante ? —
Dante is standing at the window.
When the door opens, he turns.
He doesn’t speak.
His eyes find mine, and the rest of him stills as if his body has forgotten how to move.
I see it happen, every flicker of recognition playing across his face in sequence.
The disbelief, the narrowing of his gaze, and the breath he forgets to take.
I feel Rafa still beside me, his whole body going tense with waiting. Luca’s jaw is set, his gaze hard and fixed on me, but not surprised.
Marco, as always, reveals nothing.
I keep my eyes on Dante and don’t speak.
There is nothing to say that would not break me open further.
Rafa clears his throat.
"They’re in the playroom," he says, not to Dante but to Luca. "Valentina has them."
Luca nods. "We’ll discuss the rest now."
The door swings closed behind us.
I don't look away from Dante.
He takes a step forward.
His mouth opens, then shuts again.
His voice, when it finally comes, is low and rough. "You?—"
Luca clears his throat, and Dante’s words die in his.
It’s clear that he’s not supposed to be speaking right now, not until whatever verdict I’ve earned falls on me.
The Salvatore don stands with both hands braced on the edge of his desk, exercising the quiet authority of a man who has made his decision and is now only waiting for the others in the room to accept it.
The study holds its breath as the weight of his next words presses into us.
"There will be a wedding," Luca says. "Yours."
It lands like a shot fired in a cathedral.
My mouth parts, though no sound escapes.
Beside me, Rafa does not flinch.
Marco lifts the glass to his lips.
Only Dante reacts like something real has been broken.
"You can’t be serious," he says, stepping forward now, no longer stunned but angry. "You want me to marry her just because?—"
"Because they are your daughters," Luca says flatly. "Because she is their mother. Because this family does not need more scandal, more chaos, more reason for enemies to strike."
Dante turns to him, the color in his face high. "You don’t get to dictate?—"
"I do," Luca interrupts, his voice quiet but immovable. "Because I am the head of this family, and you, for all your recklessness and appetite for leisure, are still a Salvatore. You are not a boy anymore. You don't get to waste your life pretending we don't all wear the weight of our name."
My fingers curl into fists.
I speak before I mean to.
"You think forcing a marriage will fix this?"
My voice is calm, though inside I am cracking open.
"You think tying us together like animals in a pen will make the threats disappear?"
"No," Luca says, not even looking at me.
"But it will do what needs to be done. The children will be protected.
Their legitimacy will not be in question.
No other family will dare approach them with whispers about being hidden away like bastards in the wilderness.
They will be daughters of Salvatore and Rossi, and everyone will know it. "
"And me?" I ask, my throat dry. "What am I in this game of image and bloodlines? Just the means to an end?"
"You are the mother," Luca replies, still not unkind, but resolute. "Which makes you irreplaceable. And also, vulnerable. There are people who would kill you just to make a point. This way, they will have to kill Dante first."
Dante laughs without humor.
"Great. A death pact. That’s really something to celebrate."
"You think this is a punishment," Luca says, fixing him with a stare. "But this is mercy. If you were not my brother, if you were not who you are, I would have cut you out for what you have done. But you were never told the truth, and that blame lies elsewhere."
He looks at me then.
And I look back, unflinching.
"There were reasons," I say, though I don't explain.
I gave him a hypothetical, and he told me to choose the easy way out—for him .
"And none of you get to question them now."
"This is done," Luca says. "The decision is made. You will move into the estate today, Gianna. You’ll be in the south wing. The suite is being aired out now. It should be enough for you and the girls."
"And after that?" I ask, though the question feels hollow.
Luca leans back slightly, the air of finality still heavy on his shoulders.
"You will have your own house. Separate, but adjoining. It will be my gift to you. A wedding present. So long as neither of you behaves like a spoiled child between now and then."
Marco smiles faintly into his glass.
It is the only trace of amusement in the room.
Dante’s hands drop to his sides, rigid and unmoving.
"This isn’t a request," Luca finishes. "This is not up for debate."
Silence lingers like smoke.
Then Rafa turns toward the door.
"I’ll see to the arrangements," he says, and my resentment rises at the undercurrent of glee in his voice.
He nods once at Luca, does not look at Dante or me, and leaves the room.
Marco follows soon after, though not before meeting my eyes.
There is something unreadable in his gaze, something between pity and approval.
I am not sure which would cut deeper.
The door clicks shut behind them, leaving Dante and me alone in the study.
He turns toward me slowly, the coldness in his expression more cutting than anything I’ve seen from him before.
He does not explode.
He does not shout.
He walks past me instead, pours himself a drink from the cabinet in the corner, and downs it in a single swallow.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“Five years," he says. "You kept them from me for five fucking years."
"They were safe," I answer. "You would’ve ruined that. And I thought you didn’t want to be a father."
He turns sharply.
"That was different. You put me in a corner and expected me to lie about what I’m not, when I didn’t have a choice. You had no right?—"
"I had every right," I snap, stepping toward him. "I listened to you tell me you didn’t believe in permanence. That you didn’t want to be tied down. You think I was going to hand over two babies to a man who called fatherhood a cage and implied the best way forward was an abortion?"
For a moment, the color drains from his face, as if he’s realized what he had said.
Then the mask slips back on, and he’s the same man he always was.
"You should have told me anyway," he says, voice tight with fury. "You should have given me the chance."
"Why?" I ask, feeling the edge of tears but refusing them. "So you could prove what I already knew? So you could abandon them the same way you walk away from every woman who gets too close? So they would live a lifetime learning their father is the worst fucking example of a man to exist?"
He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me.
Maybe he doesn’t.
"I’ll marry you," he says, his voice so quiet I have to strain my ears to listen. "I’ll do what Luca wants. But don’t expect anything else. I’m not going to play house. I’ll be their father, and I’ll protect them, but that’s it. My life is mine."
A bitter laugh escapes me, barbed and raw.
"Trust me, I wouldn’t dream of trying to be part of your life. You think I want to share a bed with you? You think I want to be chained to a manwhore who only remembers how to care when it’s too late?"
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he’ll throw something.
But he doesn’t.
He just steps closer.
"You’re angry," he says. "You have every reason to be. But don’t pretend you know me anymore."
"I know enough," I say. "And I know what you are."
He doesn’t reply, but perhaps that’s because we’ve exhausted all words, all possible hope of any sensible conversation.
I walk to the door and pause with my hand on the handle.
"When you come by the south wing," I say quietly, not turning around, "do it as their father. Nothing else."