Chapter Seventeen – Lira
Dantès Estate, Private Wing
The door closes behind him.
For a few seconds, I just stand there, hands at my sides, bare feet on cold marble, the robe slipping off one shoulder. The light from the wall lamp stretches across the room in a dull strip. His footsteps fade down the hallway. Then nothing.
I want to follow him. My heel shifts half an inch in that direction. But I stop.
The mirror across the room catches my reflection. I turn toward it slowly. My hair is pulled loose, hanging over one shoulder. My mouth is still parted. My chest still rising fast.
I stare.
It would be foolish—dangerous—to fall for a man who made it clear what he needed me for. His eyes are honest when he talks about strategy. About use. I’ve heard it too many times now.
I look down at my hand.
The ring catches the light.
It’s heavy. Smooth. Beautiful. It fits like it belongs.
I like being his wife.
No— I love being his wife. The power it offers. The way it changes how people see me. How they listen. How they wait when I speak.
That’s what I chose.
Mico will get his goodbye. And then I’ll move on.
I walk to the bed and pull the covers back. The other side is still neat. He never sat down. Never touched the sheets. I sink into my side slowly, careful not to let the robe twist beneath me.
The fabric on his side smells like him.
Not cologne. Just clean cotton and something deeper—something I don’t have words for.
I press my face to the sheet. Inhale.
Then I reach for one of the pillows. It still holds the weight of his head. I pull it toward me and wrap both arms around it, dragging it close until it presses against my chest.
I bury my face in it.
It’s not the same as having him here.
But it will do.
****
The maid sets another dress on the bed, waiting for my approval. I shake my head. She moves to the wardrobe, wordless, and pulls out the next one.
I sit at the edge of the mattress, legs crossed at the ankle. My eyes drift to the full-length mirror. My hair is already tied up, parted in the center, pulled into a low knot. A few wisps have fallen around my temples. I smooth them back, then stop.
The black dress she holds up now is simple, structured, sleeveless. Silk, maybe. It catches light just slightly—enough to signal elegance without needing to prove it.
I nod.
She lays it carefully on the bed, smoothing the fabric flat. I stand, shrug off the robe, and let her help me into it. The zipper hums quietly. She steps around, adjusts the shoulders, then the hem.
I face the mirror again.
Do I look different?
I blink . My eyes settle on my own mouth. I feel a little thinner. Sharper. Like everything inside me had to fold smaller to fit into this shape.
Will he even recognize me?
I don’t know if Severo’s coming.
I hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered. We haven’t spoken since last night.
The maid finishes tidying the room and leaves silently. I sit for a while longer, legs crossed, hands resting on my lap.
The hallway is quiet when I step out. The floor beneath my heels clicks softly.
Matteo is leaning against the wall by the stairs, phone in one hand, earpiece in the other.
He straightens as I approach.
“Boss is waiting in the car,” he says.
My throat tightens. I nod, then start down the stairs.
****
The car is parked just outside the front door.
I open the back seat door. He’s already there.
He doesn’t look up.
I settle beside him, careful not to let my leg brush his. The silence stretches as Matteo closes the driver’s door and starts the engine.
The city blurs past the windows. Lights bloom across the windscreen as we move into Melbourne.
The streets shift—narrow lanes, wide boulevards, a steady uptick in polished glass and stone.
The restaurant sits on the corner of a terrace-lined avenue, its entrance marked by a wrought iron awning and two valets in black gloves.
Matteo parks just past the front arch.
A man in a fitted tuxedo meets us at the curb, one hand behind his back, the other gesturing toward the door. He nods to Severo first, then me.
“This way, Signore, Signora.”
We follow.
Inside, the lobby is quiet but alive. The floors are dark wood; the walls lit with subtle sconces. A curved glass display of vintage wine runs the length of one side. No music. Just the soft clink of cutlery behind closed doors.
The host guides us down a long corridor. Past the open dining floor. Through a velvet-lined partition.
Private room.
Mico is already inside.
He stands when he sees me.
His eyes search mine for a second too long, then flick to my dress. He steps forward and leans in. His lips brush my cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
I nod.
He turns to Severo.
“Dante.”
His tone is clipped. Polite.
Severo says nothing. He walks past and sits.
I lower myself into the chair opposite Mico. The linen napkin is already folded perfectly across the place setting.
A server in a black vest sets down the first course—duck carpaccio, shaved artichokes, warm bread brushed with truffle butter. A second follows with the wine, pouring quietly, then vanishing with the door shut soft behind him.
Mico lifts his glass and nods toward me.
“To surviving the impossible.”
I smile faintly and reach for mine. We toast.
Severo doesn’t lift his glass.
Mico slices into the duck, wrist light on the knife. “You remember that place we ate at in Sicily?” he says, turning slightly toward me. “You ordered oysters and hated them, so you made me eat six of them.”
I just turned eighteen and my mom had taken us to Sicily to celebrate. She and Marco had gone shopping and Mico and I had gone to eat together. That moment felt like heaven then.
I laugh under my breath. “And you pretended to enjoy it like you weren’t dying inside.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he says and asks, “Did it work?”
I lift my napkin and dab the corner of my mouth. “Not really.”
I laugh again, a little louder. The room doesn’t echo, but the sound rests longer than I intend.
To my left, Severo cuts his food in clean lines. He hasn’t said a word since we sat.
Mico glances over. His smile pulls slightly at the edges.
“You okay over there, Dantès?” he asks, his tone light, but shaped with something sharper underneath.
Severo doesn’t look up.
“I have the most beautiful wife,” he says, lifting his wine without shifting his expression. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Mico stares at him for a beat longer than necessary. Then—
“She’s not your wife.”
The words drop with no rise. Just quiet, precise.
My fork stops mid-air.
I sit up straighter. “Mico. Don’t.”
He lifts his hands slightly, feigning innocence. “What? I’m just telling the truth.”
I don’t respond.
He leans in a little. “It’s not real. This marriage. It’s business. Everyone knows it. Even he knows it.”
I set my cutlery down gently, fingers resting on the edge of the table.
“If you’re going to act like this,” I say, “we’ll leave.”
Mico holds the look.
The room goes quiet again.
Severo reaches for his glass, eyes on the wine, jaw flexing. He hasn’t touched half his plate.
Mico clears his throat
Ten men file in through the door—armed, dressed in black, no insignias. No names. They spread to either side of the long dining table, forming a semicircle that closes off the exit. Each one carries a weapon, held firm but low. Not drawn. Not raised. Yet.
I shoot to my feet, the chair scraping back.
“What is this?” I ask, turning sharply toward Mico.
His fingers rest lightly on his glass. He doesn’t move.
“Mico—” I press, louder now. “What is happening?”
He doesn’t look at me.
Severo is already rising, slow and smooth, his gaze sweeping the room. His hand drifts to his jacket, but he doesn’t pull.
The door opens again.
Matteo steps in.
He walks calmly to the left side of the room, coat open, and his shoulders loose. His right-hand slips inside his jacket.
Severo sees him. His voice cuts across the room.
“Matteo.”
Matteo doesn't stop walking. He comes up behind Severo’s chair—just to the left. Three feet away.
Matteo’s hand emerges. Gun drawn.
He raises it without pause and presses the muzzle to the side of Severo’s head.
The barrel touches skin. Right temple. Firm. Dead-centered.
“Sorry, boss.”
Air heaves in my throat.
Severo doesn’t move. His eyes shift just slightly, turning toward Matteo’s arm, then forward again.
I stand frozen as I realized this was a trap.
****
One of the men steps behind me.
I turn sharply, but my arms are grabbed and forced backward before I can react. Thick rope wraps my wrists—tight. Not rushed. Practiced. It digs into the bones of my wrists instantly, slicing a clean line through skin. I wince, twisting against it, but the man doesn’t flinch.
Another man steps up to Severo. He braces, ready, but doesn’t strike first.
A second rope closes around his wrists and cinches hard. He jerks forward, almost knocking the chair over, but two men hold him. One grabs his shoulder while the other presses the barrel of a rifle into his ribs. He freezes.
Someone tears a strip of tape from a roll.
I shake my head violently, lips pressed tight, but a rough hand grabs my jaw, and the tape slaps across my mouth. I breathe hard through my nose, chest heaving.
Severo growls something behind his gag. The tape muffles him, but the rage in his eyes is clear.
Matteo hasn’t moved. The gun is still in his hand, pointed low now, resting at his side. His stare drifts across the room—watchful, clinical.
The men begin moving us.
We’re led through a second door hidden in the wood paneling. Two of them drag Severo. My feet stumble over the threshold as I’m shoved forward into a dark hallway that slopes downward—concrete walls, steel grates, fluorescent lights flickering overhead.
At the bottom, the passage opens to a loading dock.
A large black truck waits with its back doors open. No markings. Engine running.
They grab my arm and push me toward it.