Chapter 19
The chandelier above the ballroom sparkles like a thousand tiny knives, each crystal catching the light and throwing it back in sharp, blinding flashes.
I stand at the edge of the room, scotch in hand, pretending the amber liquid Nico handed me will somehow dull the tension clawing its way through my chest.
It doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does the weed pen I’ve been hitting all evening.
Not when Salvatore is holding court in the centre of the room, his booming laughter echoing through the space, hawk-like eyes sweeping over the guests as if he’s assessing pawns rather than people.
Not when Gianna stands at his side in a pale pink—practically white—dress, looking every inch the perfect bride to be, her smile soft and distant like a girl caught in a fairytale she didn’t write, as her engagement ring draws everyone's attention.
And sure as hell not when Cora and Owen are watching me from across the room, reading every flicker of my goddamn soul like it’s written on my forehead.
I’m not an idiot, I knew eventually I’d have to play along, slap on some fake-as-hell smile and pretend I give a damn about this family unity act.
But Christ.
I haven’t even been here a week, and already the circus has started? Already they’re dissecting me, testing me, waiting to see if I break right on cue?
The string quartet eases into a sweeping waltz.
Servers float by with trays of champagne and delicate canapés, none of us actually taste.
The crowd’s full of underbosses, sons, daughters, wives in designer gowns, and distant relatives hoping to catch Antonio’s eye.
This is what a Mafia engagement party looks like—diamonds, secrets, and the smell of roses thick enough to choke a man.
It’s Gianna’s night. Ours, technically.
But all I can think about is how this should never have gotten this far.
Gianna’s gaze drifts over to me, uncertain. She gives me a polite little smile, tucking her dark hair behind her ear and I force one back.
I may not want to be here, and she sure as hell isn’t the girl I want to marry, but she’s just a kid born into a rigged game. Our marriage contract was signed before she was even born. She’s as much a pawn as I am, if not more.
I was twelve when Da sat me down and told me one day I’d make the family proud.
He painted it like a gift—a future full of duty and honour and a beautiful bride I wouldn’t even have to look for myself.
I can’t help but wonder who and how the news was broken to Gianna, or if this was sprung on her days or hours before I crash landed into her world.
It wasn’t until I watched Owen fall head-over-fucking-heels for Cora while I was fighting my feelings for Lily that I understood the cost. For alliances and transport rights, I was trading away the chance to love someone like that out in the open.
Swallowing that burn down, I slam my drink back, set the empty glass on the bar top, and crack my neck. With an exhale that could move mountains, I push through the crowd, weaving through them until I’m at her side.
She flashes me a grateful look, her whole body sagging with relief, before slipping her arm through mine as another group of guests approaches, eager to pay respects.
Her perfume is subtle, sweet, expensive roses and something softer underneath.
She tilts her chin up, playing her part, voice demure as she murmurs pleasantries in perfect Italian.
I nod, shake hands, and exchange the same practiced words in a dozen different combinations. My mouth says what it’s supposed to, but my brain’s running on a different track entirely.
Because no matter how many silk gowns swirl past me or how many crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, I can’t stop seeing her face. I can’t stop imagining Lily standing where Gianna is standing, fierce and stubborn and refusing to play any part but her own.
And fuck, I’d ruin entire empires for that girl.
I catch Cora’s eye across the ballroom. She’s standing beside Owen, arm tucked in his as they network.
Her blonde hair is pinned back, giving her features a sharper, more deliberate edge.
Despite knowing I’m far from her favourite person—after everything that went down with Lily and the impossible position it put her in—her eyes soften when she sees me.
A silent question hangs there, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
Are you okay?
Something twists in my chest. Guilt, annoyance, and longing all at once. I give the smallest shake of my head.
No.
She excuses herself from Owen and makes her way over, cutting through clusters of men in tuxedos and women dripping diamonds. Owen’s eyes follow her the entire way, only allowing himself to look away once she reaches my side.
Cora looks so at home in this world and yet so deeply disgusted by it.
She’s always had this way of looking at me, like she knows more than she says, like she sees the part of me I try to hide.
I can’t give her answers. Not tonight. Not while every nerve in my body is buzzing with the weight of Salvatore’s gaze and the impossibility of this staged marriage.
And yet… even as she reaches me, my mind drifts to Lily.
How her dark eyes would pierce me if she were here.
How every soft laugh, every tilt of her head, would make the world shrink down to just her.
Cora’s concern hangs between us like smoke, sharp and frustrating, but it can’t compete with the pull of Lily, the ache that refuses to be ignored.
I swallow and force my jaw to relax, letting the moment pass. I can’t afford distractions tonight. Not with Salvatore circling like a hawk, not with the press lurking, and certainly not with Lily so close, yet impossibly far.
But that doesn’t stop the memory of her from clawing its way into my chest, reminding me of everything I’ve lost, and everything I’d burn to have back.
“Breathe,” Cora whispers, sliding in beside me, low enough that only I can hear. “You look like you’re about to shatter your glass and stab someone with the stem.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I sigh, tipping the champagne flute to my lips just for something to do. “If one more old man tries to congratulate me on securing my bride, I might just do so.”
Her eyes flick toward Gianna, who’s chatting with a pair of older women, twisting her engagement ring around her finger. Sympathy flashes across her face before she turns her focus back to me.
“She’s not the problem,” Cora summarises.
“Sharp as ever,” I mutter, tossing back the last of my drink.
She arches her brow. “Don’t give me that. You’re acting like you’re on death row. Is it Gianna? Or Antonio?”
“It’s… all of it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “The deal, the alliance, the performance. It’s bullshit. And the more I pretend, the more it feels like I’m losing pieces of myself I’ll never get back.”
Cora softens, tilting her head. “And Lily?”
Her name slices through me like glass.
“Don’t,” I whisper, jaw tight. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“She’s already in it,” Cora fires back, her eyes fierce. “Even if neither of you wants to admit it.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I have to marry Gianna.”
“You’d do well to remember she has to marry you, too. It’s not just you being forced into this, Matt. Sure, you’re the one doing the moving, but that doesn't guarantee Gianna any molecule of safety.”
“I’d never—”
“I know that. But she doesn’t.” Cora’s eyes shine, pity and steel tangled together as she cuts me off.
“Not every Mafia is like the Points, Matt. Not every arranged marriage is like Abbie’s with a thousand contingencies keeping the bride safe from her husband’s fists, his cruel words, or even his cold shoulder. Gianna’s walking in blind.”
I flinch under her gaze, horrified by the truth in her words. Every instinct screams that I should argue, justify, take control—but Cora doesn’t give me that luxury. For once, I’m the one being lectured, measured, and it leaves me exposed in a way I’ve never felt before.
Before I can answer, Salvatore taps a fork against his glass to get everyone’s attention. His voice booms through the ballroom, welcoming everyone, praising alliances, toasting to futures paved in blood and gold.
As applause echoes off the marble walls, Gianna steps closer, slipping her hand into mine again. Her fingers are ice cold. I squeeze gently, offering her the only support I can as guilt eats me.
Later, long after the last toast and the staged photos, I slip out of the party and into the quiet dark of my suite. The marble floors echo under my shoes and my reflection glares back at me from a thousand polished surfaces—the perfect Mafia son, suit immaculate, tie loosened, and my eyes, dead.
I rip the tie off and toss it onto the bed, and sink into the leather chair by the window, the city of Turin spread out below me in golden lights. My phone feels heavy in my palm as the need to erase tonight burrows under my skin.
I shouldn’t. It’s risky as all hell every time I do this. Every time I watch her, every private stream I set up, it’s another cut I willingly let her make. Another wound that refuses to heal. But the longer I go without seeing her face, hearing her voice, the more I feel like I’m suffocating.
I open up Tempt before I can talk some sense into myself, and the little red circle around her picture lures me in.
My chest caves in on itself as the screen fills with her image—Lily, hair twisted up in a messy knot, she’s in lavender tonight, and the way the satin and lace hug every inch of her deserves to be studied. The glow of her ring light bathes her skin in soft gold.
“Hey, loves,” she purrs, voice husky, eyes dark. “Miss me?”
Fuck.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. It’s like she’s talking straight to me and me alone. I know it’s a performance—for them, for her income, for the image she’s built to survive—but it doesn’t matter. My brain can’t untangle the woman I love from the siren on the screen.
She leans closer, lips parted, breath catching just slightly, like she’s remembering, too.
“Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about,” she coaxes.
My throat closes. Because if I told her the truth—that every dream is her, that I wake up reaching for her, that this engagement means nothing and everything at the same time—I’d fucking lose it.
So I sit there in the dark, watching her undress piece by piece, every curve and sigh a brand burned into my memory.
Want clawing at my chest. Guilt gnawing at my ribs.
Because no matter how many oceans or lies or secrets lie between us, Lily is still the only thing in this world I’ve ever truly wanted. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t already belong to her.