Chapter 11 Gabriella
It’s official, I'm going to lose my mind if I don’t get out of this house. After a life of travel and excitement, the thought of spending the day pretending I know how to arrange flowers sends me spiraling into depression.
Luca's been studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. Not in a bad way. More like he's genuinely curious about who I am. But it's making me paranoid about every word, every gesture, every time I forget to be Sofia and let Gabriella slip through.
I’m anxious and jumpy today.
When Rosa mentions she needs to go to the market this morning, I practically leap at the chance.
"Could I come with you?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "I'd love to see where you buy all those amazing ingredients."
Rosa looks surprised. "Of course, Mrs. Romano. But it's quite early, and the market can be crowded."
"I don't mind. I'd enjoy it."
The truth is, I'm desperate to do something real. Markets are one of my favorite things about traveling. The energy, the chaos, the way you can learn about a culture just by watching people buy food.
I find Luca in his study, reading through what looks like shipping manifests.
"Rosa's going to the market this morning," I say from the doorway. "Would it be all right if I went with her?"
He looks up, and I catch something in his expression I can't read. "You want to go grocery shopping? Why?"
"I want to see the market. Learn where everything comes from." I lean against the doorframe, trying to look casual. "Is that okay?"
"It depends." He sets down his papers and turns to study me. "Are you planning to rid the market of pickpockets today?"
“Only if they try to rob me,” I snap back. “Or Rosa.”
“Then the answer is no,” he says firmly.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “What am I expected to do here in the house all day, Luca? I can’t sit around and do nothing. I’m going stir crazy.”
“What did you do before we got married?” he asks.
Good fucking question.
“I stayed busy with volunteer work and of course helping Papa with the art business,” I lie. God, I hope he doesn’t ask me specific questions because I don’t know one damn thing about the art business. Sofia and I didn’t spend time talking about how she filled her time before I arrived.
“If I allow it, will you promise not to run off or tackle thieves?” he asks.
“I promise.” I give him a sweet, fake smile.
“Fine. Paolo will accompany you.”
"Do I really need a bodyguard to buy vegetables?"
"You need a bodyguard everywhere you go,” he reminds me. “We discussed this."
Right.
The protection I don't want from threats I'm not sure exist. But arguing about it will make him more suspicious.
"If he tags along, he has to stay back. I don't want to be under armed guard while shopping for veggies. It’s embarrassing."
Luca almost smiles. "I'll tell him to be subtle."
I roll my eyes at him. “We both know how well that works out. Would you like anything special from the market?”
He glances back up at me in surprise. Or almost pleased that I asked. “Like what?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
“Fresh figs would be nice if you can find any,” he says.
“Got it. Will you be home for dinner tonight?”
“I have a meeting. It might be late before I get back.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
An hour later, I’m smiling and trying to take in all the sights.
The air in the outdoor market is already warm enough to turn the scent of tomatoes and basil into something heady and intoxicating.
The crowd presses in from all sides, tourists snapping photos and vendors shouting prices over the clatter of crates.
Rosa keeps up a steady pace, her shopping basket hooked over one arm. Paolo trails behind us in his dark sunglasses.
"Where do you want to start?" Rosa asks, pulling out a shopping list.
"Wherever you normally go. I’m tagging along."
Rosa stops at a tomato stall, and I let my gaze drift over the produce like I’m just another bored wife. The vendor, an elderly man with impressive arm muscles, eyes us like he's calculating exactly how much he can overcharge.
"Good morning," Rosa says politely. "I need tomatoes for sauce. What's fresh today?"
He shows her a basket of tomatoes that look decent but not spectacular. "These are very good.”
Then he names an outrageous price for tomatoes that aren't even perfectly ripe.
"Those look beautiful," I say, stepping closer. "But they're not quite ready."
Rosa glances at me, surprised.
His eyes narrow. "The lady knows tomatoes?" he asks.
"A little. These will be perfect in two days. But for sauce today, you'd want something like..." I scan his stand and spot a basket he's got tucked behind the counter. "Those."
They're uglier, misshapen, with blemishes, but they're perfectly ripe. He follows my gaze and his expression shifts to grudging respect.
"The lady has a good eye.”
He knocks the price down only a bit. I offer less, lowering the price more.
Rosa's staring at me now. I realize I'm haggling with a vendor like I'm at a market in Bangkok, not buying groceries as the wife of a mafia don.
But now he’s nodding at me. "Final price."
"Deal."
As he bags up the tomatoes, Rosa leans close to me. "How did you know about the different types of tomatoes?"
Damn. Sofia wouldn't know the difference between sauce tomatoes and slicing tomatoes. She probably buys whatever looks prettiest.
"I've been reading," I say quickly. "I want to learn how to make proper Italian food on special occasions for Luca."
It's not entirely a lie. I did learn about tomatoes from reading travel blogs and cooking websites when I was trying to figure out how to eat cheaply in different countries.
We move on to the herb vendor, where I manage to keep my mouth shut while Rosa buys basil and oregano. But when we get to the spice merchant, my resolve crumbles. He's got saffron that's clearly been sitting there for months and cardamom pods that look like they were harvested sometime last year.
"The saffron's old," I tell Rosa quietly. "See how it's more orange than red? Fresh saffron should be deep red with just the tips being orange."
She stops, studies my face. "Where did you learn about spices?"
"You know what? I think I've been reading too many travel magazines," I say with a laugh that sounds forced even to me. "Making me think I know more than I do. I’ll try not to be so bossy next time. Don’t pay any attention to me."
Rosa doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go.
We finish shopping in relative silence. Rosa picks out the rest of her ingredients while I try not to comment. But she’s watching me. I need to be more careful. Rosa isn’t my friend. She’s a trusted employee of Luca’s and that’s it.
When we're walking back to the car, arms full of bags, she finally speaks. "You're different than the time I met you before the wedding,” she says quietly.
"Different how?"
"More alive. You're not afraid anymore." She shifts her bags to get a better grip. "I like you better this way."
"Thank you," I say.
"Whatever happened to make you change," Rosa continues, "I hope you don't change back. Mr. Luca seems happier too. And more interested in his wife. Which is a good thing."
That stops me cold. "What do you mean?"
"He asks about you. What you like, what you're doing. And he’s staying at home more than before. Marriage is good for Mr. Luca. He seems happier."
Great.
Not only am I failing to convince Rosa that I'm Sofia, but apparently Luca's paying closer attention to me than I thought.
By the time Rosa and I return from the market, the hot sun has worn me out. My shoulders are slightly burned and my new sandals have left faint imprints on my skin.
We unload the groceries into the cool kitchen. Rosa sets her bag down with a sigh and starts moving produce toward the marble counter. I reach for a bunch of mint, but she waves me off, her wrist bangles clinking softly.
“Go on,” she says with that knowing little smile. “You’ve been out in the sun all morning. Go cool off.”
Resting isn’t what I need. My skin feels sticky with sweat, and every muscle in my back is drawn tight from carrying too many bags and pretending to be someone else. The idea of standing under running water until the dust and heat from the market rinses away is almost intoxicating.
The upstairs suite is silent when I step inside. The deep, still quiet that only comes when you’re truly alone. Luca is at work, the guards are stationed outside, and Rosa is downstairs. Even Paolo, who seems surgically attached to me these days, dropped me off at the front door.
I shed my damp dress in a quick sweep over my head and toss it across the back of a chair.
I open a music app on my phone, and my thumb finds a playlist I haven’t touched in years.
Heavy German electronic. Industrial bass with a beat that doesn’t walk so much as stalk.
I turn it all the way up until it reverberates against the walls.
The shower responds with a rush of sound. A high hiss of water against tile and a moment later the cool spray needles my shoulders, sharp enough to steal my breath before mellowing into relief. I stand there letting it run over me, eyes closed, hands braced on the slick wall.
Then the music pushes in harder. My hips catch the familiar rhythm almost before I notice. The sway starts small, just a shift of weight from one foot to the other. My arms lift without thinking, water streaming down my sides, hair heavy and clinging to my back.
I move the way I used to when no one was watching in a club. The beat drives a pulse through me that has nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with being alive in my own skin.
I hum along to the chorus, the words fractured memories from nights in Berlin clubs where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and bodies pressed too close. My voice joins the singer for a moment, the sound echoing against glass and marble.
I’m not thinking about Sofia. I’m not thinking about Luca, or lies, or the way the walls in this villa seem to watch. I’m thinking about how good it feels to be unobserved, to move for myself, to take up space without restraint.
The steam fogs the glass and curls around my legs. My movements grow bolder, my eyes closing again as I tip my face up to the spray. Water runs between my breasts before dripping to the stone.
And then —
A shift in the air. The faintest disruption, but enough to wake that old, ingrained instinct in me. The one that kept me alive in places where the wrong kind of attention could be lethal.
I freeze mid-turn.
The music’s still pounding, the water still pouring, but my awareness tunnels toward the doorway. I open my eyes.
Through the steam and the blurred glass, a dark shape leans there, perfectly still. Broad shoulders. That unmistakable, dangerous stillness.
Luca.
Watching me.
I don’t flinch or grab a towel.
Instead, I let the beat slide through me again, this time slower, heavier. A long roll of my hips. The deliberate stretch of my arms overhead until my back curves like a bowstring. Water runs down my sides and between my legs in unhurried streams.
I keep my gaze away from him, like he’s not there, like the only audience I have is the bassline. But every nerve in my body is trained on the doorway, on the charged stillness pulsing from it.
My hands trace my own skin, up the outside of my thighs, over my hips, my stomach. I imagine his eyes following every inch, tracking me like prey he’s not ready to take yet.
The song shifts, the tempo quickening, and I turn under the spray so my side profile faces him now. The glass is fogged, but not enough to hide the lines of my body. I drag my fingers slowly through my hair, wringing the water out.
I wonder if he knows that I know. I wonder if he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him, to give him permission.
The thought makes my pulse climb higher than the music.
I give him more, a slow bend forward, the arch of my spine accentuated, steam curling up around my calves.
If he wants to watch, he can have the full show.
But if he wants to touch, he’s going to have to come and take.
I reach for the soap, the slick bar warm from the steam, and work it into my palms. I start at my collarbone, spreading the suds over my chest in slow, lazy circles.
The scent mixes with the hot rush of water and the faint metallic tang of knowing I’m being watched.
My hands skim down over the swell of my breasts, fingers sliding over slippery skin, the soapy foam following in their wake.
I take my time. One arm raised as I smooth suds down the length of it, turning my wrist just enough to expose the inside of my arm. Then I switch to the other, my eyes still closed like I’m lost entirely to the song, though every cell in my body is tuned to the man in the doorway.
The music pulses faster. My hands drift lower. I move like I have all the time in the world, like I’m not waiting for him to step forward and close the space between us.
The glass is fogged enough to blur, but not enough to hide. He can see the outline of me. The slow, deliberate pace that says this isn’t about getting clean—it’s about you standing there watching me do it.
I soap my thighs next, fingers sliding in long, deliberate strokes, and let one knee shift outward, a lazy sway to the rhythm. I know exactly what the movement suggests. I know exactly what he’ll imagine if I keep doing it.
I’m still facing forward, but I sense him—solid, unmoving, leaning against the doorframe like he owns not just the doorway, not just the room, but the air I’m breathing.
I rinse slowly, letting the water take its time carrying the suds away. The steam is thick now, curling around my body like silk, blurring edges, hiding nothing.
Finally, I turn my head. Just enough. Through the swirling steam, through the fogged glass, I find him. Broad shoulders in a dark shirt. Hands in his pockets. Watching like he’s been there forever, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than silently devouring me with his gaze.
I don’t stop moving. If anything, I make it slower, letting him know without words that I see him, I know what he’s doing and I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of ending the show early.
I don’t speak. The music’s too loud, the water too hot, and the game far too sweet to ruin with words.