43 | I am not welcome here
The silence between us is suffocating.
Luciano hasn't said a word since last night when he heard everything. Not on the plane, not in the car. Nothing. He's just been sitting there, brooding, gripping his thighs like he's trying to crush it under his palm.
I know he's angry. I know he's jealous. And I know he heard everything.
But the fact that he won't even acknowledge it or doesn't even look in my eyes? That makes my skin crawl since I have never seen him act this way before.
I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His jaw is clenched tight, his dark brows drawn together in a permanent scowl. His fingers tap against his knee, a slow, steady rhythm, like he's holding something back.
And the worst part about it? I feel guilty.
I shouldn't. I shouldn't.
But most men in his position, men with power, wealth, violence at their fingertips, keep mistresses on the side. They indulge themselves without a second thought, without a care for the women they have married.
But not Luciano.
Not once since our wedding has he taken another woman to his bed. Not once has he gone out to one of his nightclubs to fuck another woman or taken in a mistress.
If the other men in the underworld found out or worse, if their wives found out that a mafia boss was loyal to his wife, they would be stunned. Loyalty like that doesn't exist in their world. It's a rarity, almost unheard of.
And yet, I will always know that I'm the replacement for my sister. In the back of my mind, I can't help but wonder:
What if Ciara were in my shoes, would they be happily married by now? Would they love each other? Would they be expecting a child now? Would everything have turned out better if the truth about Ciara's origins had never been revealed?
I press my lips together, suddenly feeling sick because how can I escape from being in my sister's shadow?Should I shut down my emotions and play the part of a dutiful wife, pretending everything is fine? Or should I keep my distance from Luciano?
I stare at Luciano from the corner of my eye, and I know what he's thinking about.
I know he's replaying every word he overheard between me and Franco. The longing in my voice. The way I told Franco he was better than Luciano.
You're better than Luciano.
I might as well have taken a knife and driven it straight through his ribs. And yet, I had to watch him with Ciara, kissing, caressing, caring for each other. The difference? We weren't in a relationship; he had no commitment to me, only to my sister.
I turn my eyes away from him and gaze out the window as we pass through the golden Costa mansion gates and drive up to the grand estate.
The car finally slows as we pull up to the Costa mansion. It's grand, sprawling, and intimidating. A place that reeks of old money and power.
I look out and standing at the top of the staircase is Luciano's family.
His mother. His noona. His younger sisters.
The second Luciano steps out of the car, his sisters practically launch themselves at him, wrapping their arms around him like they haven't seen him in years.
"Luciano!" one of them squeals. "We missed you so much."
He softens ruffling one of their heads. "You saw me last summer, Gioia."
"But it felt like forever," another sister pouts.
I step out of the car, and stand there, watching their reunion from the side.
Until Luciano's noona steps toward me, her arms open. The elderly woman is kind, warm, a stark contrast to the tension suffocating the air between Luciano and me.
"It's good to see you, child," she says, wrapping me in a firm but gentle hug. I hesitate for a moment before hugging her back.
But when I pull away, my eyes lock with Luciano's mother. Her expression is nothing but cold disdain.
A nasty look, one that makes it very clear, I am not welcome here.