Chapter 11
I’ve never seen so many clothes in my life. Color everywhere. Fabrics I’ve never touched. Styles I’ve never imagined. The boutique is bright and elegant, with gold fixtures and staff who greet Gianna like she’s their favorite VIP.
Gia grabs my hand immediately. Her smile is mischievous, excited, alive.
“Okay,” she says, eyes sparkling, “first question: what’s your style?”
“My… style?” I echo, confused.
She nods. “Yeah! What colors do you love? What do you hate? Do you like soft? Edgy? Cozy? Show me what feels like you.”
I freeze. “I don’t know,” I admit quietly.
Gia tilts her head. “You don’t know?”
She’s younger than me—early-twenties, small and fiery—but something in her gaze sharpens with understanding far beyond her age.
“Alessandro said they wouldn’t let you pick your clothes, right?” she asks more softly this time.
I swallow. “Never. My mother chose everything.”
Gia’s expression shifts instantly— her back straightening, eyes narrowing with righteous fury. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
She throws her hands up and mutters, “What the hell, that’s—no. No. We’re not doing that.”
Before I can react, she pulls me into a fierce hug, small arms surprisingly strong.
“That’s messed up,” she says into my shoulder. “So fucking messed up. You should’ve been allowed to be… you.” She steps back and squeezes my hands. “But you’ve got me now. And we’re fixing all of it.”
It takes everything in me not to burst into tears. No one has ever said something like that to me. Gia moves fast, grabbing items, pointing out colors, holding pieces up to my face like she’s matching a painting.
She radiates confidence—loud, unapologetic, playful.
“Okay,” she says, picking up a deep green blouse. “This good?”
I hesitate… then nod. “Yes. I like it.”
Gia smiles like I just said something important.
“Perfect. Into the yes pile.”
Then comes a soft sweater. A bright sundress. A darker, sexier top that makes me blush.
“What about this?” she asks each time.
And for once…I get to choose.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, too bright.”
“Yes… I think yes.”
“No, the fabric makes me itchy.”
Every time I say no, Gia grins like she’s won a victory.
“THERE she is,” she cheers. “That’s you choosing for you.”
Her enthusiasm is infectious. Her protectiveness surprising. Her belief in me… overwhelming. We enter the third store, and Gia holds up a shirt so hideous it could blind someone on sight. Neon. Sequins. A neckline that looks butchered. It’s awful.
I snort—an undignified, surprised sound—and cover my mouth.
Gia gasps dramatically. “Oh my God—was that a laugh?”
Heat floods my face. “I—yes, I suppose—”
“Oh this is my new favorite day,” she cackles.
While I try on a dress, I hear Gia outside the curtain arguing with a saleswoman who made a passive-aggressive remark about me “being shy.”
“She’s my cousin’s wife,” Gia hisses. “And if you talk down to her again, I’ll—”
The end of the sentence disappears into the sound of hangers rattling, but I swear I hear Nico grunt approvingly.
I’ve never had anyone stand up for me. Not like that. Not with fire. It warms some place inside me I didn’t know was cold. I step out in a soft rose-colored dress—flowy, feminine, the sleeves brushing my arms.
Gia’s jaw drops. “Elena…” Her voice breaks into a smile. “You look… so pretty.”
I touch the hem nervously. “You think so?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You think so. And that’s what matters.”
But it isn’t. Not entirely. Because some stubborn part of my heart wonders what he would think. Before I can talk myself out of it, I turn toward Rocco.
“Do you think…” I swallow. “Do you think Alessandro would like it?”
Gia groans dramatically. “Girl, YOU should like—”
But I’m not asking because I want approval. I’m asking because… I wonder if he would think I look pretty. I can’t say that out loud.
Rocco steps forward a little, giving me a small, warm smile — the kind men reserve for daughters or little sisters.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I think the Boss will approve.”
My cheeks burn. Gia rolls her eyes but smiles like she sees through me entirely.
We sit on a patio in the sunlight, sipping iced drinks.
Gia leans forward, chin propped in her hands.
“You know my cousin’s been blowing up Rocco’s phone all day, right?”
My heart stops. “What?”
Gia smirks. “Oh yeah. Every thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
My face heats so fast I swear the sun gets jealous.
Gia laughs. “You deserve someone who gives a damn. And trust me—Alessandro gives more than a damn.”
“Okay,” she says. “What else do you need? Anything.”
I chew slowly, staring at the table.
Do I dare say it? When I don’t answer, she nudges my knee under the table.
“Elena. What is it?”
“It’s stupid,” I whisper.
“It’s not stupid if it’s coming out of your mouth. Tell me.”
I take a breath. “I… need new shower products.”
Gia freezes. Dead still. Then— “Oh hell no.” She slams her hand on the table, half-standing. “THEY MADE YOU USE—”
Nico places a gentle but very firm hand on her shoulder. She sits back down instantly, still vibrating with righteous rage.
“Elena,” Gia says, voice tight. “We’re buying everything. Everything. New.”
I bite my lip. “I just… I don’t like the ones my mother chose.”
“That’s because they weren’t your choices.” Gia huffs. “We’re fixing that too.”
She drags me — literally drags — into the next store and fills a basket with:
New shampoo. New conditioner. Body wash. Lotion. Perfume. Hair masks. Skincare. Things I’ve only seen in magazines.
“Pick what smells like you,” she says, softer now.
So I do. And with every bottle I choose, my chest feels lighter. Like I’m slowly washing away every piece of the girl I was forced to be.
The car ride back to the house is loud. Or rather— Gia is loud.
She chatters the entire way, legs tucked under her, talking with her hands, planning our next outing like she’s already decided she’s adopting me into her world.
“Next time, we’re doing makeup. You need to try a bold lip, Elena — you’ll look incredible. And shoes. God, shoes. And jewelry. And we need a jacket, that leather one we saw? Nico, remind me to—”
Nico grunts like he’s heard this a thousand times before.
Gia keeps talking. And talking. But I don’t hear a word.
I’m lost in my own head. In the soft fabric of the top I chose myself.
In the smell of the hair products I picked because I liked them.
In the echo of my own laughter — strange, hopeful, unfamiliar.
How… how did this become my life? Just yesterday I was in my father’s house, living by rules that were never mine.
Now I’m here. Married. Shopping with a Moretti. Smiling. Choosing.
It feels like stepping into someone else’s dream.
And dreams don’t last. When will the other shoe drop?
When will everything go wrong? When will Alessandro show the ruthless side I know exists?
The part of him that earned a position as the Don’s second-in-command?
No man gets that kind of power by being gentle.
And part of me is terrified that one day…He’ll turn that ruthlessness on me. So I cling to today—to the clothes, the smells, Gia’s bright laughter—Because I don’t know how long I’ll be allowed to keep them.
“Earth to Elena?” Gia waves her hand in front of my face.
I blink. “Sorry.”
“You okay?”
I nod, even if it’s only half-true.
Gia doesn’t push — which I appreciate more than she knows. Before I can overthink anything else, the SUV turns into the driveway.
We're home. My stomach flips as I step out of the SUV wearing:
Jeans. Soft, comfortable denim that moves with me. My first pair ever.
And a deep red flowing top — rich, warm, bold — a color that makes me feel like I have a pulse.
The front door opens. Alessandro stands there. And he stops breathing. Literally stops.
His eyes drag down my body slowly — not in a way that makes me feel exposed, but in a way that makes me feel… seen.
His gaze lingers on the jeans. Then the top. Then my face. Heat floods my cheeks. He walks toward me with measured steps, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to scare me.
When he reaches me, his fingers find the hem of my sleeve — a feather-light touch — and then trail up my arm until his palm cups my shoulder.
“Elena…” His voice is rough, quieter than usual. “You were already beautiful.”
My breath catches.
He steps closer, lowering his forehead toward mine until I feel his warmth.
“But right now,” he murmurs, “you’re gorgeous.”
“Why?”
The word falls from my lips before I can stop it. A whisper. A plea.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and I swear his hand trembles.
“Because,” he says softly, “you’re carrying something you didn’t have this morning.”
“What is that?” I whisper.
His eyes lock onto mine with heat so intense my knees nearly buckle.
“Confidence,” he says. “And do you know what that makes you?”
I shake my head.
“A Moretti.”
The words hit me like a blow — soft and fierce all at once. Something inside my chest cracks open.