Chapter 10 Santino
I've been cooking for three hours in the kitchen in my private residence.
This isn't the family estate. This is the penthouse apartment I bought two years ago in the heart of Genoa's financial district, my personal sanctuary away from family obligations and mafia politics.
The space is spotless, modern, with everything in its designated place, exactly how I need it to maintain control over my life.
I'm making osso buco, because it's complicated and requires attention to detail, the kind of dish that demonstrates effort. The kind of dish that shows I'm not just some thug who orders takeout and eats standing over the sink. This is a meal that says something about who I am.
The wine is breathing on the counter—a Barolo, expensive and carefully selected.
The table is set with two places, facing each other across the polished wood surface.
Candles, because that's what you're supposed to do when you're trying to create an atmosphere.
Everything is perfect, controlled, exactly as I planned it.
This is my territory. My space. Here, within these walls, I have control over every element.
After yesterday's disaster at the social club—the gun incident, the inappropriate questions, the complete chaos Liana brought into my professional world—I need to reset this situation entirely.
I need to show her that I'm not just the man she can terrorize with her boundary-pushing behavior and casual weapons handling. I'm more than that.
I'm a man she should want to be with. A man worthy of respect.
The intercom buzzes at exactly seven o'clock. Punctual for once, which surprises me.
"Yes?" I press the button.
"It's me!" Her voice comes through the speaker, bright and cheerful. "I have my hands full, can you buzz me up?"
Hands full? What does that mean?
I press the button to unlock the building's entrance without asking for clarification. My apartment occupies the entire top floor, accessible only by the private elevator. She'll be up in a moment.
I check the osso buco one more time, lifting the lid to inspect the braised veal shanks. The meat is soft and tender, exactly as it should be. The risotto is almost ready—timing is everything with risotto, and I've been stirring it at precise intervals for the last twenty minutes.
There's a knock at my door and I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel.
I open the door, prepared to greet her with confidence.
Liana is standing there with three large plastic storage containers stacked precariously in her arms, teetering slightly as she tries to maintain her balance.
Behind her on the floor of the hallway are two more containers, plus a garment bag hanging from her shoulder, plus what looks like a professional makeup case sitting beside her feet.
"Hi!" She beams at me with a radiant smile. "Can you grab some of this? It's heavier than it looks."
I stare at the mountain of belongings she's brought with her, my mind struggling to process what I'm seeing. "What is all this?"
"Oh, just some things I'll need when I'm here." She pushes past me into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, containers still balanced in her arms. "Where should I put these? Do you have a preference?"
"Put what? Liana, what—" I'm still standing in the doorway, trying to understand what's happening.
"My bathroom stuff. Skincare, makeup, hair products. You know, the basics every woman needs." She sets the containers down in my entryway with a series of thuds, then immediately turns to go back for more. "Can you grab that garment bag? It's got some clothes in it that I'll need."
"Clothes." I repeat.
"Just a few outfits. For when I stay over." She's already bringing in the other containers, moving quickly. "Oh wow, your place is absolutely gorgeous! Even better than I imagined!"
"Liana." I'm still standing in the doorway, garment bag now in my hand, feeling like I've lost control of this entire situation. "Why do you have clothes with you?"
"For staying over?" She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're getting married in like a month. I should probably start keeping things here, right? It just makes sense to be prepared."
"You're not staying over tonight." I need to establish this boundary immediately.
"I know that, silly. Obviously not tonight.
" She laughs like I've said something amusing.
"But eventually I will stay over, so I figured, why not bring some stuff now?
Get ahead of it. Be proactive." She's wandering through my apartment now, containers abandoned in the entry.
"This is beautiful. Very modern. Very you. "
"Very me," I repeat numbly, still trying to process what's happening.
"Masculine but sophisticated. Clean lines, neutral colors. I love it." She walks to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city, the lights of Genoa twinkling below us in the evening darkness. "This view is incredible. Can you see the port from here?"
"Yes. Liana, about all this stuff you brought—"
"Which bathroom is ours?" She turns to face me, cutting off my objection before I can fully form it.
"Or do you have a guest bathroom I should use for now?
Although if we're getting married, we'll share a bathroom eventually, right?
So maybe I should just put my things in your bathroom now.
Save us the trouble of moving everything later. "
"My bathroom?" The words come out strangled.
"Our bathroom," she corrects cheerfully. "Is it this way?"
She's already walking down the hallway, opening doors as she goes, exploring my private space without permission.
I follow her, still holding the garment bag like an idiot, watching as she opens door after door.
My office—she glances in and keeps moving.
The guest room—a quick look, then on to the next. The linen closet—she barely pauses.
"Here it is!" She opens the door to my bedroom, my private sanctuary.
My bedroom. The most personal space in my entire apartment. With my bed, which suddenly seems very large and very present, dominating the room.
She walks right in like she owns the place, like she has every right to be here.
"Oh, this is nice. Very clean. Very minimalist." She opens the bathroom door, and I hear her sharp intake of breath. "Perfect! This bathroom is huge. Plenty of room for my things alongside yours."
"Liana, you're not putting your things in my bathroom." I need to stop this now before it goes any further.
"Our bathroom," she corrects again, like the repetition will make it true. "And why not? Where else would I put them?"
"At your house. In your own bathroom. Where they belong."
"But I'll need them here eventually, won't I?" She walks back past me, presumably heading for her containers. "Unless you want me to pack a bag every single time I come over? That seems really inefficient. This is just practical planning."
"You're not coming over frequently enough to need your own bathroom supplies here."
"I'm not?" She reappears carrying two of the heavy containers, not even struggling under the weight. "We're getting married, Santo. I should probably spend time here. Get used to the space. Learn where everything is. Where did you say I should put these?"
"I didn't say anything about where to put them."
"Right, you didn't. Bathroom then." She walks past me again with determination.
I hear her opening cabinets in my bathroom, the sound of doors and drawers echoing through the apartment.
"You have so much space under here!" Her voice echoes from the bathroom. "This is perfect for my hair dryer and straightener. Do you mind if I plug them in? I'll need an outlet near the counter."
I walk to the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame as I watch her. She's kneeling on my tile floor, unpacking containers of products. Bottles and jars and tubes emerge from the containers—hundreds of them, apparently, in every shape and size imaginable.
"What is all this?" I ask, gesturing at the growing collection.
"My skincare routine. Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, eye cream.
That's just the basics." She's arranging everything on my counter.
"Morning and night products. Plus, masks for special treatments.
And my makeup collection." She looks up at me with innocent eyes.
"I hope there's enough room. I might need a drawer or two. "
"A drawer."
"For my makeup brushes and tools. You have drawers in here, right?" She starts opening them without waiting for permission. "Oh, these are mostly empty. Perfect! See, there's plenty of room."
"Those are my drawers."
"They were your drawers," she corrects with that infuriating smile. "Now they're our drawers. See? Plenty of room for both of us."
I watch in stunned silence as she continues unpacking, methodically transferring her entire beauty arsenal into my bathroom. My clean, organized, masculine bathroom is being systematically invaded by an army of beauty products in pink and gold packaging.
"There!" She stands, surveying her work with obvious satisfaction. "Much better. Oh, I'll need a spot for my toothbrush too. And my skincare fridge."
"Your what?" I can't have heard that correctly.
"Skincare fridge. It's mini, don't worry. Keeps my serums and eye creams fresh." She says this like it's completely normal, like everyone has a dedicated refrigerator for beauty products. "I left it in the car. I'll bring it up next time I come."
She walks past me back into the bedroom, heading for the closet now.
"No." I need to draw a line somewhere.
"No?" She pauses, hand on the closet door.
"No closet space. You're not moving in."