Chapter 17 Liana #2
"The calla lilies then," Giovanna decides after a moment. "They're more elegant for the venue we've chosen."
"Perfect," I agree immediately.
The dinner continues, one elegant dish after another. I stay focused on the mothers and their wedding planning, nodding along as they discuss venues and flowers and music selections and guest lists that seem to grow longer with each conversation.
I agree to everything they suggest. Nod in all the right places. Smile when it's appropriate. I don't look at Santino, even though I can feel him watching me from across the table.
I can feel him trying to catch my eye, trying to restart our conversation. But I keep my attention carefully anywhere else—on the mothers, on my wine glass, on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth.
"And the dress?" Mama asks, pulling my attention back. "Have you scheduled your final fitting yet?"
"Not yet, but I will."
"Liana, the wedding is coming up soon." There's worry creeping into her voice now. "You need to—"
"I'll schedule it tomorrow," I promise. "First thing in the morning."
"And the bridesmaids' dresses? Gia mentioned hers needs to be adjusted—"
"I'll handle it."
"And we still need to finalize the seating chart—"
"I'll take care of it, Mama." My voice is quiet but firm, with just enough edge to end the questions. "I'll take care of everything that needs to be done. Don’t worry."
She looks at me for a long moment, her maternal concern evident in every line of her face. "Are you alright, darling? You seem..."
"I'm just tired," I repeat the same excuse I've been using all evening.
"You've been very quiet tonight. That's not like you."
"It's been a long day."
Across the table, Santino leans forward again, his voice insistent. "Liana—"
"Excuse me," I say, standing abruptly. "I need to use the restroom."
I walk away before he can say anything else, before he can ask any more questions I don't want to answer.
In the bathroom, I stand at the sink and stare at my reflection in the ornate mirror.
I look like a ghost—pale and hollow, with shadows under my eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
I look like someone who's already given up, who's already accepted defeat.
Maybe I have given up. Maybe this is what surrender looks like.
I take a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight. I smooth down my dress with trembling hands. I paste on my polite smile, the one I've perfected over years of family events.
Then I go back out there to finish playing my role.
When I return to the table, dessert is being served—individual portions of tiramisu that look almost too beautiful to eat. I sit down and pick at mine with my fork, not really tasting it.
Santino tries again immediately. "Liana, we should—"
"The tiramisu is excellent," I say to Giovanna, interrupting him without looking his way. "You'll have to tell me where you got it."
She looks surprised at the sudden interruption but answers readily enough. "There's a little bakery near our house. I'll give you the address."
"Thank you so much."
Santino sits back in his chair, visibly frustrated. Let him be frustrated. Let him feel a fraction of what I'm feeling.
I don't want to talk to him. Don't want to explain what's happening inside me. Don't want to do anything except get through this dinner and go home where I can drop this exhausting pretense.
The conversation moves on around me. Business talk between the fathers, wedding talk between the mothers, gossip among the various aunts and uncles. I participate minimally, offering just enough responses to be polite but not enough to draw attention to myself.
Just enough to not stand out. Just enough to fade into the background where I apparently belong.
When dinner finally ends after what feels like hours, I stand immediately, ready to escape.
"I should go," I announce. "I have an early morning tomorrow."
"Doing what?" Santino asks.
"Things." I deliberately don't elaborate, don't give him anything to work with. "Gia, are you ready to leave?"
She nods, standing quickly and reading the desperation in my voice. "Yes."
I kiss Mama's cheek dutifully, then Giovanna's, playing the role of the good daughter. "Thank you for a lovely dinner."
"Liana, wait—" Santino stands suddenly too.
I'm already moving toward the exit with determined strides, Gia beside me matching my pace. We make it to the car before he can follow us out of the private room.
"Drive," I tell Gia as soon as we're both inside with the doors closed.
She doesn't argue, just starts the engine and pulls away from the restaurant.
In the car, neither of us speaks for a long while. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of traffic and the hum of the engine.
Finally, Gia breaks the silence. "What are you going to do?"
"What can I do?" I stare out the window at the city passing by, lights blurring together. "I'm marrying him. That's what's happening, whether I want it or not."
"You could tell him the truth about everything."
"The truth about what? That I've been sabotaging our relationship from the very start? That every single chaotic thing I've done was carefully calculated to drive him away?" I shake my head, the bitterness seeping into my voice. "I'm sure that would go over wonderfully."
"You're just giving up completely?"
"I'm accepting reality," I correct her. "Sometimes that's all you can do when you've run out of options."
"That's not the sister I know. The sister I know fights for what she wants."
"I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of trying to be something I'm not, tired of pretending I'm okay with losing everything I've worked for." I close my eyes against the burning sensation. "I'm just... tired."
We pull up to the house, the familiar facade offering no comfort. I get out without another word. Inside, I go straight to my room and lie down on my bed without even bothering to change out of my dress. The fabric wrinkles beneath me, but I can't bring myself to care.
My phone is on my nightstand, the screen dark and silent.
No texts from Santino. No calls. No demands for explanation.
Maybe he's finally giving me the space I supposedly wanted, the distance I've been creating.
So why does it feel so wrong? Why does the silence hurt more than the chaos ever did?
I roll over and stare at the ceiling, counting the shadows cast by the moonlight filtering through my curtains.
Three more weeks until the wedding.
I can survive three more weeks of pretending to be something I'm not, even though I'm increasingly unsure of who I actually am anymore.
Even if the thought of marrying Santino Marcello makes my chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with losing my birthright and everything to do with the way he looked at me across the dinner table tonight.
I close my eyes and force myself toward sleep, though I know it will be a long time coming.
Tomorrow, I'll go to the port. Run operations with the competence I've spent years developing. Be myself, at least for a few hours, before I have to go back to being the woman everyone expects me to be.
The woman I'm not sure I recognize anymore.