12. Chiara
12
CHIARA
A s we enter the grand foyer, my mind keeps replaying the image of Dante’s face. The hurt in his eyes, the anger etched in the set of his jaw, the tortured expression he couldn’t quite hide—it’s all seared into my memory. My heart aches, knowing I’m the cause of his pain.
The unfairness of our world crashes over me like a wave. It’s not Dante’s fault that he was born into a soldier’s family rather than that of a Mafia Boss. He’s loyal, brave, and loving—everything I could want in a partner. And yet, because of our archaic expectations and rigid hierarchy, he’s deemed unworthy while Pyotr, a stranger until today, is considered a perfect match.
As we enter the dining room, I catch Mia’s eye. Her gaze is sympathetic, understanding. I remember her words from earlier, urging me to give Pyotr a chance. For a moment, I want to rebel against the idea, to declare my love for Dante and damn the consequences.
But then I see Papa, pride evident in his eyes as he watches Pyotr and me. I think of all he’s done for our family, of his expectations for me. And despite the pain in my heart, I find the will to follow through with Mia’s suggestion.
As we approach the table, Pyotr smoothly pulls out my chair. I hear Bianca murmur to Rork, “See, he pulls her chair out like a gentleman.”
I don’t catch Rork’s response, but whatever he says makes Dominico laugh out loud and Sofia press her lips together, clearly suppressing her own amusement.
As I take my seat, I’m struck by the impressive spread before us. The table is laden with a fascinating mix of Italian and Russian cuisine, a culinary representation of our families coming together.
On one end, I see familiar Italian dishes—a steaming platter of osso buco, rich and aromatic. a colorful caprese salad with bright, ripe tomatoes and creamy mozzarella. And a dish of golden arancini, their crispy exterior hiding soft, savory rice within.
Interspersed among these are Russian delicacies that I’m less familiar with. There’s a large bowl of what looks like a deep red soup, which I assume is borscht. Beside it sits a platter of blini, small pancakes topped with various garnishes including what appears to be caviar. I also spot a dish of pelmeni, delicate dumplings that steam invitingly.
Pyotr’s eyes light up as he surveys the table. “Ah,” he sighs, a smile spreading across his face. "Beef Stroganoff and Olivier salad. These remind me of home.”
He gestures to a creamy-looking dish with strips of beef and a colorful potato salad. His genuine delight at seeing familiar foods softens something in me. It’s a reminder that, despite his poise and charm, he’s also someone far from home, trying to navigate an unfamiliar situation.
“I hope you'll tell me about these dishes,” I find myself saying. “I’d love to learn more about Russian cuisine.”
Pyotr’s smile widens. “It would be my pleasure, Chiara. Perhaps we can start with the borscht? It’s a particular favorite of mine.”
As he begins to explain the intricacies of the beetroot soup, I try to focus on his words, on the genuine enthusiasm in his voice. But a part of me can’t help wondering if Dante has ever tasted borscht or if he’d enjoy it. The thought sends a pang through my heart.
The conversation flows surprisingly easily around the table. Pyotr proves to be not just polite, but genuinely engaging.
“So, Chiara,” he says, turning to me with interest, “I hear you’re quite the artist. What’s your preferred medium?”
I’m taken aback by his knowledge. “I… I enjoy painting, mostly oils. How did you know?”
He smiles. “I like to be well-informed. Your talent is quite renowned in certain circles.”
Papa beams with pride. “Chiara’s work is exceptional. Perhaps you’d like to see some of her pieces later?”
Pyotr nods enthusiastically as Mykala addresses Papa. “Nico, I must say, your wine selection is impeccable. This Brunello is exquisite.”
“Ah, grazie ,” Papa responds. “It’s from a small vineyard in Tuscany. We should discuss importing some for your establishments.”
The conversation continues to flow, touching on business, art, and family. I’m surprised to find myself actively participating, drawn in by Pyotr’s intelligent questions and thoughtful responses.
“And what about you, Pyotr?” I ask. “Do you have any hobbies outside of… family business?”
He chuckles. “I’m quite fond of chess, actually. And I’ve recently taken up photography. Perhaps you could give me some artistic pointers?”
I ignore Sofia’s pleased smile as my cheeks warm with pleasure. “I would be delighted to.”
As lunch winds down, I’m shocked to realize how easily Pyotr and I have been conversing. While we may not have much in common, there’s an ease to our interaction that I didn’t expect.
After the meal, Pyotr turns to me. “Chiara, would you do me the honor of joining me for a walk in the gardens? I’d love to see more of your beautiful home.”
I hesitate for a moment, then nod. “Of course, I’d be happy to show you around.”
As we step outside, guards from both families falling into step behind us at a discreet distance, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. It feels strange to be walking and talking so openly with a man other than Dante. And yet, I find I don’t entirely dislike Pyotr's company.
“Your family is lovely,” Pyotr says as we stroll. “I can see how close you all are.”
I nod, feeling a mix of emotions. “Yes, family is everything to us.”
I’m torn between enjoying this pleasant conversation and an ever-present awareness of Dante’s absence. The choice before me seems more complicated than ever, and I wonder how I’ll ever be able to decide between duty and desire.
Pyotr’s voice takes on a softer tone. “Chiara, I hope you don’t mind my speaking frankly,” he begins, his blue eyes meeting mine.
I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“I was quite excited about the prospect of our marriage,” he admits. “Of course, the alliance between our families would be incredibly beneficial, but I’d also heard rumors of your beauty and poise.”
He pauses, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Now that I’ve met you, I can say with certainty that those rumors hardly do you justice.”
His words are undeniably flattering, and I feel a blush rise to my cheeks. “You’re very kind, Pyotr. I’m flattered.”
I can see why Papa was so enthusiastic about this match. Pyotr is charming, intelligent, and clearly from a good family. He’s everything I should want in a husband.
“I hope,” Pyotr continues, “that we might have a chance to get to know each other better during my stay. I believe we could build a strong partnership, one that would benefit both our families and, perhaps, bring us personal happiness as well.”
His words are sincere, his manner respectful. I can see the future he’s painting—a life of luxury, power, and mutual respect. It’s a future that would make my family proud, one that fits perfectly into the world I’ve been raised in.
And yet…
Even as I nod and smile at Pyotr’s words, Dante’s face rises unbidden in my mind. When I think of marriage, of a shared future, it’s Dante I see by my side. It’s his laugh I hear, his touch I crave, his love that makes my heart race.
“That sounds lovely, Pyotr,” I manage to say, hoping my inner turmoil doesn’t show on my face. “I look forward to getting to know you better as well.”
As we turn a corner in the garden path, Pyotr suddenly looks a bit bashful. “Chiara,” he says, his voice softer than before, “I hope you don’t think me too forward, but I’ve brought something for you.”
My heart skips a beat, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu washing over me as he pulls out a jewelry box. For a moment, I’m transported back to the clearing with Dante, his heartfelt gift in his hands.
Pyotr opens the box, revealing a stunning charm bracelet. It’s a beautiful piece, adorned with priceless gems that catch the sunlight, sparkling brilliance. Each charm is exquisitely crafted, representing various aspects of both Italian and Russian culture.
“I thought it might symbolize the joining of our families,” Pyotr explains, his eyes searching mine for approval.
I’m struck by how perfectly the bracelet encapsulates the contrast between my two potential relationships. Dante’s locket was sweet, delicate, and simple—a representation of our pure, uncomplicated love. This bracelet from Pyotr is ornate and opulent—a symbol of the wealthy, powerful life we could have together.
Yet, as beautiful as it is, it’s not something I would have chosen for myself. It feels almost too grand, too showy for my tastes. But I can see the genuine thought behind it, the effort Pyotr has put into selecting something meaningful.
“It’s beautiful, Pyotr,” I say, managing a smile. “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful of you.”
He beams at my words, carefully fastening the bracelet around my wrist. “I’m glad you like it. I hoped it would be a good start to… well, to us.”
As the cool metal settles against my skin, I feel the weight of it—not just physically, but emotionally. This bracelet represents a future that’s been laid out for me, a path that would make my family proud.
But even as I admire the glittering charms, I can’t help but think of the simple locket hidden away in my room. The locket that holds my heart, just as surely as Dante does.
“Thank you again, Pyotr,” I say, pushing those thoughts aside. “It’s truly lovely.”
The weight of the charm bracelet on my wrist feels like a physical manifestation of my internal struggle. For the first time since this arrangement was announced, I find myself genuinely torn.
On one hand, there’s Dante—the man I love, who knows me inside and out. Our connection is deep, built on years of friendship and shared experiences. His gift, the simple locket, represents the purity and strength of our bond. When I think of him, my heart races and I feel truly alive.
But on the other hand, there’s Pyotr—the man chosen by my father, who has clearly put tremendous thought and effort into finding a suitable match for me. Pyotr is charming, intelligent, and comes from a world that understands the complexities of our lifestyle. His gift, this opulent bracelet, represents the life of luxury and power that awaits me if I choose this path.
As we round another corner, Pyotr points out a beautiful rose bush. “These are lovely,” he says, his voice warm. “Do you have a favorite flower, Chiara?”
The question is simple, but it makes me pause. Dante would know the answer without asking. He’d know that my favorite flowers are actually the wild daisies that grow at the edge of the estate.
“I’m partial to daisies, actually,” I reply, forcing a smile.
Pyotr nods, tucking this information away. “Simple and beautiful,” he says. “Much like you.”
His compliment is smooth, genuine, and I can’t help but feel flattered. It’s clear he’s trying, really trying, to get to know me and build a connection.
As we walk, I find myself truly considering the possibility of a life with Pyotr. It wouldn’t be the passionate love I share with Dante, but it could be a partnership built on mutual respect and shared goals. We could learn to care for each other deeply, perhaps even love each other in time.
But even as I consider this, my mind drifts to Dante. I wonder where he is now, what he’s thinking. Is he watching from afar, his heart breaking as I walk with another man? The thought sends a pang through my chest.
I’m torn between two paths, each with its own merits and drawbacks. The path of the heart, leading to Dante and a love that feels as natural as breathing. Or the path of duty, leading to Pyotr and a life that would make my father proud and secure our family’s future.
For the first time, I truly don’t know which path to choose. The decision looms before me, impossible and inevitable all at once. And as Pyotr continues to chat amiably beside me, his gift glinting on my wrist, I wonder if there’s any way to reconcile these two diverging roads or if I’m destined to lose something precious no matter what I choose.