5. Lila
5
LILA
I agonize over what to wear—truly.
I stand in front of that mirror for almost ninety full minutes with a tailored black suit, a white linen shift, and this pastel yellow dress. Each one says something different. Each one sends a message. And now, ascending the steps of the lawyer’s office, I know I've chosen the right message.
My mother thinks I'm unfit—or maybe she doesn't really believe I'm incapable, but she doesn't want Lev around the Rossi family. I agree with her on that. I don't want him around Anton's family either. But what can I do? If Anton's creditors are coming after me for the debt he owes, I'm a fool not to do as Mateo says.
Blinking the emotion away, I smooth my hands down the front of the dress to remove the anxiety-induced sweat and continue down the hallway. There are a few people passing by, others milling about. The office doors are shut except for one, gold letters painted on it with the lawyer’s name and title.
I don't have representation. I don’t even know where to begin. This is something I'd ask Marcella to help me with, but she's become the enemy now, no matter how much I hate the idea of that. And I can't afford to be throwing money at this with so little to my name.
Mateo doesn't know where I've stashed Anton's money, though I doubt it was all of it. Anton was smart—but not smart enough to evade his enemies. I know he had other accounts elsewhere, and that's what the Bianchis are coming for. The problem is I don't have access to his billions, and when I get away from Mateo, I'll need every cent of what I have.
"Ah, Mrs. Rossi," I hear, and I turn to see a man wearing a dark suit, hair slicked back to the right, with a scar snipping the end of his left eyebrow. "You may go in and wait. Your mother and her counsel are already waiting." The judge, maybe? Or a court clerk of some kind.
I nod politely, but I don't smile. I'm not here for fun and games. I'm here to stand my ground and tell my mother to fuck off entirely. "Thank you," I tell him, turning toward the open office door. I smell her before I even walk through. The thick perfume she wears is a fog suffocating me.
Mother's eyes sweep over to meet me, doing a once-over from my head to my toes as I walk in. There is only judgment. Disapproval. She expected the black suit, I'm sure. But the yellow dress is approachable, friendly, even compassionate. The judge will see her cold, stern exterior and take one look at me and know the truth.
"Mother," I say, choosing a seat opposite her at the long table. Marcella keeps her head down, dutifully representing my mother in this atrocity they call a custody battle. I feel sympathy for her. I know how it feels to be under Mother's thumb. It makes me wonder what unspeakable dark thing Marcella has done to earn this punishment, but my own anger at my mother for using my cousin against me bites back those thoughts.
"We can begin," Mother says, nodding at the man in the suit.
"Very well," he says, nodding at her. He shuts the door with a soft click and pads over to the end of the table, back to the door, and sits down. His hands begin shuffling stacks of papers, eyes carefully tracing the movement as he sorts. "Mrs. Rossi, I?—"
"That's Ms. V—" I'm cut off before I can correct him as the door swings open again. This time it's Mateo, wearing an oddly casual suit, a warm expression, and a relaxed posture. I've never seen him look so human as he approaches me. The man, whom I'm assuming is a judge, looks up at him with curiosity.
"Beg pardon, sir," he says, narrowing his eyes. "We're in the middle of something."
Mateo ignores him, walking straight to me. He leans down, cupping one cheek as he presses a kiss to the other. He whispers, "I told you to wait for me. Now smile like a good girl."
Confused, I stiffen at his touch, then try my hardest to just do what he says. The smile is faker than my mother's tits, but it's there—plastic, fearful, but present.
“You’ll have to excuse my tardiness,” Mateo says, his voice smooth, just the right amount of remorse. Damn, he's good, and I hate it.
He smiles as he sits beside me, like he hasn’t just disrupted the entire energy of the room. Like he belongs here. And somehow, terrifyingly, I think he does.
The mediator blinks at him, nods once, then shuffles his papers. “Right. Well. Now that you’re both present, we can begin.” I see his eyes shifting nervously. He knew Mateo was coming? But he had to act surprised so my mother didn't know that he knew.
My mother doesn’t look at him, but I see the way her fingers tense on the table. Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t like surprises, and Mateo Rossi is a walking, breathing landmine.
“Mr. Rossi,” the mediator begins, “you’ve requested to be involved in these proceedings as a legal guardian. Can you clarify your relationship to the child in question?”
Mateo’s posture doesn’t shift. He remains perfectly still, hands folded on the table, his expression unreadable. Mother sits straighter, glancing at Marcella whose head is down.
“I’m Lev’s uncle,” he says calmly. “And his mother’s husband.”
My heart stops.
I don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe. I stare ahead, gripping the edge of my chair so tightly my fingers ache. I don’t dare look at him. I don’t know what I’ll do if I do. I feel Mother's eyes harden on me, watch Marcella's head rise in my periphery. My stomach feels like the Titanic.
The mediator nods like this is just another item on the checklist. “And you’re currently cohabiting?”
“Yes. The boy lives with us in a secured residence. I handle all security and financial affairs. Lila handles his day-to-day care.”
Lila. Not “my wife.” Not even “my wife, Lila.” Just Lila. Like this is all deeply personal. Like I’m really the woman of his affection, the bride of his heart.
My mind races. What is he doing? Why didn’t he tell me?
The mediator turns to me, and for a second I forget how to breathe. “Mrs. Rossi, can you confirm what Mr. Rossi has said?”
The silence stretches too long.
I feel my mother’s cold, calculating eyes on me. She smells blood. She knows something’s off. And if I deny this, if I so much as flinch, she’ll pounce.
So I do the only thing I can. I nod. “Yes. That’s correct.”
My voice comes out clean—years of practice lying to Anton—but inside, I’m screaming. Mateo doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t need to. He already knows I won’t betray myself—not here, not in front of her.
The mediator finishes his notes. “Given what’s been presented, and assuming this living arrangement remains stable, the court may not see a need to escalate to a formal custody trial.”
He closes the file and stands. “We’ll reconvene in sixty days.”
Mateo stands first. I follow. His hand finds the small of my back—subtle pressure, a silent reminder of how terrifyingly powerful this man is.
The moment we’re out of the mediator’s office, I yank my arm from Mateo’s grip and storm ahead of him. My heels echo across the concrete floor of the parking garage like gunshots. The air down here is damp and sour, like gasoline and rotting metal. Fitting, considering I feel like something’s died inside me.
He doesn’t hurry to catch up. Of course he doesn’t. Mateo Rossi doesn’t chase anyone.
“You lied,” I snap, spinning around to face him just as we reach the car. “You lied through the entire goddamn hearing.”
He raises a brow, calm as ever. “I told the truth that mattered.”
“You said we were married.”
“We will be.”
“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
I move toward him before I can stop myself, fury curling inside my chest like smoke before a fire. “You blindsided me,” I hiss. “You used me in there.”
“If it helps you keep your son,” he says coolly, “maybe it doesn’t matter how it sounds.”
His indifference is gasoline, and I’m the match. My hand flies before I can think. The slap cracks loudly in the concrete hush of the garage. My palm stings from the impact, but the second I feel the heat of his hand wrap around my wrist, I know I’ve gone too far.
He grips me—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me who he is.
“Don’t do that again,” he says, voice low and razor-sharp. His eyes pin me in place. “I’m not Anton.”
“No,” I breathe, yanking my arm back. “You’re worse. At least Anton didn’t pretend to give a damn.”
Something flickers behind his eyes, something ugly, something hollow. He leans in just enough that I feel his breath on my cheek.
“If you want it to feel real,” he murmurs, “stop looking at me like that.”
The words land with the force of a backhand. Not loud. Not cruel. Just undeniable.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My pulse pounds in my throat like a war drum. I want to scream. Cry. Spit in his face. Instead, I just stand there, humiliated and off-balance.
Mateo turns without another word, opens the car door, and slides into the back seat like we never had the conversation. Like he didn’t just tear a hole in me and walk away from it.
The door shuts with a hollow, echoing thud.
I stand on the curb, chest heaving, hand still trembling.
The engine rumbles to life. I watch the tail lights blink, red against the gray walls.
And I hate him.
God, I hate him for making it sound so real.
Worse, I hate myself for wanting it to be.