24. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The gala is everything I remember and nothing like I expected.
The venue is stunning - a renovated palazzo in the heart of Florence, all gilded ceilings and marble floors and chandeliers that catch the light like frozen fireworks.
The crowd is the usual mix of industry people and celebrities and hangers-on, all dressed in their finest, all pretending not to stare as Rocco and I walk in together.
“Everyone’s looking,” I murmur.
“Let them look.” His hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “We have nothing to hide.”
We make our way through the crowd, stopping to greet people we know, accepting congratulations and condolences with equal grace. It’s exhausting, this performance of normalcy, but every time I feel myself flagging, Rocco is there - a touch, a look, a quiet word that reminds me why we’re doing this.
“There she is,” he says quietly, nodding toward the far side of the room.
I follow his gaze and find Fiorella.
She’s holding court near the bar, surrounded by a small group of people who are hanging on her every word. She’s dressed in something stunning and expensive, her hair perfect, her makeup flawless. She looks like exactly what she’s always wanted to be: the center of attention.
“She doesn’t know we have the evidence,” I say.
“Not yet. But she knows something’s wrong. Look at how she’s watching the door.”
He’s right. Even as Fiorella laughs at something someone says, her eyes keep darting toward the entrance. Scanning. Calculating.
“When do we do this?”
“Not yet. Let her think she’s winning. Let her get comfortable.”
We spend the next hour working the room, making our presence felt, showing everyone that the rumors haven’t broken us. It’s a delicate dance - projecting confidence without aggression, unity without desperation. By the time we’ve made a full circuit, I’m running on adrenaline and spite.
“Senna!” A voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to find Fiorella approaching with that familiar smile. “I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you’d have the courage to show your face.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, with everything that’s been in the press…” She tilts her head, all sympathy and concern. “It must be so difficult. The scrutiny. The judgment. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Can’t you?”
“I’ve tried to stay out of it, really I have. But people keep asking me questions, and I feel like I owe them the truth about what happened to my poor sister’s marriage.”
“The truth.” I keep my voice level. “That’s interesting, coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I know what you did, Fiorella. All of it.”
Something flickers in her eyes - surprise, maybe, or fear - but she recovers quickly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Then let’s start with the easy stuff.” I take a sip of champagne, keeping my movements casual, my voice low enough that only the people immediately around us can hear. “The divorce filing. The one that mysteriously appeared in every gossip blog after you visited my studio.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“You were photographing my papers, Fiorella. I saw you looking at my bag. The fold marks on the leaked document match exactly what was sitting in my chair that day.”
“That’s circumstantial. You can’t prove anything.”
“Can’t I?” I smile, and it’s not a nice smile. “What about the story you pitched to Lucia Ferrante? The one with the photos of me and Matteo, the one you sent her before anyone else had the angle?”
“I was trying to help. People were going to find out eventually-”
“Help. You were trying to help.” I laugh, and the sound makes several nearby heads turn. “The way you helped yourself to the collaborator role? The way you helped yourself into my husband’s studio by sliding cash to Marco Benedetti?”
Fiorella’s face goes very still.
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it? Because I have the text messages, Fiorella. The ones where you told Delia exactly how much to put in the envelope and where to make the handoff.”
Beside me, Rocco shifts closer, his hand warm on my back. “She’s telling the truth,” he says quietly. “We have documentation. Timestamps. Witnesses.”
“This is ridiculous.” Fiorella’s voice rises slightly, drawing more attention. “You’re making accusations based on - what? The word of a disgruntled assistant? Some journalist with an axe to grind?”
“I’m making accusations based on evidence. Which is more than you had when you told everyone I was sleeping with a twenty-four-year-old.”
“Everyone could see how you looked at him-”
“Everyone could see me doing my job. Working. Building something that had nothing to do with you or Rocco or anyone else.” I take a step closer, and Fiorella takes a step back.
“That’s what really bothered you, isn’t it?
Not that I left my marriage. That I was succeeding at something.
That I was finally becoming someone other than your competition. ”
“You were never my competition.”
“Then why have you spent your entire life trying to take everything I have?”
The question lands in the silence between us, and for just a moment, I see something real on Fiorella’s face. Something old and wounded and furious.
“You had everything,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “The talent. The parents’ attention. The husband. And you didn’t even want any of it. You just let it sit there, wasted, while I had to fight for every scrap.”
“So you decided to steal what you couldn’t earn.”
“I decided to take what should have been mine.”
The admission hangs in the air, and I can feel the crowd around us holding its breath.
“Including my songs,” I say quietly. “The ones from my notebook. The ones you gave to Rocco and claimed were yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Then let me refresh your memory.” I step closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “The song. The one you brought to Rocco. The one that ‘broke his block.’”
“What about it?”
“You didn’t write it.”
“Of course I did.”
“Then explain this to me.” I look her in the eye. “‘I kept your silence like a secret.’ Tell me what that line means. Where it came from. What inspired it.”
Fiorella’s smile falters.
“I don’t have to explain my creative process to you.”
“You don’t have a creative process. Because you didn’t create it. You stole it. From my notebook. The one that conveniently disappeared a few weeks after you moved into our guest room.”
“This is ridiculous. You’re making accusations you can’t prove-”
“I can prove it. I have dated photographs of those pages from years before you ever met Rocco. I have witnesses who saw you bribing your way into the collaboration. I have the original pitch you sent to reporters trying to destroy my reputation.” I lean in.
“I have everything, Fiorella. And by tomorrow, so will everyone else.”
Her face goes white.
Then red.
And then she swings.
I see it coming - the hand flying toward my face, the familiar rage I’ve watched build in her since we were children - and something in me moves without thinking.
I catch her wrist.
Clean. In mid-air. In front of everyone.
“You don’t get to hit me,” I say quietly. “You don’t get to steal from me. You don’t get to lie about me. And you don’t get to destroy what I’ve built.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.” I tighten my grip just enough to make my point.
“I’m done being the smaller sister. I’m done shrinking so you can feel bigger.
You want to know the difference between us, Fiorella?
I never needed to steal anything. I never needed to lie or cheat or manipulate my way into a room.
I just had to finally remember that I belonged there all along. ”
I release her wrist.
She stumbles backward, her face a mask of fury and humiliation, and I realize that the entire room has gone silent.
Watching.
Recording.
Every phone in the vicinity is pointed at us, capturing the moment my sister’s perfect facade finally cracked.
“This isn’t over,” Fiorella hisses.
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
I turn and walk away, and Rocco falls into step beside me, his hand finding mine.
“That was incredible,” he murmurs.
“That was terrifying.”
“Both can be true.”
We push through the crowd toward the exit, and I can already hear the buzz starting - whispers and speculations and the particular energy of people who know they’ve just witnessed something that will be discussed for weeks.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Then again. Then a continuous stream of notifications.
“The video’s already up,” Rocco says, checking his own phone. “It’s everywhere.”
I look at the screen over his shoulder and see myself - catching Fiorella’s wrist, calm and controlled, speaking words I can’t hear over the background noise.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Now we wait for the other pieces to fall.”
“And if they don’t?”
He turns to look at me, and his eyes are fierce.
“They will. We have the evidence. We have the witnesses. We have the truth.”
“The truth isn’t always enough.”
“It will be this time.” He squeezes my hand. “I promise.”
We step out into the Florence night, and the air is cool and clear, and somewhere in the city, the video of my sister’s downfall is spreading like wildfire.
It’s not over yet. I know that. The confrontation was just the beginning.
But for the first time in months, I feel like we might actually win.