Epilogue Savannah #2
My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "Of course, papa. I'll be right there."
I take one last look at myself, checking that everything is in place, that there's nothing out of order that might disappoint him. Then I open the door and follow my father down the hallway toward his office.
The walk feels longer than it should. Our house is massive, a testament to the Ciresa family's power and wealth, but I've lived here my entire life and I know every inch of it.
I know which floorboards creak, which paintings hide something, which rooms are used for business that I'm not supposed to know about.
I know the history soaked into its walls and the blood that's been spilled to maintain it, generation after generation.
My father's office is downstairs, at the end of a long hall. It smells like leather and cigars, and I feel a hint of familiar nostalgia at the scent. It smells like him, and even if my father has never been a warm man, he’s still the only one I have.
Deep down, I’ve always wanted to please him, and I missed the familiarity of home while I was away…
almost as much as I appreciated the chance to get even a fraction of space from it.
He holds the door open for me, and I step inside, my heels clicking against the gleaming hardwood.
The room is exactly as it always was—dark wood furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a massive desk that dominates the space.
Behind the desk hangs a painting of my grandfather, his eyes seeming to follow me as I move to stand in front of my father's chair.
Dante Ciresa doesn't sit immediately. He closes the door, and the soft click of the latch makes me flinch slightly, a real sign that my nerves are on edge.
Then he moves to the bar cart in the corner and pours himself two fingers of whiskey.
He doesn't offer me any. I'm nineteen, but more than that, I'm his daughter, and daughters don't drink whiskey in their father's office before dinner parties where they're being presented to potential husbands.
"Sit," he says, and I do, perching on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing his desk.
He takes his time, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, and I wait.
I've learned patience in this family. I've learned to be still, to be quiet, to wait for the men to speak first. It's one of many lessons that's been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand what it means to be a Ciresa.
Finally, he sits, setting his glass down with a soft thunk.
His eyes meet mine, and I see the calculation there, the assessment.
He's looking at me the same way he looks at business deals, weighing costs and benefits, risks and rewards.
"You understand what tonight is about," he says. It's not a question.
I nod, forcing myself not to chew on my lip and ruin my lipstick. "Yes, papa."
"Good." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Then you understand how important it is that you make a good impression. That you show these men exactly why an alliance with our family would be beneficial."
I nod, keeping my face neutral and my hands folded neatly in my lap. The perfect picture of obedience.
"Your brother's situation with Savannah has caused some.
.. complications," he continues, and I hear the edge in his voice when he says her name.
Savannah is Romeo's wife, the woman he chose for himself instead of accepting whatever future our father might have planned for him. The woman who caused chaos and nearly got Romeo killed, because her family had long feuded with ours, and because she was already engaged. It had been a situation with so many complications that it makes my head ache even now thinking about it… but I’ve never thought it was less than worth it, because of how happy my brother is now.
My father, I know, accepting as he finally was, does not feel the same way. He looks at me evenly as he continues, his voice hard. "Some of the other families are questioning whether I have control over my own household. Whether the Ciresa name still commands the respect it once did."
The words land hard, pelting against me like stones, but I don't let my expression change.
"It's your job to fix that," he says, and now his voice is harder, colder.
"You will marry well, Giulia. You will choose one of these men, or I will choose for you, and you will do it with grace and gratitude.
You will show the other families that the Ciresas are still strong, still united, still worthy of their respect and fear. Do you understand?"
I give him a small nod. "Yes, papa."
"This isn't a request." He picks up his glass again and takes a slow sip.
"This is your duty. This is what you were raised for.
Your education, everything we've given you—it was all for this moment, to make a match that strengthens our family and that secures our position.
Romeo's chaos ends with you. You will be the daughter who does what's expected of her. "
The weight of it, the finality in his voice, presses down on me, suffocating and absolute.
Suddenly for the first time in my life, faced with his absolute orders, I want to scream.
I want to tell him that I'm not a chess piece to be moved around his board, that I'm a person with my own wants and needs and desires.
I want to ask him if he's ever considered what I might want, if it's ever occurred to him that I might have dreams that don't involve being sold off to the highest bidder. The ferocity with which my mind reacts to the coldness in his voice startles me, and I have to grip the edge of the chair not to visibly flinch. It’s as if, suddenly, this has all become very real, and my body is reacting viscerally to that reality.
I take a slow breath, and I don’t say anything that just ran through my head. Instead, I meet his eyes. "I understand, papa. I won't disappoint you."
Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I know you won't, piccola. You've always been my good girl. My obedient daughter." He stands, signaling that the conversation is over. "The guests will be arriving soon. Make sure you're downstairs to greet them."
"Yes, papa." I stand and move toward the door, my legs feeling strangely disconnected from my body, like I'm floating above myself watching this happen to someone else. My hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.
"Giulia."
I turn back.
“I see you chose your mother’s earrings. A good choice. She was a good wife. She was faithful to the end, and she gave me an heir. Keep her in your mind tonight.”
And then she died before she could ever become a problem. The thought, like the ones that just came before, startles me. It’s not like me to be so reactive, to even think back, much less talk back. I nod, forcing a small smile to my lips.
"Of course, papa."
I leave his office and close the door behind me. My hands are trembling slightly, and I press them against my stomach, trying to calm the sudden nausea rising in my throat.
This is my life. This has always been my life.
I've known since I was a little girl that I would be married off for the family's benefit, that my value lay in what alliance I could bring, what connections I could forge.
I've been groomed for this, polished and perfected like a diamond meant to be sold.
And I've accepted it, because what choice did I have?
But acceptance and wanting are two very different things. And that difference is suddenly hitting me far too hard.
I reach up and touch one of the earrings. My mother wore these on her wedding day. I wonder if she felt like this too, like she was being led to slaughter in a beautiful dress.I wonder if she ever regretted it.
Down the hall, I can hear the sounds of final preparations—the clink of crystal, the murmur of staff moving through rooms, and the low rumble of male voices.
Romeo must be here already, and probably Luca too.
My brother's right hand, his best friend, the man who's been a fixture in our house for as long as I can remember.
The man I've been in love with since I was sixteen years old.
I push that thought away as soon as it surfaces, burying it deep where it can't hurt me.
Luca is off-limits in every possible way.
He's Romeo's best friend, he works for my family, and even if none of that mattered, he's made it abundantly clear since I came back from boarding school that he sees me as nothing more than his best friend's little sister.
The easy affection he used to show me is gone, replaced by professional distance and careful politeness.
It shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
I take a deep breath, and start to walk down the hall to the entryway of the mansion.
The first floor has been transformed, even more polished and decorative than usual—not unlike me.
Every surface gleams, every flower is perfectly arranged, every detail is exactly as it should be.
Our chef has outdone himself with the menu, and the dining room table will be set with our finest china and crystal.
It's a display of wealth and power, subtle but unmistakable.
This is what you could have, it says. This is what an alliance with the Ciresas means.
I find Romeo in the living room, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
He's dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit that probably cost more than most people make in a month, his dark hair perfectly styled and his expression unreadable.
When he sees me, something flickers across his face—a hint of guilt mingled with sympathy.
"Giulia," he says, and his voice is gentler than usual. "You look beautiful."