Chapter 3
GIULIA
I've been in love with Luca Moretti since I was sixteen years old.
I spent that entire last month of summer watching him, cataloging every detail before I had to go back to school.
The way he took his coffee black, the scar on his left hand that he never talked about.
I memorized him like he was a book I’d never read again, storing every detail for the semester away.
And then I left, and I told myself it was just a crush. An infatuation that would fade with time and distance.
It didn't fade.
If anything, it got worse. I tried to forget him, but late at night in my dorm room, I'd imagine what it would be like if he touched me. If he kissed me.
If he could be my first.
I knew it was impossible. I knew that even if he felt something for me—which he probably didn't—Romeo would never allow it. My father would never allow it. The family has rules, boundaries, lines that can’t be crossed.
Luca is Romeo's right hand, his enforcer, his most trusted friend. And I’ve always been the daughter being groomed for an advantageous marriage.
But in my fantasies, none of that mattered. In my fantasies, we could have something—maybe not forever, but something. A passionate affair before I was married off. One person who chose me because he wanted me, not because I came with the right connections or the right last name.
My last year at boarding school, I spent more time thinking about Luca than I did studying. I wondered if he'd still be single when I came home. I wondered if he ever thought about me. I came home a year ago with my head full of fantasies that I knew were dangerous but couldn't quite let go of.
And then I saw him again, and everything fell apart.
The morning after the dinner party, I wake up desperate to talk to him.
The Luca I saw last night—the one who barely looked at me, who left in the middle of dinner like he couldn't stand to be in the same room—isn't the Luca I remember. Something has changed, and I need to understand what. Maybe if I can just talk to him, if I can remind him of who we used to be to each other, before all of this… something will be different. Not what I want, of course, but it won’t feel so strange any longer.
I find him in one of the sunrooms, standing by a window with his hands in his pockets. He's wearing a dark suit, and when he turns at the sound of the door opening, his expression is carefully blank. Professional and distant. Like I'm a stranger.
"I need your opinion on something," I say, trying to keep my voice light… casual. Like my heart isn't hammering against my ribs.
His expression doesn’t change. "What is it?"
I hold up the garment bag I'm carrying. "There’s another dinner tonight. My father wants me to make a good impression, and I can't decide between two dresses."
It's a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. But I'm desperate, and desperation makes you do stupid things.
"I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine," Luca says, his voice flat.
"I'd still like your opinion." I move closer, unzipping the garment bag to reveal a deep burgundy dress. "This one is more conservative. Elegant. The kind of thing Marco would probably appreciate."
Luca's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Then wear that one."
"Or..." I pull out the second dress, a midnight blue option with a lower neckline. "This one. It's a bit more daring, but I think it's more me."
I'm watching his face carefully, looking for any sign of the man I remember.
The one who used to tease me, who'd give me his honest opinion even when I didn't want to hear it. But this Luca just looks at the dresses with a detached expression, like he can’t fathom why I’m asking him something like this.
"Wear whichever one you prefer," he says finally. "It doesn't matter."
The words sting more than they should. It doesn't matter. I don't matter. He couldn't care less what I wear or who I wear it for.
Even if it’s another man.
"Right," I say, my voice smaller than I intended. "Of course."
I start to leave, but something makes me turn back. Some stubborn part of me that refuses to accept this distance between us. "Luca," I say softly. "Did I do something wrong?"
His eyes finally meet mine, and for just a second, I see something flicker in their depths that looks almost like pain. But then it's gone, replaced by that careful blankness.
"No," he says. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
The question hangs in the air between us, too honest, too vulnerable. I should take it back. I should laugh it off and leave before I embarrass myself further.
But I can't. I need to know.
"I'm looking at you right now." Luca’s voice is so controlled it makes my chest ache.
"No, you're not. You're looking at me, but you haven't really looked at me since I came home."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the facade. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"Giulia—"
"Forget it," I cut him off, suddenly unable to bear whatever excuse he's about to give me. "I shouldn't have asked."
I leave before he can respond, before the tears burning behind my eyes can fall. Before I can humiliate myself any further.
—
The dinner with Marco and my family is exactly as awful as I expected.
Luca isn’t there tonight. It’s just me, my father, Romeo, Savannah, and Marco.
Savannah looks entirely unimpressed by the proceedings, but she’s quiet.
I’m sure Romeo has told her that this is how things are, and not to antagonize my father by saying anything to give away that she doubtless has many thoughts about all of this.
They’re still on thin ice, and I can’t begrudge them being careful, even if our father is coming down on me all the harder because of it.
Marco spends two hours talking about his properties, his investments, his plans for expansion.
He asks me perfunctory questions about my education and my interests, but he doesn't really listen to the answers.
He's already decided who I am and what I'll be to him—a trophy.
A well-bred wife who'll look good on his arm and give him legitimate heirs.
I smile and nod and say all the right things, and the whole time I'm thinking about Luca's face when I asked him why he won't look at me. The way his jaw tightened. The way his hands curled into fists.
But maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see. Maybe he really is that indifferent, and I'm pathetic for hoping otherwise.
The next day, I try again, despite the fact that I know this is foolish.
I should be thinking about who I’m going to try to convince my father to choose from the array of suitors and which would make me the least miserable, not how to dig into that small crack I saw in Luca’s facade and uncover what’s happening here.
But I can’t seem to stop myself, like a compulsion I can’t control.
I wander the house until I find him. I put on a nice silk shift dress today and a lemon bergamot perfume from Paris, one that I hope he might notice and like. Maybe he’ll even ask me about it. When I see him walking down a hallway toward me, finally, my heart leaps a little at the sight of him.
"Luca.” I pause and turn when he reaches me so that we’re walking side by side. "Can I ask you something about your work?"
He stiffens almost imperceptibly. "What about it?"
"Romeo mentioned you've been handling some new territory acquisitions. I was curious about what you do with that. Do you help with the business side, or are you the threat while Romeo and my father handle it?”
It's not entirely a lie. I am curious about the business, even if my father has made it clear that's not my concern. But mostly, I just want an excuse to talk to him. To be near him.
"That's not really an appropriate conversation," Luca says, his eyes fixed on some point ahead of us.
"I'm asking because I'm interested."
"Your father wouldn't want me discussing business with you."
"My father isn't here."
Finally, finally, his eyes meet mine. They look dark in the dim light of the hallway, and I see his jaw tighten for the briefest moment, his gaze locking for an instant with mine.
But then he looks away, and the moment is gone. "I have work to do," he says, and walks past me without another word.
I stand there in the empty hallway, feeling like I've been slapped.
This isn't the Luca I remember. The Luca I remember would have answered my questions, would have treated me like I had a brain in my head instead of just a pretty face.
He would have talked to me. This Luca treats me like I'm made of glass.
Like if he gets too close, I'll shatter.
Or maybe like he'll shatter. I don't understand what changed.
I don't understand why he's built these walls between us, why he can barely stand to be in the same room as me. Does he hate me for going along with my father’s wishes, for some reason?
Does he think less of me for not being as brave as Romeo and refusing to bend?
The next day, I find Luca in the library. He's sitting in one of the leather chairs, reading something on his tablet. The late afternoon light slants through the windows, catching in his dark hair, and for a moment I just stand there watching him—memorizing him the way I used to that last summer.
"I need your advice," I say, and he looks up with that carefully neutral expression that's becoming painfully familiar.
"About what?"
"Enzo." I move closer, perching on the arm of the chair across from him. "He makes me uncomfortable. The way he looks at me, the things he says. But my father seems to think he's a viable option, and I don't know how to... navigate that."