Chapter 46 Mara
MARA
Three weeks.
That’s how long until I’m no longer a Folonari by name, but by transaction.
Three weeks until Orlo Chernov becomes my husband. Three weeks until the life I didn’t choose becomes the one I live in.
The strange thing is, I’ve stopped fighting it.
Acceptance didn’t come like a storm. It came like fog: quiet, creeping, one breath at a time. I woke up one morning and realized that whatever I had with Nicolo isn’t unfinished. It’s over.
Maybe it was always meant to be temporary. Maybe I was foolish for thinking it was anything more.
He warned me. Over and over, he warned me. And I fell anyway.
Now, I sip espresso from a too-delicate cup at a café that smells like sugar and sunlight, pretending I’m someone else entirely. Someone who isn’t counting down days. Someone who isn’t trying to forget a man who taught her what ruin feels like.
“Alright, you’re staring into that cup like it insulted you,” Alessia says, dragging me back. “Earth to Mara.”
She’s across from me—sunglasses pushed into her hair, her tone light—but her eyes are tracking me too closely.
I blink. “What?”
“You’ve been zoning out since the waiter left,” Valentina says from beside her, cutting into her pancakes with surgical precision. “That’s never a good sign.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
They share a look. I see it: the silent exchange they think I won’t notice. They’ve been doing it for weeks. Ever since I stopped flinching at his name. Ever since I came back from Italy heartbroken and crying.
“Fine,” Alessia repeats, leaning back in her chair. “You say that word like it’s supposed to mean something.”
“It does. It means fine.”
“Uh-huh.” She raises a brow. “You sure about that?”
Valentina gives her a subtle look, the kind that says let it go, but Alessia never lets anything go. It’s both her most infuriating and most admirable quality.
“I’m not falling apart, if that’s what you’re asking,” I add, stirring the coffee I’ve barely touched. “I’ve just…made peace with things.”
“Peace,” Alessia echoes, like she’s tasting the word. “That’s one way to put it.”
Valentina sets her fork down gently. “Mara, no one’s asking you to fall apart. But you don’t have to perform being fine either.”
“I’m not performing,” I say. “I’m adjusting.”
“To what?” she asks softly.
“To reality.”
That shuts them both up for a minute.
Outside, the city hums in its usual rhythm: impatient horns, fragments of conversation, the scrape of chairs across pavement. The waiter passes by with a tray of mimosas and laughter that doesn’t belong to us. It all feels too bright, too normal, for how small the world has become.
Alessia sighs. “You’re really going through with it, then.”
“Of course she is,” Valentina says before I can answer. “What choice does she have?”
“Choice or not, it’s bullshit,” Alessia mutters.
“Alessia,” Valentina warns.
“What?” she says, exasperated. “I’m supposed to sit here and nod like we’re planning a spa day? She’s marrying a Chernov. I Googled him. The man has a reputation that precedes him, not to mention his psycho cousin.”
Despite myself, a small laugh slips out. “He probably does.”
“Not funny,” she says, though she smiles too. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t need to.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No,” I admit, voice steady. “But I will be.”
Alessia studies me like she’s trying to find the lie. “You keep saying that. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay.’ You do realize convincing us doesn’t mean convincing yourself, right?”
“Maybe I don’t need to be convinced. Maybe I just need to get through it.”
Valentina leans forward slightly. “And after? What then?”
“I don’t think that far ahead anymore.”
She frowns but doesn’t push. She never does. That’s her way: quiet concern, gentle questions, never demands.
Alessia’s the opposite. She’ll drag the truth out of you kicking and screaming if she has to. And right now, I think she’s close.
“So…” Alessia says after a moment. “You’ve really accepted that what happened with Nicolo is just…what, over?”
I stir my coffee again. The spoon clinks against the porcelain.
“It’s done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You loved him,” she says, not asking.
I meet her eyes. “That’s exactly why it had to end.”
She exhales, muttering something under her breath in Italian that sounds a lot like idiots, both of you.
Valentina gives her a look. “Enough.”
Alessia shrugs. “I’m just saying. He’s a fool, and she’s pretending she’s not heartbroken. It’s exhausting.”
“I’m sitting right here,” I say quietly.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
The waiter returns with another round of drinks: Valentina’s tea, Alessia’s sparkling water, my untouched coffee reheated. I murmur a thank you and lift the cup, hands steady even though my stomach feels like glass.
It’s not that I don’t think about him. I do. Constantly. Everywhere I go, he’s there—in the smell of smoke on the street, in the sound of thunder at night, in the echo of my own name when someone says it too softly.
But I’ve learned how to compartmentalize. How to take something that once felt like fire and lock it behind glass. Safe. Contained. Unreachable. It’s the only way to breathe.
“Eli says the guest list’s nearly finalized,” Valentina says, steering the conversation elsewhere. “Apparently, the Chernovs are flying in from Moscow.”
“Great,” I say, trying to sound like I care. “More strangers.”
Alessia snorts. “You say that like Eli won’t have half the Italian press invited too.”
“I’ve stopped asking,” I admit. “He says it’s for protection. I think it’s for pride.”
Valentina hums thoughtfully. “Probably both.”
“Probably neither,” I mutter.
She glances at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You know, when I married into the Camorra, I thought I understood what sacrifice meant.” She stirs her tea slowly. “Turns out it just means learning how to live with what you lose.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. She knows I understand.
The sunlight shifts, slipping through the awning and casting lines across the table. Alessia squints at it, then pulls her sunglasses back on.
“This place needs better shade. Or more alcohol.”
“You’re driving,” Valentina reminds her.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t threaten to drink.”
The tension breaks for a second. I smile, barely, and both of them notice.
Alessia leans in. “There she is.”
“There who is?”
“The version of you who still exists. Don’t lose her, okay?”
“I won’t,” I say, though it feels like a promise I don’t know how to keep.
We pay the bill, tip generously, and step out into the early afternoon.
The sky’s overcast, but warm. People rush by with shopping bags and laughter that feels foreign.
Valentina’s phone buzzes; she answers it with the ease of someone who’s used to being in control.
Alessia scrolls through hers, probably texting Romiro some variation of your brother’s an idiot.
We walk in silence for a block before Valentina ends the call.
“That was Eli,” she says. “He wanted to make sure you’re still planning to come by for dinner tonight.”
“Of course,” I say. “He’ll worry otherwise.”
“You don’t owe him appearances,” Alessia mutters.
“He’s still my brother,” I say simply. “And for better or worse, he’s trying.”
They exchange another look, the kind that says she doesn’t see it yet.
And maybe I don’t want to.
The car pulls up to the curb. Valentina slides into the front seat beside the driver. Alessia and I take the back. The ride’s quiet, just the hum of traffic and the faint buzz of a radio station trying to find a signal.
Alessia glances at me once, twice, before finally saying, “If you ever decide you don’t want this—”
“I don’t have a choice,” I interrupt.
She turns fully toward me. “You always have a choice. It just might not be the kind that feels safe.”
Valentina looks at us through the mirror. “Alessia.”
“I’m just saying,” she mutters.
The rest of the ride passes in silence. By the time we pull up to the penthouse, my head’s pounding. I thank them both and head straight for my room. Duchess is waiting on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily as if she’s been judging me for hours.
I close the door, lean against it, and exhale. The reflection in the window catches me off guard: white blouse, pressed slacks, hair perfectly in place. Every piece of me is arranged, contained, appropriate. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe it.
I cross to the dresser and pick up one of the invitation samples lying there. The gold script glints in the light.
Mara Folonari & Orlo Chernov.
It looks foreign. Like I’m reading someone else’s fate. I set it back down and press my fingers to my temples. The faintest ache blooms behind my eyes—the kind that isn’t quite pain, but close enough.
In the distance, thunder rolls—soft, almost hesitant. For a second, I forget where I am. The sound drags me back to the Castello, to rain on glass and the smell of smoke and the echo of his voice in the dark.
Then I blink and it’s gone.
Three weeks. That’s all I have left.
I reach for Duchess, pulling her into my lap. She purrs, unconcerned. The world could fall apart, and she’d still demand attention.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, burying my face in her fur. “I’m fine.”
She stretches, unimpressed.
I sit there until the sky fades to gray and the first drops of rain hit the glass.
Pretending doesn’t hurt as much when you do it in silence.