Chapter 20 Evi
EVI
By the time the last of the kitchen staff Raf sent over clears out, the house smells faintly of lemon soap and roasted garlic—small miracles, considering that only hours ago, the place reeked of mildew and decay.
Sandro and I worked side by side to scrub the counters clean while the new staff handled the heavy lifting—sweeping, mopping, replacing broken bulbs until the dining room could almost pass for something inhabitable.
I glance toward the hallway beyond the kitchen, where the flickering light exposes peeling wallpaper and water stains that reach the ceiling.
The rest of the mansion still feels haunted—empty rooms echoing with the weight of everything that’s been lost, snatched away by the fire and months of exposure to the elements.
Raf stands near the small kitchen table, his broad shoulders tense, a half-finished glass of wine in his hand.
He looks exhausted, worn down to the bone, but there’s something sharper underneath—purpose, maybe, or rage barely kept on a leash.
If not for his ever-crisp sophisticated style, I could almost mistake him for Sandro, with the haunted look in his eye that seems to grow darker by the day.
“The house will do,” he says finally, his voice hoarse but steady. “For now.”
Sandro leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s not ready to host a loyalty ceremony, if that’s what you’re thinking. Half the east wing is open to the damn sky.”
Raf turns to face him, eyes glinting darkly. “Then we’ll make do with the half that’s still standing. The families need to see strength, not comfort. They need to walk through those gates and remember who owns this place.”
The tension between them hums like a live wire. I dry my hands on a towel, hesitating before stepping in. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” I say quietly. “Just convincing. Give me a month—maybe two—and I’ll make it happen.”
Both men turn toward me. Sandro’s brow creases in doubt, but Raf’s expression shifts—something between surprise and admiration.
“A couple of months?” Sandro asks. “You think you can fix all this in that amount of time?”
“I can at least make it presentable,” I answer, meeting his gaze evenly. “You said you needed the families to come here. To see strength. I’ll make sure they do.”
There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes—subtle, almost hidden—but it’s enough to send warmth through me.
Raf nods once, setting down his glass. “Then it’s decided. We hold the ceremony here.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “We’re rebuilding from our house outward. This is where it begins.”
He leaves it at that, stepping out into the hallway to take a call, and for a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Sandro exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “He’s obsessed,” he mutters. “I don’t think he’s slept since…” He trails off, not finishing the thought. He doesn’t have to.
I reach for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Then let’s make sure he gets what he’s fighting for.”
His grip tightens around mine, and something like gratitude passes over his features before he tugs me toward the stairs.
Our footsteps echo up the grand staircase, dust puffing around our ankles. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a whisper in the dark. Raf’s bedroom door closes down the hall, and the silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable—just… vast.
Sandro pushes open a door near the end of the west wing. “This was my room,” he says. The light from the hallway spills across the floor, revealing layers of dust and the remnants of cobwebs in the corners.
“It’s not as bad as I expected,” I admit, stepping inside.
The furniture is still intact—solid wood, dark and polished, though covered in a layer of ash.
Sandro runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll clean it up tomorrow.”
I nod, but there’s a faint chill that runs through me as I look toward the window. The curtains are near shredded, fluttering slightly from the draft that seeps through the cracks in the glass. The air smells faintly of damp and old paper.
After airing out the sheets and washing up, we crawl into the bed. The mattress creaks under our combined weight, and I curl instinctively against Sandro, trying to ignore the groan of the house settling around us.
Sandro’s arm wraps around me, heavy and grounding. “You okay?” he murmurs.
I hesitate. The house feels… creepy, especially now as we’re contemplating sleep. Every time the pipes rattle, it feels like the house is alive. But Raf has stationed a small army around the perimeter of the house, and with Sandro by my side, I feel like nothing could get to me, even if it tried.
“I’m fine,” I promise, though my tone isn’t as convincing as I would like.
Sandro presses his lips softly against my hair. “You’re safe. I promise.”
And maybe it’s foolish, but the promise feels like something sacred in that moment.
His heartbeat is a steady rhythm beneath my ear, his body warm and solid.
Gradually, the unease fades, replaced by the slow drift of exhaustion.
Wrapped in Sandro’s arms, I drift off to the sound of the wind pushing against the broken walls.
As sunlight filters through the torn curtains the next morning, I’m already awake. Sandro’s gone, though his scent lingers—soap and smoke, familiar now. A note sits on the nightstand in his bold handwriting.
Staff will arrive by 8. Guards stay until I return. Don’t overdo it, Sunshine.
I smile despite myself.
By midmorning, the front drive fills with cars—cleaners, gardeners, even a small security team meant personally for me.
The guards are clearly meant for protection, but I can’t resist putting them to work hauling old furniture and boxes out of the main hall.
They don’t argue. I think they’re too stunned to be ordered around by someone half their size.
We start with the grand entryway. Cobwebs come down, marble floors are scrubbed until they shine faintly again. I organize the teams, directing furniture to different rooms, calling in contractors to assess the damage in the east wing.
When one of them asks if I’m “the lady of the house,” I pause for only a second.
“Yes.”
Because I am. If Raf were to marry, of course, his wife would take that title. But I don’t get the feeling that’s going to happen anytime soon. Still, the title sits strangely on my tongue, and yet, I feel a sense of pride behind it. I’m determined to make this broken mansion beautiful again.
I spend hours coordinating repairs, taking notes, moving between rooms. The more I see of the house, the more potential I uncover beneath the ruin.
A cracked archway still bears intricate carvings.
The dining hall’s chandelier just needs a new set of crystals.
The ballroom could be breathtaking once the bloodstains and bullet holes are removed.
By the time the sun dips low in the sky, I’m covered in dust but exhilarated. The mansion feels less like a tomb now and more like a sleeping giant finally stirring.
By day ten, the house hums with life again.
Workers come and go, cleaners buzz from room to room, and the faint scent of paint and polish fills the halls. Every day, I wake with purpose—organizing deliveries, overseeing restorations, planning how the main hall will look when the families arrive to swear their loyalty to Raf.
I’ve learned which tiles in the foyer creak, which windows let in the most light, which rooms can still make me feel small. But it’s starting to feel like home.
I’m making notes for the ceremony layout when a sharp cramp twists in my abdomen. At first, I ignore it, assuming I’ve just gone too long without eating. But when the ache deepens, spreading low and sharp, dread starts to prickle at the back of my neck.
No. Please, no.
I rush toward the bathroom Sandro and I share, shutting the door for privacy. My hands are trembling as I fumble with the hem of my dress, the panic rising faster than I can control it. And then I see the blood.
The sight knocks the air from my lungs.
The disappointment shouldn’t hurt this much—but it does. A sob catches in my throat before I can swallow it down, and I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady myself.
I knew this could happen. I knew getting pregnant wasn’t likely in the cards for me. But a small, foolish part of me had hoped that maybe—just maybe—with how much sex Sandro and I had since our wedding night, it might have changed something. Maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe I could be normal.
Even though I knew the odds, somewhere along the line, I’d started to hope I could give Sandro the one thing every mafia wife is supposed to give her husband.
Tears blur my reflection in the mirror. I look pathetic—eyes red, cheeks streaked, breath hitching. I can’t let Sandro see me like this. If he does, he’ll know something’s wrong. Because girls don’t normally fall apart over a period.
I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water over my face, but it does nothing to wash away the despair clawing up my chest. My stomach cramps again, and I press a hand to it, biting down a sob.
I try to compose myself, forcing my breathing to even out. I fix my hair, blot my eyes, but the tears keep coming. My reflection wavers, breaking apart through the water that still drips down the mirror.
My heart stutters when the door creaks open behind me. I’m out of time, and I still haven’t managed to pull myself together.
“Evi?” Sandro’s voice fills the space—rough, familiar, concerned.
I freeze as he steps closer, his reflection appearing behind mine in the mirror—towering, solid, impossibly steady compared to the trembling mess I’ve become.
His brows draw together, and his tone softens. “Hey. Why are you crying?”
My throat closes, and for one terrifying moment, I can’t speak.
How do I tell him that I’ve already failed him? That the secret my family begged me to keep will tear us apart before we’ve truly begun?
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
The tears spill faster, and a sob wrenches from my chest.