Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bruno
Ifind Giulia in the kitchen, directing staff like a general commanding troops. Three women arrange silver trays while two men carry cases of wine toward the cellar.
The compound transforms around us—flowers appearing on tables, crystal glasses emerging from storage, the smell of roasting meat drifting from somewhere deeper in the house.
Giulia notices me before I speak. Her hands pause over a clipboard, and there it is. That softening around her eyes. That slight tilt of her head.
Pity.
For over thirty years she's worked for my family. Bandaged my scraped knees. Snuck me cookies when my father said no dessert. She loves me. I know this.
But she looks at me now like I'm something broken.
I grip my wheels tighter and push the anger down. Not today. Today I need her help.
"Bruno." She sets down her clipboard and walks toward me, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did you eat? I can have Maria bring something to your room—"
"I ate." The words come out sharper than intended.
Her eyebrows rise slightly. She's surprised I joined the family. Good. Let her be surprised.
"That's wonderful." She means it. The warmth in her voice is genuine, and somehow that makes it worse.
I think about the others. The ones born this way.
The ones who never knew what it felt like to run, to stand, to walk into a room and have people look up instead of down.
They've lived their whole lives with these stares.
These soft voices. These careful movements around them, like they might shatter.
At least I had thirty-eight years of being whole. At least I remember what it felt like to be seen as a man first.
But them? They've never known anything else.
The thought doesn't comfort me. It makes my chest tight with something I refuse to name.
"I need your help," I say.
Giulia blinks. I've never asked her for help. Not once. Not even when I was a child and couldn't reach the cookie jar. I'd drag a chair across the kitchen floor, climb it myself, risk breaking my neck rather than ask.
Some things don't change.
"Of course." She recovers quickly, professional as always. "What do you need?"
"My wife." The word feels strange in my mouth. "She needs something to wear tonight. For the gathering."
Giulia's expression shifts. Understanding dawns.
"She brought two suitcases." I remember watching the guards carry them to her room. Two suitcases for her entire life. "I doubt she owns anything appropriate for tonight."
"We've already handled it," Giulia says. A small smile crosses her face. "Vittoria arranged everything yesterday. Personal shoppers. Designer pieces. Her wardrobe is full."
I knew this. Vittoria mentioned it. My sister has always been the one who remembers the details the rest of us forget.
But knowing Antonella's wardrobe is full and believing she'll actually wear any of it are two different things.
"She won't touch them."
Giulia's smile falters. "Pardon?"
"The clothes." I grip my wheels, feeling the familiar ache in my palms. "She won't wear them. They're not hers."
"She brought her own things," I continue. "Two suitcases. Whatever she packed—that's what she'll reach for."
Giulia studies me. I can see the question forming behind her eyes. The obvious one.
Why don't you tell her yourself?
"You want me to convince her to wear something from the new wardrobe," she says instead. "Or ensure whatever she chooses from her own things is... appropriate."
"Yes."
The word hangs between us. Giulia's gaze lingers on my face a moment too long. She's trying to read me. Trying to understand why I care what my wife wears to a gathering I've made clear means nothing to me.
I don't care.
That's the truth. Antonella could walk into that room wearing a burlap sack and it wouldn't matter to me.
But the people coming tonight?
They'll care.
Salvatore Benedetti will be there with his wife, a woman who catalogs every piece of jewelry in the room and reports back to her social circle.
Marco Vitale will bring his mistress disguised as his assistant, and she'll spend the evening whispering observations to anyone who'll listen.
The Corellis, the Castellanos, the dozen other families who've done business with us for generations—they'll all be watching.
Not me. They've already made their judgments about me.
But Antonella is new. Unknown. And they'll pick her apart like vultures on a carcass.
Every thread of her clothing. Every strand of hair out of place. Every nervous gesture, every uncertain glance. They'll whisper about it in corners. They'll use it to measure the Sartori family's strength.
I don't give a damn what they think of me. I've stopped caring about their whispers, their pitying glances, their careful avoidance of my eyes. Let them think I'm broken. Let them underestimate me.
But Antonella walked into this marriage to save her family. She didn't ask for the scrutiny. Didn't ask to be paraded in front of Chicago's most vicious gossips like a prize at auction.
She's my wife to them. My responsibility to me.
And I won't let them tear her apart.
"Make sure she's ready," I tell Giulia. "Whatever it takes. If she won't wear what Vittoria bought, find something in her own things that works. Help her with her hair, her makeup—whatever she needs."
Giulia nods slowly. "And if she refuses my help entirely?"
The question stops me.
I think about Antonella's defiance. The way she challenged me on the phone. The door slamming in my face.
"She won't refuse you." I'm certain of this. "She's not stupid. She knows what tonight is."
Giulia's expression shifts again. Something like approval flickers across her features before she schools it back to professional neutrality.
"I'll speak with her this afternoon," she says. "Give her time to settle in first. Perhaps after lunch."
"Fine."
I turn my chair toward the door, ready to leave Giulia to her preparations. The wheels catch slightly on the kitchen's tile floor, and I adjust my grip, pushing harder.
The corridor stretches ahead,
Sunlight streams through the windows lining the east wall. It catches the dust motes floating in the air, turning them gold. Outside, the gardens are in full bloom.
I don't look. I keep my eyes forward, focused on the path to my room.
Then I see her.
Antonella walks toward me from the opposite end of the hallway. She's changed since breakfast—different jeans, a soft sweater the color of cream. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders.
She sees me too. I expect her to turn. To find another route. To avoid me the way everyone else does.
She doesn't.
She keeps walking. Her steps are unhurried, confident. Like she belongs here. Like she's not afraid of me.
We meet in the middle of the hallway, where the light is brightest. She stops directly in front of my chair, close enough that I have to tilt my head up to see her face.
She's smiling.
"Have you seen what a nice day it is?" She gestures toward the windows, toward the gardens beyond. "The sun is actually out."
I stare at her. The question is so ordinary, so mundane, that I don't know how to respond.
"I noticed," I manage.
Her smile widens. There's a dimple in her left cheek. I didn't notice it before. But here, in this light, with that expression on her face, I can't look away from it.
"I'm going to walk in the garden," she says. "Explore a bit. Giulia told me there's a rose garden somewhere on the grounds."
"There is." The words come out rough. I clear my throat. "West side of the property. Past the fountain."
"Perfect." She tilts her head, studying me. Those green eyes hold no fear. No pity. Just... curiosity. "Do you want to join me?"
"Yes."
The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Antonella's smile returns, brighter than before.
"Good." She turns and starts walking toward the east entrance, the one that leads to the terrace and the gardens beyond. "I hate walking alone. It gives me too much time to think."
I follow her. My wheels are silent on the marble, but she seems to know I'm behind her. She adjusts her pace slightly. I am sure now.
"Who was it?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
She glances back over her shoulder. "Who was what?"
"Someone you knew. In a chair."
Her steps falter for just a moment. Then she recovers, pushing open the glass door that leads to the terrace.
"My grandmother." She holds the door, waiting for me to wheel through. "My mother's mother. She had a stroke when I was ten. Spent the last six years of her life in a wheelchair."
I roll past her onto the terrace. The gardens spread out before us, manicured hedges and stone pathways and the fountain she mentioned, water catching light as it arcs through the air.
"You were close to her."
"Very." Antonella falls into step beside me as I wheel down the ramp toward the garden path. "She lived with us after the stroke. My mother took care of her."
"And you helped."
She looks at me. Really looks, the way she did in the hallway. Like she's trying to see something beneath the surface.
"Yes," she says finally. "I helped."
We reach the garden path. Gravel crunches under my wheels, and I have to push harder to maintain momentum. She keeps walking, her pace steady, her presence beside me somehow... comfortable.
I don't understand it.
I don't understand her.
"The roses are this way?" She points toward a stone archway covered in climbing vines.
"Yes."
She heads toward it, and I follow. The path narrows slightly, and she moves ahead of me, her hips swaying with each step. The cream sweater rides up slightly, revealing a strip of skin at her lower back.
I look away. Force my eyes to the hedges, the flowers, the fountain in the distance.
My hands grip the wheels tighter, and I can't stop thinking about that dimple. That smile. The way she said do you want to join me like she actually wanted me there.
Antonella
The rose garden is beautiful.