9. Federica
FEDERICA
At five twelve in the morning, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I know it's Valerio before I look.
VALERIO: Tito will be at your apartment at eight. Pack what you need for the week. The rest can be collected later.
I stare at the message with one eye open and half my face still buried in the pillow.
For the week.
As if this is a work trip. As if I am heading to Chicago for a conference and not, apparently, moving into the home of the man who bought my life from my brother as a nightcap.
I type back with the maturity and grace the situation deserves.
FEDERICA: Good morning to you too.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
VALERIO: Good morning.
I hate that it makes my throat tighten.
By seven forty-five, I am showered, dressed, and standing in my doorway with one suitcase, one tote bag, and the facial expression I use for clients who say things like can we make the white flowers whiter?
Pleasant. Opaque. One bad sentence away from homicide.
Tito arrives exactly on time.
Of course he does.
He looks at the suitcase. Then at me.
“Only one?”
“I’m traveling light for my hostage era.”
His mouth moves once. It might be a smile, but I can’t tell. He and his boss seem to be cut from the same cloth and I’m not in the business of guessing how someone is feeling.
“Boss said to bring whatever you need.”
“Yes, well, Boss can discover the joy of being disappointed.”
Tito takes the suitcase before I can argue. “He’s had practice.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
The drive is quiet. I refuse to ask where we’re going because I refuse to sound interested, or concerned. That principle lasts until we pull up in front of a private building in Queens with armed security, black glass, and a lobby so polished I can see my poor choices reflected in the floor.
“Subtle,” I say.
Tito opens my door. “He values privacy.”
“I’m sure that’s what we’re calling it.”
Valerio is waiting upstairs.
The doors open directly into a private entryway, all dark wood, soft lighting, and the kind of silence rich people probably pay a designer to create.
He stands near the windows in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks awake, controlled, and unfairly good for a man who ruined my life less than twelve hours ago.
“Federica,” he says.
“Capo Greco.”
Something flickers in his eyes. He hates it. Good. I have very few weapons left, and pettiness is portable.
Tito sets my suitcase inside and vanishes down the hall. Smart.
Valerio’s gaze drops to my bag. “You packed light.”
“I didn’t realize despair had a dress code.”
“You’ll have what you need here.”
“That’s ominous.”
He turns and leads me through the apartment.
I hate how beautiful it is. Not flashy. Not cold either. I also realize that his office, was indeed his office, even though it was the size of an apartment, had a large couch, a desk, kitchen shelf and a bar.
I take a look around. There are books on built-in shelves, a chess set on a low table, warm lamps, a kitchen bigger than my living room. It looks lived in, but carefully. Everything has a place and nothing has permission to fall apart.
I know the feeling.
Valerio opens a door to his right. “This is yours.”
The room is large, soft, and already waiting for me. New linens. Fresh towels. A vase of white tulips on the dresser. My suitcase has somehow beaten me here and sits beside the bed.
"My room?" I ask. "Not ours?"
"Of course not."
I hate that I'm disappointed.
I step inside slowly. There is a wardrobe along the wall.
To distract myself from my own contradictions, I open it.
Dresses. Coats. Shoes. Pajamas. Work clothes.
Everything in my size. Everything expensive.
Everything chosen by someone who had enough information to be alarming and not enough taste to consult me.
I close the door.
“No.”
Valerio’s expression does not change. “No?”
“No. I’m not wearing your hookup starter pack.”
His jaw tightens. “That's not what this is.”
"Yeah, I bet."
“You can replace anything you don’t want.”
“I will.” I take a theatrical look around. "Will you look at that? I don't want any of it."
The truth is, the clothes aren't the problem. It's just that I keep picturing one-night stands wrapped in those silk sheets, naked and willing, arms snaking around Valerio. And then I see them stand up, drop the cinematic sheet, and pick anything from the wardrobe he's now trying to pawn off on me.
I don't care if it's true or not. It hurts, and it's in my head, and I want it gone.
Valerio glares at me for a few more moments before muttering, “Fine.” He reaches into his pocket and holds out a black card.
I look at it. Then at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“Tito will take you shopping.”
“I have money.”
“No, you don’t.”
The words land too heavy against my chest.
My face heats.
He knows. Of course he knows. He knows I emptied my emergency account last night.
He knows because I told him. It doesn't matter that my 20k is now safely back in that emergency account.
The old Valerio would have respected it, but Capo Greco probably thinks it's lunch money at best. Not enough to buy a wardrobe worthy of his future trophy wife.
I take the card from him.
Not because I want it, but because refusing would give him the satisfaction of seeing me wounded.
“Great," I spit. "Mission accomplished. What next?"
Valerio wordlessly hands me a folder.
I sit, open the folder, and skim the first page.
Marriage Contract between Valerio Greco and Federica Berardi. Witnesses: Tito Monti, Camillo Berardi.
My heart sinks.
I was expecting this part. Of course I was. But I thought I'd have at least a little time to come to terms with it before I was slapped in the face with the fine print.
Apparently, Capo Greco doesn't do mercy. Not even when it comes to me. In his defense still, I had agreed to this.
I start skimming the rest. Marriage terms. Debt settlement. Confidentiality. Residency. Public appearances as needed. All pretty standard. A boilerplate high society prenup that really shouldn't leave me as disgusted as it does.
Then I find the clause.
Physical intimacy shall not be required, requested, or initiated by either party for the duration of the agreement.
There it is.
No touching. In black and white. Exactly what I demanded.
I should feel relieved. Safe, maybe. Vindicated. Instead, there is a small, stupid ache behind my ribs.
Because Valerio agreed to it.
Because he put it in writing.
Because maybe it did not cost him anything at all.
I hear my own voice from last night. I will never be your wife. Not in any way that matters.
Apparently, he believed me.
Lucky me.
I glance back at Valerio, expecting to see him looking at me. Instead, I find him checking his watch.
"I'm sorry," I snap, not sorry at all. "Am I keeping you?"
He hesitates. "I have a meeting at nine."
"Great. So glad you double-booked me." Before he can lie to me about a made-up emergency, I pick up the pen and sign. My face stays carefully blank the whole time. “There,” I say, briskly. “Your prize mare is officially yours.”
Valerio takes the hit in silence.
That bothers me more than if he’d snapped back.
I watch his face more closely now. I realize there's something there, a tightness I hadn't noticed before. Like he's somehow slept worse than me.
Or not at all.
"Hey." For a moment, my anger is gone. "Are you oka---"
A small sound comes from the hallway.
I look over Valerio’s shoulder.
A boy stands half-hidden behind the doorframe.
He is six, maybe seven. Dark hair, serious eyes, small hands gripping the edge of the wall. He’s wearing a dinosaur pajamas under a cardigan that has been buttoned wrong.
Everything else in me goes quiet.
“Hi,” I say.
The boy doesn’t move.
Valerio turns. His entire posture changes. Not much, but enough for me to see it. The room gets ten degrees less hostile around him.
“Alessio,” he says. “You should be eating breakfast.”
“I heard voices.”
“That happens when people speak.”
The boy considers this. “Tito said a new person was coming. I wanted to say hi.”
Tito, I decide, is a gossip in an undertaker suit.
I walk to the doorway, then crouch so I’m not looming over him. “I’m Federica,” I say. “You can call me Fede if you want. Nice to meet you.”
He studies me. “Are you staying here?”
“For now.”
“Why?”
“Excellent question.” I glance up at Valerio. “The grown-up answer is complicated and annoying.”
Alessio accepts that without fuss.
Behind me, Valerio has gone very still.
I look back at him and catch the expression before he buries it. Soft. Struck. Painful in a way I do not know what to do with.
Then it’s gone.
"Ale, go finish your breakfast. The adults need to talk some more. Alright?"
He huffs, but turns to leave anyway. "Fine. Later, Fede."
As soon as he's gone, Valerio turns to me.
“That was Alessio Venezi,” he says. “His parents died during the cartel attacks two years back. He was the Venezi family’s heir. I adopted him six months ago. For all intents and purposes, he is my son now.”
The words settle over the room.
His son.
Valerio continues, voice controlled. “Once we’re married, you will be expected to help raise him.”
I stand slowly. "And when exactly were you planning to tell me that? Because I know now it wasn't before I signed my soul away to you."
Valerio's face darkens. I can smell the guilt from here, buried as it is under layers of suit and mafia.
He schools his expression quickly. "Is this going to be a problem?"
My chest tightens, but I keep my voice even. “No.” I say, looking straight at him. “It's great, actually. At least there’ll be one person in this apartment I don’t hate.”
Valerio takes the blow without blinking.
For half a second, I want him to flinch. He does not, and I hate that too.
“I have my meeting,” he says. “Tito is here if you need anything.”
“How comforting.”
His eyes stay on mine for one beat too long. “We'll talk more once I'm back.”
He turns and walks away without another word.