11. Federica
FEDERICA
By noon, I have a black card, a six-year-old shadow, and a personal escort who looks like he has never once enjoyed a mall.
Tito stands beside the escalator with his hands folded in front of him, expression blank. Alessio stands on my other side, clutching a small dinosaur backpack and staring at the directory like it might be a test.
“So,” I say. “Any requests?”
He glances up at me. “For what?”
“For Operation Financial Vengeance.”
Tito’s mouth twitches.
Alessio frowns. “Is that illegal?”
“Only morally.” I hold up Valerio’s black card. “Your guardian gave me this and told me to replace anything I want. That was his first mistake.”
“What was his second?”
“Marrying me.”
Alessio's mouth makes a little "o" of surprise. "When did that happen?"
"Last night," I say, because I'm not a fan of lying to kids. "Don't worry, there was no big party. You didn't miss anything. He'll probably want one down the line, though. You can be the ringbearer then, yeah?"
Alessio must find the compromise acceptable, because he nods.
I force myself not to think of the actual wedding.
The farce that will inevitably ensue. I know Valerio is sparing me by postponing that whole ordeal until the end of the month, as per our contract, but I still can't find it in me to be grateful.
Not being sold like a broodmare would have left me grateful, though.
Or I guess just a plain old mare, since the brood part is off the table.
We start with clothes, aka the best distraction there is.
The first store smells like expensive perfume and judgment. A woman in beige asks if I need assistance. I tell her yes, tragically.
For the next hour, I try on dresses I would usually stroke once on the rack and then walk away from before the price tag humiliates me.
Alessio sits on the velvet bench outside the fitting room, very serious, very focused.
The third dress is red. Low-cut. Tight at the waist. Dramatic enough to cause a minor public scandal if worn near old money.
I step out and lift my arms. “Well?”
Alessio’s eyes widen. “You look like Captain Alvida.”
I blink. “Is that a compliment?”
“She’s a villain,” he says. “But she has style.”
Tito coughs into his fist.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Honestly, villain with style might be the most accurate goal available to me right now.
“I’ll take it,” I tell the saleswoman.
Alessio smiles. It's small and quick, gone almost immediately, but I see it.
That smile is the reason the next store is a videogame store. Alessio stops dead in front of the display.
Nintendo Switch 2. Bright screen. New box. Half a dozen games lined up beneath it like tiny colorful sins.
His hands tighten around the straps of his backpack.
“You like games?” I ask.
He shrugs too fast. “I used to.”
Used to.
I hate that. I hate everything packed into those two words. Kids should have favorites. They should have phases, obsessions, too much screen time, terrible opinions about snacks. They should not sound like joy is something they had to leave behind.
I grab a console.
Alessio’s eyes snap to me. “What are you doing?”
“Buying this.”
“For who?”
“For the ghost of Christmas retail.”
Tito mutters something in Italian under his breath.
I add six games. Then a case. Then an extra controller because I know exactly nothing about these things but refuse to be underprepared in my rebellion.
Alessio looks like someone has handed him a fragile animal and told him it’s his.
“Valerio might get mad,” he says concerned.
“No way.” I tap the card against the counter. “He's the one who told me to buy whatever I wanted. If he disagrees with my choices, he can always block the payment.” As if on cue, the contactless screen goes green. "See? He doesn't mind."
The cashier rings everything up. Tito takes the bags. Alessio follows me out with the console clutched against his chest.
By the time we get home, I have bought clothes, shoes, three kinds of pajamas, shampoo that costs more than my old electric bill, and one extremely happy child’s future carpal tunnel.
I tell myself it is petty revenge.
That is mostly true.
It is also true that Alessio talks more in the car. He tells me about dinosaurs, then space, then a YouTube channel he likes. He is bright and careful and shy in a way that makes my chest ache if I look at it directly for too long.
I didn't expect anything good to come out of this marriage.
Alessio is proving me wrong in real time.
Back at the apartment, Alessio finds a recipe on TikTok for cheesy rice cakes in a skillet. I check the pantry, discover Valerio owns six kinds of olive oil and zero reasonable snacks, and decide we can improvise.
Alessio measures everything like we’re defusing a bomb.
“More cheese?” I ask.
“The video says half a cup.”
“The video lacks ambition.”
He looks thoughtful for two full seconds, then adds more cheese.
Tito appears in the kitchen doorway while we eat directly from the pan.
“Boss will be late,” he says.
I glance at him. “How late?”
“Late.”
“Love the specificity. Very soothing.”
His expression gives me nothing. “Don’t wait up.”
Of course he leaves after that, because men in this apartment specialize in saying ominous things and walking away.
Alessio and I eat in front of the TV. He puts on the Netflix show with Captain Alvida. Ten minutes in, I decide I like her best of all.
Alessio gives me a sideways look when I say that. “Seriously?”
“She's got killer lipstick and a mace. What's not to like?”
"You're weird."
"Guilty as charged. Now eat your cheesy monstrosity before it gets cold."
By nine, he falls asleep on the couch with the Switch controller in his hands, having played his fill of Mario Kart.
I don't carry him to bed because I'm not that delusional about my upper-body strength, but I wake him gently and guide him to his room.
He lets me tuck the blanket around him without protest.
At the door, half-asleep, he mumbles, “Are you staying forever?”
The question hits low.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m staying.”
He nods and turns onto his side.
I stand there for a second too long, then leave before he can catch the tears in my eyes.
After midnight, I start putting away my stuff. I sort purchases in the kitchen, cut tags, stack receipts into a pile that would make Valerio’s accountant weep. I text Tina a picture of the red dress.
FEDE: Apparently I dress like an anime pirate villain now. Personal growth?
She doesn’t answer. Time zones, probably. Or Lisbon. Or pretty boys. Nothing that concerns me anymore.
At two, the front door opens.
I freeze with a cardigan half-folded in my hands.
Valerio steps inside.
At first, I think he's fine. He stands straight, coat dark, hair slightly mussed. No blood that I can see.
Then he takes off his coat with too much care, and I understand.
He's shitfaced.
Valerio Greco is no sloppy drunk. He doesn’t stumble or sway cartoonishly. But the ruthless precision is gone, and what stands underneath it looks raw enough to hurt.
His eyes find mine across the room.
I have a sharp comment ready. Something about curfews or CEOs with liver damage. Good thing I really look at him first. His face is wrecked. Not visibly. Not to anyone else, maybe. But I know him. I know the old shape of pain on him, from before he learned to bury it under tailoring and threats.
“What happened?” I ask.
He says nothing.
“Valerio.”
He crosses the room.
Fast.
One second there is space between us. The next, his hands are on my face and his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard. Hot. Desperate in a way that shocks me.
This is not Capo Greco making a move. This is Rio breaking through a locked door.
I should push him away. I know I should. There are a million reasons this is wrong, first and foremost the contract we signed this morning, the ink still wet on the page.
Instead, I grab his shirt and kiss him back.
He makes a sound against my mouth, low and rough, and the cardigan slips from my hand to the floor.
His fingers slide into my hair. Mine dig into his shoulders.
He tastes like whiskey and grief and the kind of need nobody should put on another person, but I take it anyway because some terrible part of me has been starving too.
He backs me into the counter.
The edge presses into my spine. I barely feel it.
His mouth moves to my jaw, then my neck. My head tips back before I remember dignity, anger, contracts, clauses, every single reason this is a bad idea with perfect lighting.
His hands find my waist.
Then lower.
I gasp.
He stops.
Just stops.
For one suspended second, we are both breathing hard in the kitchen, my cardigan on the floor, his shirt crushed in my fists, my body pressed between him and the counter like I have personally misplaced all common sense.
Then he pulls back.
His eyes drop over me. My mouth. My open collar. His hand still at my hip.
Something closes in his face.
Not control.
Punishment.
“Federica,” he says.
My name sounds like an apology.
I hate that with every fiber of my being.
He steps away. I stand there, stunned, warm, half-undone, furious in places I can’t fully separate from wanting him to come back.
“Rio,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He flinches.
Then he turns and launches himself out the front door.
I stare after him.
My heart is racing. My lips still feel the weight of his. The lingering taste of whiskey is on my tongue, and something else I can't quite identify. Rio's cologne is everywhere on me.
I should be furious.
But all I can feel is heartbreak.
Because Rio just kissed me and then ran, and I have no idea what any of it means.