13. Federica
FEDERICA
Valerio disappears for two days.
Not literally. I’m sure he exists somewhere, terrifying people in expensive shoes and making other men regret their career choices. But he vanishes from the apartment.
The last proof of life I got from him was a ruckus on the morning after the kiss incident, a suitcase rolling away, then silence. By the time I’d managed to fling myself out of bed, he was already gone.
His bedroom door is closed, but his home office is empty.
When I managed to swallow past the lump in my throat and ask, Tito tells me Valerio is at his office because his current project requires lots of late nights.
Tito also once told Alessio that vegetables build character, so clearly the man lies when necessary.
By the third day, I’m fraying at the seams.
At six, I stand in front of the mirror in my room and smooth my hands down the front of my dress. Navy blue, modest neckline. Perfect hem. Hair pinned back. Respectable mafia bride with only mild internal screaming.
Tonight, we are announcing the engagement.
Of course, it’s a lie. There is no engagement. The ink is already dry on the marriage contract. But eloping to Vegas is not how high society does things—unless you’ count celebrities—and the contract was perfectly clear on the timeline of our “presentation” to the public.
The first step is our parents.
I admit, as nervous as I am, I’m looking forward to seeing Tom and Michelle Greco again.
Rio’s folks were always so kind to me. When they first sensed the friction between myself and my own parents, they’d quietly started nudging Tina to invite me over more often.
To this day, I’m unsure how much of our friendship began that way, and therefore, how much I owe the Grecos.
With fury at my fingertips, I text Valerio.
FEDE: If you plan to bail on your own engagement dinner, tell me now. My mother will require ass-kissing, and I’d rather not wax my lip for nothing.
He leaves me on read.
Motherfucker.
At seven sharp, Tito drives me to my parents’ house in the Upper East Side.
It’s not a mansion, but it tries very hard to suggest mansion energy.
White columns, expensive windows, landscaping maintained by people my mother calls “the garden boys” despite the fact that both men are in their fifties and that they’re named Bob and Dylan. Yup. Cracks me up every time.
My childhood home looks exactly the same as always.
That is the problem with some places. They trap the version of you people liked best and punish you for growing out of her.
I step out of the car.
Tito looks at me through the open window. “Do you want me to wait?”
“Yes.”
His brows lift slightly.
“I mean, no.” I exhale. “I mean, if I run out screaming, I’d love a car to swan dive into. Ideally.”
“Understood.”
I walk to the door before I can ask him to come inside and pretend to be my lawyer, priest, or parole officer.
My mother opens on the second ring.
“Federica.” She kisses both my cheeks and looks me over in the same motion. Efficient. Surgical. “You’re early.”
“I’m on time.”
“Yes, but for you, that’s early.”
There it is.
First cut. Small, pretty, wrapped in a smile.
My father appears behind her, already dressed for dinner in his Paolo Berardi, Financial Consultant pressed shirt.
He’s wearing a crisp gray suit and the expression of a man who has spent the day being disappointed by the stock market, and now will spend the night being disappointed by his daughter.
“Fede,” he says. “You look tired.”
“Lovely to see you too, Papà.”
My mother’s hand lands lightly on my arm. Classic Elena, with pacifying gesture that only achieves more rage in the receiving party. “Don’t start. He means you work too much.”
“I know what he means.” I speak good English.
“Then don’t be snappy. Try saying thank you. You’d be surprised how good positivity can be for your skin.”
I count to ten, decide I’m not mafia bride enough to entertain the bloody murder of both my life givers, and I step into the foyer.
Mom holds her hands out for my coat. When I hand it to her, she discreetly checks the label. I roll my eyes.
“Sensible,” she says. “Very appropriate.”
Appropriate. My favorite compliment. Right between adequate and unlikely to cause gossip. The implication that I’d usually show up in a string bikini is lost to everyone but me.
“Thank you,” I say, cheeks hurting.
“Your brother’s already here.” Her face brightens when she says his name. Reflexive. Warm. The kind of light she never has to search for with him. “He brought the wine.”
Of course he did.
He brings wine once and becomes a thoughtful son. I cover his emergencies for six years and somehow remain a logistical inconvenience in heels.
We move toward the sitting room.
Camillo stands when he sees me.
He looks better than he did, the night he sold me to his best friend. He’s showered and shaved. He looks human. Almost convincing.
“Fede.”
I let him hug me because my parents are watching.
His arms close around me, and he whispers, “Thank you for coming.”
I pull back. “Didn’t have much choice, did I?”
His face falls.
Good.
My phone stays silent in my hand. No Valerio.
My father checks his watch. “Is Valerio running late?”
“Possibly.” I look around. “Are Tom and Michelle still on the way?”
Both my parents look up.
My mother blinks first. “Tom and Michelle?”
“Well, yes.” I frown. “Aren’t they coming too?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” says my father. “Why? Were they supposed to?”
I don’t know. Your son sold me to their son. Sounds like something they’d want to be here for. You tell me.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Don’t do that, darling,” Elena tuts at me, tipping my mouth closed. “No one likes a goldfish.”
For one wild second, I consider biting her.
Then I consider leaving. I can walk out. I can call Tito. I can go back to the apartment, pack my one suitcase, and disappear into the kind of motel where nobody asks questions.
I look at Camillo.
He still cannot meet my eyes.
It makes my stomach turn.
I am done. I am actually done. I can feel it rising through me, hot and final. One more comment, one more gentle correction, one more second of my brother hiding behind me, and I am going to blow this whole pretty room apart.
The doorbell rings, interrupting my thought.
The sound cuts through the room.
“I’ll get it,” I say quickly and move before anyone can stop me.
The hallway feels too long. My pulse is ridiculous. I hate myself for hoping. I hate him for making hope possible.
I open the door to find Valerio standing on the front step in a black suit and no coat, like weather is another thing beneath his attention.
But what really strikes me is how exhausted he looks.
I was expecting the polished capo with sharp eyes and a colder smile. He’s not. He’s tired in the lines around his mouth, in the faint shadow beneath his eyes, in the stillness he is using like armor. Like he hasn’t slept a wink in days.
For half a second, we just look at each other.
“You came,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. “I said I would.”
“No, you didn’t.”
His mouth tightens. “Then I should have.”
It’s not an apology, but it feels close enough to one that I have to look away.
Behind me, my mother’s voice floats down the hall. “Federica?”
Valerio steps inside.
The temperature in the house changes.
My parents appear in the sitting room doorway at exactly the same moment. My father straightens. My mother’s expression rearranges itself into something warmer and more careful. Camillo finally looks up.
Valerio gives them a formal nod.
“Mr. Berardi. Mrs. Berardi.”
“Valerio,” my father says, suddenly very aware of his own hands. “So nice to see you again.”
“Yes,” my mother adds. “Federica didn’t mention when you’d be here, so?—”
I barely have the time to feel annoyed at my mother for yet again trying to paint me as inadequate when Valerio reaches for me. Not dramatically. Not possessively enough to make a scene. Just his hand sliding around mine in front of everyone, warm and sure and public.
My words vanish.
He looks at my parents, calm as a man entering a room he already owns.
“I apologize for keeping Federica waiting.”
Keeping Federica waiting.
Not keeping us. Not arriving late. Me.
He says it like my time matters.
My throat tightens so hard it almost hurts.
Then he turns slightly, still holding my hand, and leads me toward the dining room without another word.
The conversation follows because my parents have no choice but to follow him too.
I should be angry. I am angry. He left me alone with dread for two days and walked in at the last second.
But his hand is around mine.
My parents are behind us.
Camillo is silent.
For the first time all night, I can breathe.
I am so relieved I could cry. But I don’t. I can’t. I squeeze his hand, instead.
A beat passes.
Then Valerio squeezes back.