Chapter 2
LILIANA
I'd only gone in there for a book.
The study is my father’s domain. A place I usually avoid when he’s around. But it was mid-afternoon, and I knew his routine. I knew he wouldn’t be home.
I know his schedule by heart. It's like clockwork, and even with the Don’s death, and the power shift, he hasn't changed it much.
So, I’d cautiously walked towards his study with soft feet and slow breath, already picturing myself curled under the sunlight in my room, diving back into the dense political theories that would keep the silence in my mind company.
I'd been cautious because one of his men could be sniffing around, and if he caught me and ratted me out to my father, I'd be resigned to forceful confinement for the rest of the week—my father's way of punishing me.
I just wanted one of his books. Something on comparative politics.
I may be mute, but I’m not stupid. I love to read, to learn, to build a world of my own that isn't soaked in my father's contempt.
One of the few mercies of being Renato Marchelli's daughter is that he had me homeschooled, if only to get me out of both his sight and that of the public.
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was obligation. I don’t care. I took what I could from it. I’m not grateful for many things, but for that, I am. Education gave me something to hold on to.
The door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. There was an unusual stillness in the air, and I should have noticed it, but I didn't, and I stepped in. Then my eyes adjusted. There he was, my father, seated, his bulk unmistakable in the chair behind his desk. And then… him.
I recognized Giovanni Renzetti instantly. Of course I did. Everyone in the underground knows him. He’s the son of Massimo Renzetti, and now that his father is dead, he wears the title. The new Don of the Renzetti famiglia. One of the most powerful men in Italy.
I’d seen his photos in tabloids, clipped mentions in political essays, glimpses of him in the corner of grainy surveillance footage that sometimes made its way into the files I stole from my father’s cabinets.
Although I’d never paid much attention. They called him ruthless, brilliant, untouchable, unforgiving.
And most of all, devastatingly handsome.
The tabloids had not exaggerated.
He had a presence that swallowed the room whole. It was like everything that existed was immersed in him. Standing, his stance had been threatening, as if the walls bowed inward just for him. My breath had stuttered in my throat, a reaction so intense I hated.
I hate when I can't control my reactions, but in my defense, he was like a statue, carved out of something cruel and ancient.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with that deep-set jaw and storm-gray eyes that sliced straight through me.
He had no business being beautiful, not in the way that made my mouth go dry.
And then those eyes. Dio. They warmed when they landed on me.
For a fleeting moment, I'd held his gaze, until I was almost squirming, and I looked away.
I remember how I stood in the doorway, barefoot, unsure whether to flee or apologize.
I’d signed the latter, hoping it would suffice.
But of course, my father had barked at me, the usual sting of his words lashing across the room like they belonged to someone who had never loved me.
As if I was less than dirt. I’m used to it.
I've believed for the longest time that he doesn't really love me.
His voice always drops to a growl when he speaks to me.
Like my silence offends him more than anything else in the entire world.
Only this time, someone else had been in the room. And that someone had looked at me like he saw me.
Giovanni Renzetti had watched me with a quiet intensity that made my skin flush and itch. When my father shouted again and ordered me out, Giovanni had snapped. Told him to shut up. Told him he should be ashamed.
No one speaks to my father like that. No one. And yet there Giovanni was, every line of him taut with anger, facing down my father in his own house, over me.
And then he'd done the strangest thing, he'd turned to me and apologized with that gravelly, dangerous voice of his.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
No one has ever apologized to me, not once, not for anything.
Not the guards who slammed doors in my face, because they saw my father doing the same thing, and they mirrored his actions.
Not the tutors who pitied me and made it no less obvious that they thought my defect made me less of a human.
Not my father, who'll forever look upon me as an unnecessary inconvenience.
But this man, this dangerous man, offered it freely.
And I hated it. Hated the heat that rushed to my face. Hated the tightness in my chest. Because I knew what it was. Pity.
I don’t want his pity. I don’t want his attention. I don’t want anything from anyone. I've been self-sufficient for a very long time.
And because I couldn't breathe through the anger that clogged my nostrils, I fled the study before I could combust. Before I could crumble into pieces in front of two men who would never see me whole: one, my father—the other, a total stranger I have no intention of seeing again.
Now I’m in the garden, barefoot still. The soil is soft beneath my feet, warmed gently by the sun that filters through the clouds above. It’s quieter here. Softer. I always come here when I need to breathe. When I need to remember that I am something more than my father’s shame.
Here, I’m not deaf, not mute. Not strange. I’m just… me.
The flowers don’t care that I have a defect.
They bloom for me anyway. The lavender leans toward my hands like it knows me.
I move slowly through the garden, kneeling in the patch I favor the most, where the light hits in stripes through the hedges and the scent is always strongest. I breathe it in, trying to steady the rhythm of my thoughts.
Trying to forget how raw I felt walking out of that study.
How stripped bare I was beneath two sets of eyes.
Lou is here. One of the gardeners. He doesn’t talk much, which suits me fine. We communicate in our own language—nods, small smiles, gestures passed between the quiet. He never looks at me like I’m broken. He never flinches when I raise my hands to speak.
He hands me a trowel without a word. I nod my thanks and crouch beside him, my knees pressing into the damp earth.
My gloves are already stained, dirt creeping beneath the fabric to cling to my skin.
I don't mind. There’s something cathartic about it, something grounding.
The soil listens. It absorbs everything without asking for explanation.
My hands find the lavender bed again. I let my fingers move carefully around the roots, scooping and patting, tucking life back into place. I get lost in it. The rhythm. The scent. The smallness of the task. The world shrinks to just this moment, this patch of earth.
And then it shifts.
I feel him before I see him.
That same presence from the study. Heavy. Quiet, but not in the way of someone who doesn’t speak. Quiet in the way of someone used to commanding a room with a glance. My spine stiffens before I lift my head.
He’s here. Giovanni Renzetti. He's walking towards me.
Lou senses the change the same time I do. He murmurs something, probably an excuse, and disappears behind the hedges. I want to call him a coward, but I can’t blame him. I don’t know what this man is doing here either.
His presence is a stark contrast to this place.
He looks too sharp, too solid, too tall.
The dark, tailored suit clings to a body built like an exact replica of art itself.
His broad shoulders block the sun for a moment.
His face is carved, all clean lines and harsh edges.
His jaw is tight, his mouth set. There’s stubble on his chin, just enough to shadow his mouth.
His storm-colored eyes are on me again. And just like in the study, they're softened.
Giovanni stops a few feet away from me, not too close, but not distant enough to ignore. His hands are at his sides. His presence feels like a question I don’t know how to answer.
He looks at me. Not past me. Not around me. At me.
I sit back on my heels, heart rattling like loose glass inside me.
He doesn’t speak immediately. He just looks at me like he's studying me. The way his eyes move across my face, to flick briefly to my hearing aid, feels intrusive and oddly reverent. I feel like a page being read. Line by line. No part of me skipped.
Then he speaks.
“I came to apologize.”
His voice is low and rough. Like something dragged across granite. It's strangely… intimate. It curls low in my stomach and stays there.
I don’t move. I don't say anything. I don’t sign. I don’t offer anything. Because even if I could, what would I say?
He doesn’t seem fazed by my silence. Just watches me with those unreadable eyes, his expression patient, like he’s used to being waited on, not the other way around. His eyes are something other than unreadable. They're kind. Too kind. It unnerves me. It makes me want to scream.
I say nothing, still. I just continue to stare at him. I expect him to take the hint, to leave. But he doesn’t. He waits, like he has nowhere else to be.
He's searching my face for something. I don’t know what. It feels like he’s memorizing me. Like I’m something rare. I don’t understand the way my body reacts. The air feels too thin.
I shift back a little. Not out of fear or out of instinct, but out of the sudden need for air.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts his hands. And he signs.
Are you okay?
I blink. My brain stutters, caught between disbelief and something stranger. He signs. The Don of the Renzetti family knows how to sign. And he’s using it. With me.
There’s no pity in his expression. No arrogance. No mockery. Just that same stillness. That same sharp attention. Like I’m the only thing he’s seeing right now.
It’s too much. He speaks my language. I don’t know what to do with that. Anger rushes in, hot and unwelcome. What is this man doing to me? Why is he here, trying to speak to me like I matter? I can’t take it. Not from him. Not from anyone.
I sign back. My movements are quick and sharp, every motion fueled by the fury I don’t try to hide.
I’m fine. I don’t need your pity.
His brows lift slightly, only for a second. The surprise is there. He hadn’t expected it. Good. Let him feel what it’s like to be misread.
He's good-looking, has a body made for sin, and he makes my blood thrum. But just… no.
My cheeks are hot, and not just from the sun. From the humiliation. From the rage. From the quiet, gnawing ache that’s been in my chest since I left the study. I lift my chin and look right at him.
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches in quiet speculation, like he can’t decide whether to be offended or amused.
Knowing that if I continue to stay, I might melt from the red-hot anger simmering through me, I don’t give him the chance to respond. I turn. And I walk away. Again.
I don’t look back. Not once. But my fingers are trembling as I curl them into fists at my sides. And my heart is beating so hard, it feels like it might betray me.
Still, one truth clings to me as I disappear down the path between the hedges. This won’t be the last time I see Giovanni Renzetti. I know it with a certainty that's unnerving.
And God help me, I don’t know if that scares me more than it thrills me.