Chapter 4
LILIANA
“So do you agree?”
Giovanni’s voice is low and smooth, like he already knows the answer and is only giving me the illusion of choice. I roll my eyes and let out a sharp huff through my nose because I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I don’t trust myself not to fling something at him.
He doesn't flinch. Of course, he doesn't. He continues to look at me with that practiced ease that grates on my nerves more than anything.
My heart is thrashing in my chest, louder than it should be.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to scream.
Or punch something. Or disappear entirely.
I have always felt caged, and now the bars that make up my confinement are made of his calm voice, my father’s greedy silence, and the walls of this suffocating house. I can’t breathe in here.
My hands speak before my thoughts can catch up.
I’d marry him over my dead body, I sign to my father—even though he only knows the basics and likely doesn't understand me—every gesture slicing through the air with mean intent. I’d marry him over my rotten, maggot-infested corpse.
Then, because I need to breathe past the heaviness in my chest, I turn and run out.
I hear Giovanni call my name, softly, like he thinks it’ll tether me and I'll stay and listen to his silly words meant to soothe. It doesn’t. I don’t stop. I don’t turn. I half walk, half run.
I hear the chair scrape, then my father’s voice rises behind me as if he's coming after me. “Get back here, ragazza ingrata!”
There’s venom in his voice, the kind that used to make me freeze as a little girl. But I don’t freeze now. I round the corner and hear Giovanni snap something low and furious, definitely a command, telling him to stay. And the silence that follows is the kind that makes you certain it was obeyed.
I don't stop. I keep walking.
I storm into the garden without thinking, my feet moving faster than my thoughts. The air shifts the moment I cross the threshold. It's cooler here, quieter. Everything behind me blurs, but I don’t stop until I’ve reached the farthest edge, the place tucked just out of view from the house.
I grip my elbows, standing still. My heart pounds like it wants to claw out of my chest. I try to breathe, try to calm the roar inside me, but it doesn’t help. It never does. The ache is everywhere. My throat. My hands. My ribs. Like something inside me is trying to break free.
How dare he? How dare he come into my life and try to disrupt the careful, familiar order?
Yes, it isn't perfect, but it's my life.
Who the hell does he think he is? Everyone has always ignored me, and I have come to accept that.
So why does the Don himself, who can have any woman he desires, want to disrupt my familiar life?
And then I hear him. His footsteps are not rushed. They're steady, sure. Of course, he'll come after me. You’d think I’d be given space. A little dignity, at least, after what he just threw at me.
I whirl around the second he turns the corner. I won't give him time to say shit.
Shove your offer up your arrogant ass. I sign it so fast I nearly jab a finger into his chest. I won’t agree. You can’t make me.
He doesn’t blink. He signs back. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do, cara.
I blink at him, the endearment throwing me off balance.
He signs again, as if using a term of endearment on me is second nature to him, while I'm here, still getting my bearings. Your anger is understood. But you need to hear me out.
No.
He stops signing. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Marrying me is in your best interest.”
I blink at him like he’s grown two heads. Is he serious?
He must see the disbelief on my face, because he keeps going.
“I know your father is a jerk. I know he doesn’t treat you right. If you marry me, he’ll be forced to let you go. You won’t owe him anything. You’ll be off his hands.”
My hands curl into fists. He's right, but there's no chance in hell I'm considering his offer. At least my father is a familiar evil that I have learned to live with; what are the chances that both he and his family will not treat me worse? If my father is disgusted by my disability, what are the odds that his family won’t be horrified?
I’m not a charity case, I sign, my movements urgent. I’m not a damsel in distress. I don’t need saving. Especially not by you.
He takes a step forward. “Liliana.”
The way he says my name, it’s not pitying, it’s not commanding. It’s something else entirely. Something softer. Something I don’t have a name for. Something I refuse to dwell on.
I hate how it makes me feel. Like something warm is trying to slip past my defenses. I hate it. I hate him.
“Listen to me,” he says.
I shake my head hard. No.
He sighs, and a flicker of satisfaction stirs in me. Good. Let him give up. Let him walk away, go back to wherever he came from, and leave me to scrape myself back together, like I always do. I’ve handled worse alone. I don’t need him pretending to care.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t get to sound like he does. He doesn’t get to make promises he’ll never keep. Not when every hope I’ve ever held onto has shattered in my hands. Not when all he’s offering is another gilded cage, just one with nicer locks.
Hope is a cruel thing. And I’ve learned, over and over again, that it always betrays me in the end.
And yet, I look at him, because some traitorous part of me is starting to stir awake. And he returns my gaze, the intensity unflinching. Those storm-gray eyes bear into mine like he sees something in me worth staying for.
I hate that some stupid, reckless part of me wants to believe him. But, Dio, what harm could it really do?
The thought shouldn't even cross my mind, but it’s there now, gaining root.
Because the truth is, I don’t know how many more days I can survive in that house with my father.
Not with the way he looks at me like I’m broken, something sort of a burden he never wanted.
Not with every word from his mouth flaying me open, reminding me I’m unwanted, useless, too much, and never enough.
I turn away from Giovanni because looking at him too long makes my chest ache in a way I can’t name. He says nothing, just waits. Like he knows I need the quiet to think. Like he understands what it means to have nothing left to lose and still feel like you’re drowning in everything.
I stare at the hedge beside me, the way the rose petals droop in the shade. One of them is bruised, the edge curling. I lift a hand and touch it. Soft. Already dying.
I cross my arms over my chest, gripping my elbows until it hurts.
My thoughts keep circling back to the same ugly truth.
One more day under that roof might be the one that breaks me.
And Giovanni—whatever this arrangement is, whatever power he’s trying to wield—it also feels like a door being thrown wide open.
A chance to step out of hell. Even if it means stepping into something unknown.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Everything. That’s what. Everything could happen.
He too could turn out worse than my father.
He could see my silence as a flaw and use it against me.
He could lock me away in prettier rooms and call it kindness.
But I look at him again, and there’s no cruelty in his eyes.
No smugness. Just… resolve. And maybe something else I don’t dare to name.
My shoulders sag.
I turn back to him. You want me to trust you, I sign slowly.
“I want you to have a choice,” he replies.
I stare at him.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? He didn’t need to ask. He could have forced it. Could have dragged me into this with papers and titles and leverage. But he didn’t. He came to find me. He’s asking. And I’m so tired. So unbelievably tired of being alone even in the midst of people.
I step back to give myself a breath of space, then raise my hands more slowly this time. I’ll do it, I sign.
My fingers tremble halfway through, but I force them to complete what they are saying. I’ll marry you.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. My throat feels like it's closing up. My hands fall back to my sides, lifeless. I want to disappear.
Then I feel him come closer as if he isn't close enough, as if his scent—musk and spice—isn’t heady enough.
He doesn’t touch me, doesn't reach for my hand or brush my arm like another man might. He just says my name again, and this time it feels different. Like he sees what it cost me to say yes.
“I’ll make this worth it,” he says.
I nearly sputter a scoff, but I don’t. I’m not giving him anything more than I already have.
“You’ll be free of your father,” he adds.
I nod once. That much, at least, is true. And it’s more than I’ve ever had.
“You’ll live in my house. You'll be under my protection. You’ll want for nothing.”
I look up at him finally. That’s what this is to him. A transaction. A promise of comfort in exchange for a life.
But for me, it’s a risk. It’s jumping off a ledge, blindfolded.
My silence is heavy. And I think he feels it, because he doesn’t say anything else. He gives me a final look that I can’t decipher, then turns back toward the house.
He leaves me there, alone in the garden. The wind stirs the petals at my feet. My chest rises, then sinks, as I press a hand over it, trying to settle the ache that won’t go away.
I don’t know what to do with the strange quiet Giovanni leaves behind.
I don’t understand his angle. I don’t like that he didn’t gloat, that he didn’t twist the knife.
Men like him are always sure of themselves, always playing some deeper game.
And yet, when I said yes, he looked at me like he saw something I hadn’t shown him.
That terrifies me more than anything. Because if he sees me, if he really sees me, then all the walls I’ve built are at risk. And I don’t know who I am without them.
But whatever… I gave my consent. I’ve made my choice. I’ve stepped out of the fire and straight into the unknown.
And I have no idea what it will cost me.