Chapter 6
LILIANA
Married. I'm married to Giovanni Renzetti.
If someone had told me three weeks ago that I’d be married now, I would’ve labeled them insane and asked what brand of delusion they were peddling. But here I am. I walked into Giovanni’s study single, and I came out with a ring on my finger and his name attached to mine.
The moment still feels surreal. I don’t know if it was for my sake that the ceremony was small and discreet—just the priest, Giovanni, Tomasso, and me—but I’m grateful all the same.
I despise fanfare. Maybe it’s the years of being shut behind doors every time my father hosted guests, like a shameful secret he couldn’t bear to expose.
Because heaven forbid his guests saw his defective daughter.
The embarrassment. The disgrace. The mute, half-deaf girl who reminded him of everything he couldn’t control.
I’d resigned myself to living and dying with my father’s disdain.
I never thought I’d be free of it. But then Giovanni came along.
I don’t know what the future holds between us, but for now, it’s enough that I’m no longer under that roof.
It won’t kill me to give Giovanni a bit of trust. He’s earned it. He’s been nothing but kind to me.
He’s leading me across the sprawling estate grounds. We’ve just left the main building where he introduced me to the house staff, all of whom greeted me with warm smiles and a gentle reverence I didn’t expect.
Now we’re heading toward the southern edge, where I spot the armory and garages tucked between buildings that look like old villas repurposed for modern use.
The estate is expansive but tightly guarded.
The buildings stretch out in wings, guarded corners and gravel paths, fountains that look like they've been here a hundred years. There’s a central courtyard with a high-arched colonnade, and I think of how easily a man could vanish in here. Or be made to.
Every corner carries intent, purpose, vigilance. High walls, thick with ivy and secrets. Wide, manicured grounds. Iron-wrought gates. This place isn’t just a home. It’s a fortress. It breathes old money and older power. Nothing about it is ostentatious, yet everything screams control.
Giovanni walks beside me, tall and composed, a quiet force in his button-down shirt with open collar.
I trail behind him a little. It strikes me, as we step past a stone arch and toward another set of buildings where I can hear male voices rising and falling, that I hadn’t fully thought this through.
What would his men think? About him marrying a mute, half-deaf woman?
Giovanni must have noticed because he pauses and looks over his shoulder.
His eyes find mine and hold them. He waits for me to catch up, then without a word, clasps my hand in his.
His palm is warm, steady. His fingers brush over my wrist and gently dislodge it from where I’d been unknowingly rubbing.
His smile is low and slow, and it stops my breath. You don’t need to be nervous, he signs. They’ll love you.
My chest tightens. The way he says it, with such certainty, such ease. It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. But it does. His assurance feels like sunlight after years in the dark.
My eyes drift to his mouth. That mouth that kissed me with devastating intensity just after we exchanged our vows.
The memory of it haunts me. The way his tongue, warm and demanding, had tangled with mine.
The way he groaned low in his throat when I parted for him.
The way he took his time to devour and brand me as. Maddening hot possession.
I’d meant to resist. I tried to be cautious, tried to keep some part of myself distant, but the moment his lips touched mine, I shattered. At that moment, I hadn’t wanted him to stop. I’d wanted more. His hands. His body. I’d wanted to be claimed entirely by him. And I'd wanted him too.
I want him so badly, the mere thought of it hurts. The realization unnerves me. He catches me staring and a flicker of something flashes in his eyes. I quickly look away before he sees too much.
We arrive at the courtyard where his men are gathered. There’s a stillness in the air when they notice us, followed by a ripple of acknowledgment. They look at me, not with disdain, but with caution. Like I’m a puzzle they weren’t expecting to solve today.
Giovanni doesn't let go of my hand as he introduces them to me, one by one. I nod and offer polite smiles. There’s no need to sign. They already know who I am. They must know.
Then, when he finishes, he pulls me flush against his side and says it. “Liliana Renzetti. My wife.”
Heat rises up my neck, blooming across my face as my body stiffens. I feel every eye on me. Embarrassment claws up my spine, but I force myself to hold my ground and keep my smile.
They nod back, some giving faint smiles, others curious glances. But there’s no cruelty in their expressions.
They respect him. I can see that clearly. Every movement, every glance, every silence they share speaks of loyalty. And Giovanni commands it effortlessly. He’s only just stepped into his father’s shoes, but they already follow him with the kind of loyalty that isn’t coerced, but is earned.
He dismisses them all with a brief nod, and they begin to file out. Except for Tomasso who lingers.
He grins at me as he steps forward. He was there two days ago, in the study, when I came to discuss terms. He’s easy to recognize.
He's ridiculously handsome, like a rugged Italian model stepped out of a cologne ad, with that type of crooked, dimpled grin that should be illegal. He has the kind of charm that feels dangerous because it’s so casual.
He’s dressed with quiet elegance again, just like that day in his study.
But I know what he is. What he has to be. Giovanni wouldn’t keep soft men close. Beneath all that polished charm, he’s hard. Like Giovanni. Except he pales in comparison to Giovanni, my husband. The word has some quality to it.
I smile at him, feeling the tightness in my chest ease. He's pleasant, and I'm grateful for that.
His grin widens. “You look like you were made to be a bride.”
I smile till my cheeks hurt.
He looks past me briefly as the last of the men exit, then adds “If you’re wondering why they looked at you like that, “it’s not you. It’s him.” He jerks his chin at Giovanni. “They didn’t think he’d marry this soon. Not when the seat of power is still warm.”
I nod, appreciating the explanation.
Tomasso chuckles as he leans slightly toward me. “I’m glad he has someone now, other than me. He pretends he doesn’t care, but the man’s a moody bastard without companionship.”
I glance at Giovanni who's glaring holes into Tomasso.
“He may say we only work together,” he continues, his eyes gleaming, “but he’s my brother, we share an unbreakable bond.”
“Go to hell, Tomasso. Leave my wife alone,” Giovanni says as he steps in, his hand lightly touching the small of my back. Slight contact, but it jolts through me.
Tomasso laughs wickedly, as though he's enjoying himself a bit too much. Before turning to leave, he signs at me, You’re doing great.
Giovanni watches him go, his brow arched. He tells someone outside the door offhandedly to call Maria in.
I blink. I hadn't expected that. Does everyone here know how to sign?
I don’t have much time to dwell on it. Maria arrives shortly.
I recognize her from earlier. She’d been among the house staff.
She’s soft-spoken and small, maybe in her mid-thirties, with gentle eyes and a posture that always looks like she’s apologizing for taking up space.
I feel an immediate sense of kinship with her.
Giovanni introduces her as my personal maid. A maid? For me? It's absurd. I want to protest that I don’t need one, but I’m far too tired to argue.
I yawn, unable to resist it.
Giovanni turns to me and smiles gently. He signs, You’re tired. You should rest.
I nod.
Go with Maria. She'll show you to your room. I’ll join you shortly. I have business.
He leans kisses my forehead, and it nearly undoes me. It’s so tender, I melt a little.
I leave with Maria, and as she leads me up the stairs, I feel impossibly bereft, like I’ve left something essential behind.
Maria leads me up to the room he’s chosen for me.
It isn’t grand. It's tucked into the side of the estate that overlooks the gardens. It’s the kind of space that says someone thought about what I would like—Giovanni.
He knows I like gardening. He'd seen me there when he came to me at my father's estate.
The thought put behind it touches me far more than I care to admit.
I look around. The walls are a soft blue-gray, the bed large and dressed in linens the color of pale smoke.
Bookshelves line one wall, already filled with classics and poetry.
There’s a small reading nook by the window.
I've already found my space, but Dio, Giovanni is stealing my heart.
There's a record player that sits in one corner.
The open windows filter in the smell of flowers.
I inhale slowly, letting the scent fill me, tether me.
My belongings have already been unpacked. My dresses hang in the closet. My notebooks are stacked neatly on the desk. Everything is already arranged with startling efficiency.
I lower myself to sit on the edge of the bed, stunned. This is moving way too fast. I can barely catch my breath.
Maria gestures. I realize I’ve been sitting still, staring. Then she signs, Shall I draw a bath?
I nod, dazed that she, too, can sign. Then I tap my hearing aid. I can hear. You can speak if you like.
She smiles softly and leaves to draw the bath.
I stand and move around the room slowly, taking in everything with a quiet wonder.
This is it. I’ve done it. I’m married.
Once the bath is ready, Maria comes out and signs again, asking if I need anything else. I sign back No, and she slips out.