Chapter 9
GIOVANNI
Liliana has been avoiding me.
Not overtly. We share meals. She nods politely when I ask about her day.
She responds in that graceful, economical way of hers, hands rising in small, fluid movements I’ve come to recognize even when I’m not looking.
But she won’t meet my eyes. Not once in a week.
Not when I pull out her chair. Not when our fingers brush as she hands me the salt. Not even when I speak her name.
Liliana.
God help me, her name is a curse I whisper into my pillow every night. It's funny how I can miss her when she's only just entered my life. Yet, I can't remember what life has been like without her in it.
I miss her. And I hate how much I miss her. Because somewhere between her silence and her fiery, yet unsure defiance, I’ve grown addicted to her presence. Her eyes. Her hands. The way she looks at the world like it never offered her softness and she’s bracing for another blow.
I tell myself it's her silence that's bothering me. That it's frustrating to be shut out. That it’s the rejection of what happened that night, the way she’s pretending it didn’t mean anything. And frankly, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
I told her I loved her the night she gave herself to me.
I know what she thinks. She thinks it meant nothing.
That I took her because she was there. Because she was a willing, convenient body.
But I meant it. I didn’t say it to make the moment anything other than it was, or to coax her into trusting me. I said it because it was true.
It still is.
I love her implicitly. I’ve been in love with her from the moment I saw her in Renato’s study.
The world paused the moment I saw her, and that's when I knew—that she was meant to be mine. That I’d been living my life walking toward that moment, even if I didn’t realize it.
Like every loss I’ve ever suffered was leading me to her.
I'd known because no woman had ever elicited such a visceral emotion in me.
Logic had nothing to do with it. I live my life by a set of rules. I don’t believe in fate. Not after Alessio. Not after burying my baby brother and watching my mother fold in on herself like a dying star. Fate is for men who need to believe their pain has meaning.
I know she believes I married her out of pity.
But that can't be farthest from the truth. Yes, I offered her father the bargain. Yes, I’d used the debt as leverage.
Yes, I knew what I was doing. But if I'm being honest, if I strip it down to the barest truth, I married her because I loved her from that very first moment.
And I want her to know. Dio, I want her to see herself through my eyes. I want to say the words over and over again till they're burned into her memory… and her body.
But she won't even meet my eyes. I know it's going to take a lot of patience. All her life, she's seen the world through a wounded lens. I need to take it slow. But dammit, I'm frustrated.
Every morning, she walks out of her room and disappears into the garden.
I watch her from my study window. She’s always barefoot.
Her hair, unpinned, whips around her shoulders like it’s part of the wind itself.
She kneels in the soil, hands wrist-deep in dirt, her face lit up like I’ve never seen it anywhere else.
The garden makes her come alive. I see her smile there.
Not the polite curve of lips she gives the staff, or the small one she offers Maria when she signs thank you.
No. It’s the kind of smile that breaks something open in a man’s chest. The kind that makes you believe there’s good in the world simply because she exists in it.
I’ve never wanted to be a patch of soil more in my entire life.
Three days ago, I went to her. I simply couldn’t stay away. Watching her wasn’t enough. I needed to be near her. To hear the quiet sound she makes when she breathes. To see her eyes up close, the way they go wary, yet warm when they land on me. I needed her to look at me.
She didn’t.
When she saw me, that light in her dimmed. Her shoulders curled inward, her hands stilled in the dirt. No smile. Just a quiet and wounded look. Like my presence had infringed on something sacred. Like I'd invaded her sanctuary. She'd left without a word, without an acknowledgement.
I stood there, rooted, like an idiot, feeling hugely bereft. And still, I’d do it again.
God, she's magnificent.
I want her. Not just her body. I want every inch of her.
Her quiet thoughts. Her fears. Her mornings.
Her smile. I want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.
I want to run my hands through the tresses of her gorgeous hair.
I want to get lost in her big blue eyes.
I want to kiss that mouth until she forgets every cruel word her father ever spat at her.
But she won’t look at me.
Now, I sit in my study, pretending to read over trade papers.
The Marseilles shipment arrived early. Customs needs signatures.
There’s a discrepancy in one of the invoices from Morocco because someone padded the numbers.
And there’s still the Belgian deal Tomasso is overseeing, which I should be presiding over.
But I can’t concentrate. She's the constant thing that dominates my thoughts. I glance at my watch. It's almost noon.
I close the ledger stand abruptly. My chair scrapes the floor sharply and I don’t bother to push it back in. I’m already halfway out the door. I have to see her. It's a decision borne out of necessity.
She’ll be in her room. I know her routine.
I’ve memorized the sound of her door opening in the quiet hush of morning, the soft padding of her feet on the rug-lined floor.
Breakfast by eight. She barely eats, but she sits there anyway, fingers curled tight around her spoon, responding to me with polite signs and never meeting my eyes.
At a quarter past eight, she leaves the table.
Always. She walks the east corridor for exactly fifteen minutes.
I watch from the window of my study sometimes, behind the sheer linen curtains, catching glimpses of her figure as she glides past the arched glass panels.
Then she disappears into her room. She stays there until noon, reading.
Then at noon, she proceeds to the garden.
I walk out of my study, my steps determined.
I walk down the west hallway, the one lined with ancestral portraits.
Past the twin marble busts of my grandfather and his brother, both silent sentries who never seem to blink.
Then through the main gallery, where the light spills in from the high glass ceiling. I make a left at the gallery.
I climb the grand staircase, hand trailing along the banister. The landing splits off in two directions. I veer left, toward the wing I had restored for her, the one overlooking the garden. The door at the end of the hall is hers.
I slow as I approach.
My heart should not be thudding like this. I’m not a man prone to nerves, but my palms are clammy, my throat dry. I stop just before I reach the door. The air is scented faintly with lavender and some kind of citrus soap she uses.
I don’t raise my hand to knock. I hover. My fist curls in. Then slowly uncurls again.
I hear the frenzied thudding of feet, and my concern is immediately piqued. But before I can do something irrational like bust the door open, I hear a voice—Maria’s. It's giddy. I hear her clear voice. “Signora, no, you didn’t—oh, Dio, you did!”
There's a muffled gasp and a bout of giggles from Maria.
My heart stops. She's conversing with Liliana.
She's happy, and her happiness doesn't include me.
Then, just as my heart rhythm starts to reinvigorate, I hear a sound.
It's a strained, whispery sound of amusement that resembles a strangled hum.
It's Liliana. It barely escapes her throat, but it’s laughter, in whatever form she can manage.
Something twists in my chest. I press my hand flat to the wall beside her door. She’s laughing. Not with me. I'm not the one that draws it from her. But she’s laughing.
I should be happy. I should be relieved she’s found her footing here. I should be glad that she’s comfortable enough to make this place her home. But I'm not. Because I'm not the reason her face lights up.
But there's the luxury of time. And I'll give it to her. I'll wait. I'm a patient man. Hadn't I told her so myself? Even if it takes a torturous amount of time, I'll ease my love into her life, until she feels complete with it.
I don't intrude. I step back from the door. I turn on my heels and walk back in the direction I'd come from.
I make my way back to the study, slower this time. There’s a restlessness in my chest I can’t quite smother. I close the door behind me but don’t sit immediately. I just stand there, my hand still on the knob, eyes trained on the room like maybe she’ll appear here instead. Like she followed me.
Of course she didn’t. She has me out here acting like a lovesick fool.
When I finally sit, it’s not out of desire, but necessity. There’s work to be done. I try to read through the report with difficulty and deliberate effort. I pick up my pen, sign where I’m meant to. My pen moves over the pages with practiced ease.
Then, I send two follow-ups to Matteo about the Moroccan discrepancies, and note a reminder to restructure how we handle dock tax compliance at the southern ports. But none of it sticks. Not really. My head isn’t in the pages. But I get lost in the practiced routine.
I’m finishing the last page of the shipment summary when I hear a knock.
For a moment, just a reckless, desperate second, I hope it’s her.
“Come in,” I say gruffly.
I look up just as Tomasso opens the door. He steps in with the usual air of amusement, a folder under one arm, his tie slightly askew like he’s been celebrating already.
He catches the disappointed look on my face and grins. “What?” he asks, grinning. “Were you expecting someone else?”
I say nothing. He tosses the folder on my desk, unbothered.
“The Belgian deal went through. Smooth. Cleaner than expected, actually. The margins are better than we projected. Your supplier came through. They’re asking to lock in the next two quarters.”
“Good,” I mutter, flipping the folder open though I don’t read it.
He sets the folder down, straightens a bit, and scratches his jaw. He studies me for a second before adjusting his stance. “Listen, Gio, there’s someone at the gate.”
My head snaps up.
“I saw him on my way in. He says he’s here for Liliana.”
My stomach clenches. “Who is he?”
Tomasso shrugs like the question is irrelevant. “Don’t know. The guards didn’t let him in. Thought it best to tell you first.”
My blood simmers.
A man.
I don’t know who Liliana knew before me. I know nothing of her world except the cruelty of her father. But the idea of another man—someone she might’ve loved, someone whose memories she still recalls when she’s alone—burns hotter than I care to admit.
I grip the edge of the desk.
I forced her into this marriage. No matter how I spin it, no matter how noble my reasons were. I cornered her into saying yes. I didn’t ask about her life. About her past. I didn’t think I needed to. She was right to call me a presumptuous prick. Is it any wonder she hates me?
Tomasso continues to speak, something about customs clearance on the Marseille dock or Luca needing tation on the Palermo route, but I don’t hear him. I can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in my ears.
He stops. “You’re not listening, are you?”
“Did you get his name?” I ask sharply.
He makes a face. “No. Didn’t seem necessary.” He leans back against the edge of my desk, watching me. “Small guy. Looks like nothing. Nervous. I doubt he’s anything to worry about. Maybe Renato sent him to spy on her. I wouldn't put it past the rat.”
That would make more sense. Renato wouldn’t let go so easily. It would give me a reason to act. To protect. Maybe this is a power move, a message that he still has claim over her. The fucking bastard.
But what if Tomasso is wrong? What if it's someone from her past? Someone vital to her who—
No.
I move briskly to the comm panel on the wall and press the button.
“Let him in,” I say to the guards.
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
Tomasso arches a brow. “You’re going to see him yourself?”
“I want to know who he is,” I reply, my voice clipped. “Let’s go.”
He follows without further question.
We move through the house quickly, down the main hall with its checkered flooring, past the winter salon where light pools in through the high arched windows.
The late afternoon light slants in from the tall windows.
We cut through the gallery, make a sharp left through the atrium, and into the foyer.
It’s where we receive guests. It's neutral territory.
No weapons. No threats. Just enough elegance to remind anyone who steps through who I am.
We arrive just as the guest is being shown in. And I understand immediately what Tomasso meant.
The man is… small. Wiry. Nondescript. His shoes are scuffed, his shoulders narrow, His jacket hangs loosely on him, as if he borrowed it from someone bulkier. There’s a nervous energy radiating from him. His eyes dart to every corner of the room before finally landing on me.
When they land on me, I see a flicker of fear.
Good.
I don't offer a smile. I don't offer anything.
He steps forward tentatively and holds out a hand. “Signor Renzetti.”
I stare at the hand and don’t move.
He waits, then lets it fall awkwardly and limply at his sides.
Tomasso makes a sound that’s suspiciously close to a laugh. He finds amusement in this. I shoot him a warning look before returning my gaze to the man in front of me. My glare is withering.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He swallows. “I’m here for Liliana.”
Wrong answer.
My gaze sharpens. I take a step closer. He takes one back. “Why?”
“I—”
“Who the hell are you?”
He glances down at his shoes like they’ll offer him strength. Then, quietly, he says, “My name is Dario Marchelli. I’m… Liliana’s cousin.”
Well, I'll be damned.