Chapter 10
LILIANA
The yarn keeps slipping between my fingers. I loop, then twist, then undo. Again and again. My eyes blur slightly, not from strain but because I’ve been at this for hours.
Maria just left. We’d spent the better part of the morning together, sitting by the open window while she guided my hands over and over again with her patient voice and soft, calloused fingers.
She'd talked while at it, too—well, her talking, me signing and occasionally scribbling in the little blue notebook she insists on calling “our chat journal.”
She’s teaching me to knit. We started when this week began. It's Friday now, and I’m slowly learning, stitch by patient stitch.
It's a scarf. A simple one. Grey wool that mirrors Giovanni's storm-gray eyes. Not too long. I don’t even know if he’ll like it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give it to him. Maybe I’ll leave it folded on his desk one morning. Maybe I’ll never finish it.
But it's coming along slowly, and I’m proud of it in a quiet way.
The needles move in my lap again. Knit. Purl. Tug. Rinse. Repeat. I’m not good at it yet, but it feels good to try. It gives my hands something to do, something soft to hold.
The silence in my room now feels odd, considering how lively Maria is.
She fills a space like spring wind, fluttering through everything, lifting the dullness from my days.
What began as simple instruction has become something else.
Our time together is no longer madam and maid.
That line has blurred so subtly I don’t even remember when it began.
I find myself looking forward to her visits. She calls me “Signora” still—even though I've told her she can call me Liliana—but there’s affection behind it, teasing even. She brushes my hair, tucks chocolates into the folds of my books, and berates me for not eating properly.
She treats me like a friend. Not a duty. Not a girl defined by her defect.
And they all do, here. The staff. Tomasso, with his roguish grin and habit of greeting me with a wink. Even the guards nod when they pass. None of them flinch when I sign. None of them look at me with pity or discomfort. It makes something ache in me. Something I didn’t realize I’d buried deep.
I’d lived my whole life thinking I wasn’t someone people could like. I let my defect shape everything I believed about myself. I let it become who I was. Let it dictate the limits of what I believed I deserved.
But things are… different now. It started the day I became Giovanni’s wife.
He doesn’t force himself into my space. Not since that night. That one night when everything shifted.
I close my eyes, and the memory stirs something deep in me.
He’s my husband, but not. He’s close, yet far.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night.
He'd touched me like I was precious and ruined me in the same breath.
I still feel his hands on my skin. His breath on my throat.
His mouth claiming mine with such hunger I forgot who I was.
I still carry his marks. They are fading now.
The small bruise on my hip. The faint pressure along my inner thigh.
I shouldn’t miss them. But I do…
I want him again.
God help me, I do.
I want his mouth, his hands, the way he looked at me like I was worth worshipping. The thought strikes me with a force I don’t expect. It coils low in my belly, hot and unwelcome.
I curl my toes in my slippers and knit another row just to have something to do.
I hate this part of me, the one that hungers.
The one that dreams of his mouth and hands.
I’ve never let anyone close enough to love.
Not really. I survived because I believed I wasn’t meant to be loved.
It made the loneliness easier. It made everything easier.
I hate how easily he broke through the walls I built. How little effort it took for him to reach the parts of me I didn’t know still existed. I hate how he’s shifting everything, how he makes me feel seen. Whole. Desired.
Because I told myself I wouldn’t fall. That I couldn’t. But now, it’s like I’m halfway off the ledge and the wind has caught my dress, and I don’t know if I’m flying or free-falling.
We haven’t spoken much since that night.
Just polite greetings, shared glances, and brief conversations during meals.
But I see the way he looks at me. Like he wants more.
Like he’s waiting for me to give him something I’m not sure I have.
It scares me to death. If I surrender to him fully, and he realizes I’m not enough, what then?
What if he realizes I'm too broken for him to mend?
I glance at the time on my phone. 2:07 p.m. I blink and curse inwardly. Dio Santo. I missed noon completely. The hours slipped past while I was lost in thought. How did the time run off like that?
I should be in the garden by now. Lunch can wait. I always feel more like myself there. It’s where I breathe easiest. My little patch of peace. Where I read, knit, tend to the soil. Where I forget, if only briefly, that I am a wife unsure of her place.
I fold the half-knitted scarf and slip it into the woven basket beside the bed. I grab my slippers and am halfway to the door when a knock halts me.
I pause briefly, wondering if it's Maria coming to check on my progress. I call out, “Come in,” though the word sticks awkwardly in my throat.
Maria peeks through the doorway. Her cheeks are pink, and she signs quickly, excitement in every movement. Someone is here to see you. Signor Giovanni asks for you in the foyer.
My stomach flips. A visitor?
I sign quickly. Who is it?
She shakes her head, offering only a soft smile and a small shrug.
A hundred thoughts race through my head.
My father. Has it come to that? Why would Giovanni allow him in?
He promised me. He swore he wouldn’t. I cling to that promise even now, willing it to mean something.
I don’t ask Maria anything further. I rise and slip into my flats, heart already pounding as I follow her out into the hall.
My pulse is hammering as we walk down the stairs, past the tall windows spilling afternoon light across the floor like golden silk. I press my palm to my stomach, willing the panic to settle. Then, I rub my wrists, anxiety getting the better of me.
The foyer comes into view, and I stop. For a second, I don’t breathe.
It’s not my father. It's a familiar face I haven't conjured up in weeks. Guilt and recognition war with each other as my mind calls up his name.
Dario. My cousin.
For a moment, I don’t move. He stands there in a worn grey coat, his familiar slouch, the same crooked smile that used to make me laugh when I was a kid. He’s older now, but still the same. Lean, wide-eyed, awkward. His hair is longer, swept carelessly back.
His eyes are warm, bright, and full of recognition. I haven’t seen him in years. And just like that, something inside me thaws. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel small. Because in a world that’s changed so suddenly, he is something familiar. Something good.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. It rushes up, full and uncontained, curling at the corners of my lips like it’s always belonged there. He opens his arms without hesitation.
“Cugina,” he says, grinning.
I run to him without thinking. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I’ve found a piece of home.
I fling myself into Dario’s arms, the momentum catching him off guard.
He stumbles, and we crash to the floor in a heap, his body cushioning mine as we land on the cool marble of the foyer and the air is literally knocked out of my lungs.
He lets out a startled laugh, his shoulders quaking underneath me.
Laughter bubbles up in my chest, something sort of a soundless vibration.
Tomasso’s voice cuts through, laced with amusement. “What a spectacle, you two.” I glance up, catching his roguish grin, but my eyes slide to Giovanni.
He stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets. His face is unreadable. I can't tell if he's annoyed or bemused. The look he gives me sends a shiver down my spine.
We scramble to our feet, dusting ourselves off. Dario’s hands fly into motion, signing with that familiar, eager energy. You look radiant, cugina. Marriage suits you. His grin is wide, boyish, and my cheeks warm.
I sign back, my movements teasing. How are you? How’s school? Still charming your way through?
He laughs, his voice a soft huff, and signs. Barely. It’s a grind, but I’m surviving. His eyes sparkle, but I notice the shadows beneath them, the faint bruises of exhaustion.
He looks me over, his smile never leaving his face. Dio, I missed you.
I sign back eagerly. I missed you too.
Giovanni stands silently, a towering presence at the edge of my vision. His discomfort radiates, and I feel it acutely. He's glaring holes into Dario.
Tomasso claps a hand on his shoulder, his voice light as he says, “Come on, let’s give them space to catch up.” He tugs, but Giovanni’s feet are rooted to the ground.
His jaw moves as if he's gnashing his teeth. I lift my eyes to his, and his gaze locks onto mine with intensity.
Something in me snaps, and I do something totally uncharacteristic. I grab his arm and tug him aside, pulling him just out of earshot. My hands move furiously. What the hell is wrong with you?
His eyes narrow, and he signs stiffly. I don’t trust anyone from your family. Renato could have sent him. He could hurt you.
I pause. My fingers soften, so does my expression. He's right to be worried. I see a flicker of protectiveness in his eyes. He's only trying to protect me. It warms me in places that have no business warning up.
I sign back carefully. Dario’s different. He’s kind. He's the only one who ever cared. He’d never hurt me.
Giovanni’s lips press tightly, displeasure carved into his features. I brace myself for his rebuttal. Instead, he does something totally unexpected. My breath stills as his hand lifts to my hair.