Chapter 12
LILIANA
Success!
The word blooms in my head as I tie the last knot and set the needles down. I hold up the scarf, its storm-gray wool soft and heavy in my hands, the color a perfect match for Giovanni’s eyes.
Three weeks of stolen moments, needles clicking under Maria’s patient guidance, and now it’s done. I run my fingers over the tight, even stitches, dragging my fingers slowly down the length. A quiet pride swells in my chest. It's warm. It's whole. It's his.
I still haven’t figured out how to give it to him yet, how to bridge the gap between this small gesture and the weight of what it means.
It feels too intimate, too raw. It's like handing him a piece of my heart.
I set it on the bed, the gray wool stark against the white linens, and sit back, my mind already wandering.
There’s a knock at the door. At first, it's light, then two more in quick succession. I know it’s Maria. She always knocks like that.
I call out with a tap on the table, the signal we’ve come to use, and a moment later, she steps inside.
Her apron is dusted with flour, a smudge of it streaking across her forearm.
The scent of baked bread clings to her like a second skin, warm and comforting.
Her hair is pinned in a messy bun, wisps falling to her temple, and when her eyes meet mine, they crinkle with a smile so kind it wraps around me like a shawl.
Without thinking, I reach for the scarf on the chair beside me. My fingers tremble as I lift it and hold it up, the storm-gray yarn unraveling like a banner between us. I sign, eyes bright, It’s finished! The words pour from me fast and eager, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face.
Her eyes widen, and something tender softens her expression. She comes closer, touching the edge of the scarf with reverence, then signs, It’s beautiful, Liliana. You did it.
My smile deepens. I’m so happy, I sign, the joy bubbling in my chest. The scarf had taken a lot of effort, and now that it’s done, I almost can’t believe it.
Maria nods, her hands moving quickly. I came to check if you need anything. If not, I’ll leave you to your peace.
She starts to turn, but something roots me in place, then moves me just as quickly. I step forward and, without thinking twice, wrap my arms around her.
She stills. I feel her breath catch. It’s not something I’ve done before, and I know it catches her off guard.
But slowly, her arms lift and she returns the gesture, patting my back with gentle, uncertain hands.
When I step back, there’s a slight blush on her cheeks, and her smile is shy, almost embarrassed.
She doesn’t know. She may never know. But she’s given me more than kindness, more than help.
She’s given me the gift of quiet belonging.
She saw me, my silence, my hesitation, and chose to draw me close instead of keeping her distance.
She’s treated me like a sister, not minding my defect, not flinching at my muteness, never once making me feel less.
I don’t know how to tell her how much that means to me. I don’t know if I ever will.
But I hold onto the moment. Hold onto the warmth of her, the quiet safety of her presence.
She’s started calling me Liliana now, not Signora, not Mrs. It wraps around me in a way I never expected.
It feels like love. The familial kind, the kind that doesn’t demand or weigh, the kind that simply is.
And for that, I will always be grateful.
When she pulls away, there’s something soft in her eyes. Something motherly. She offers me a final smile, curtsies like she always does, and slips out the door without another word.
I sit back on the bed, exhaling. The scarf rests beside me, and my eyes catch on the light bouncing off its folds.
My thought wanders. My mind drifts back to that dinner.
The way Giovanni had looked when he spoke of his brother.
How his voice cracked when he said Alessio’s name.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look so raw, so unarmored.
He let me see him. And that, more than anything, unraveled something inside me.
And when I asked, asked what I shouldn’t have, asked if he married me because of Alessio, he looked me in the eyes and said no. Not in signs, but with his voice, loud enough that I felt the vibration in my chest.
No. I married you because I saw you and wanted you, he'd said. The memory warms me, and for the first time, I let myself believe he might mean it.
Maybe I’m a fool, but I want to sink into the possibility that he meant it, that what he feels for me is real, not some passing sense of duty or desire. I want to wrap myself in that moment like a second skin, hold it close even if it slips through my fingers in the end.
The days melt into each other. Mornings blur into afternoons, and somehow I’m still here, still learning him. Not just the public version of Giovanni—the Don with a name that coils like power in every mouth that says it—but the man behind the title. The one with quiet rituals and sharp edges.
He is cold, ruthless when the world requires it. I’ve watched him conduct business from the threshold of the study, my presence unnoticed. His voice is always sharp over the phone, each word deliberate, each command laced with quiet steel.
I’ve seen him pace the length of the room, his hand slicing through the air as he lays out instructions that sound more like sentences. Secure the shipment. Handle the leak. Make the problem disappear.
There’s no hesitation, no tremble in his voice, no question of morality. Just action. Just control. Just a man forged in the fire of power, wielding it with unnerving precision. It’s no wonder they follow him. No wonder they call him Don. He doesn’t just wear the crown. He is the kingdom.
And yet, when he turns to me, he softens in a way that unravels me.
His touch loses its edge, his voice gentles.
When his eyes settle on mine, there’s something warm in them, something that holds me like a whisper meant only for me.
As though I’m not one more thing to command or possess, but something sacred. Something he protects.
And that contrast cleaves something open in me every time. I don’t know how someone can be both fire and balm. But he is. And with every passing day, the way he moves around me, the way he treats me, makes the ache in my chest swell in quiet, terrifying ways.
Since that night I gave myself to him, we haven’t crossed that line again. Not once. The hunger between us hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it burns fiercer, more unruly.
Every time he walks into the same space as me, something in me tenses.
My body remembers. It reacts before I can stop it.
My breath catches when he brushes past me.
My pulse flutters when he presses a kiss on my forehead, or when his gaze lingers a second too long.
He never says a word about it, but I feel it in the air between us.
The weight of wanting. The pull of something that won’t let go.
It terrifies me. How much I want him. How much I crave his mouth, his hands, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his gaze when it settles on me like I’m the only thing that matters.
I feel it everywhere. Like a string pulled taut beneath my ribs, threatening to snap.
Sometimes, when he leans close, when he looks at my mouth like he’s thinking about tasting me again, I forget how to stand. I forget who I was before him.
And still, I wonder why me.
Why did he choose me? When there are others who are better, brighter, whole. Women with voices that don’t tremble. Women like Camilla.
She comes around more often now. I see her heels click across the marble. Hear her laughter sometimes. She always smells like expensive flowers and something sharper underneath. Her presence is like perfume: lingering, cloying, and impossible to ignore.
I see the way her eyes follow him. The way she leans in a little too close. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. It’s not friendship she wants. She wants him. And I don’t know if he sees it. I don’t know if he cares.
I stay away from her. Carefully. Quietly. I’ve learned how to disappear when I need to. So far, it’s worked. Our paths don’t cross often. And when they do, I keep my head down and my hands to myself.
Instead, I fill my days with soft things. The kind of things that give me structure. That keeps me grounded when everything else feels uncertain.
I knit. I read. I lose hours in the garden, letting the sun warm my skin and the earth stain my fingers.
I spend time with Maria, who brings me light in small, quiet doses.
I see Dario when he visits, and surprisingly, Giovanni doesn’t bristle the way he did that first time.
He lets him stay now. He watches, but he doesn't interfere. That means more than I can say.
Lately, I’ve taken to hovering around the kitchen. Growing up with my father, I was never allowed near a stove. What could a defective girl probably cook up?
But I'm learning, without the restrictions that bound me in my father's house. I want to know how to cook for Giovanni.
So, I watch how the cooks work. I want to learn how to make something with my own hands and offer it to him. I learn the rhythm of their hands. I want to understand. A meal. A dish. A small act of care I can give him without needing words.
The first time I stepped in, the staff looked at me like I’d wandered into the wrong place. But they didn’t turn me away. They let me stay. I listen. I watch. I learn.
One day, I told his mother. Quietly. Carefully.
I thought she might laugh, or dismiss me, but instead, she smiled.
Softly. Proudly. There was something in her eyes, something kind, something approving.
She didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to.
The fear in me that I am not fit enough to rule beside Giovanni always vanishes whenever I am with her.