Chapter 16 #2
“You’ve spoken enough,” Alba replies, her words even but unyielding. Her eyes remain fixed on Camilla, a silent line drawn in the space between them.
Camilla holds her gaze for a beat, then takes a small, measured step back. The movement is graceful, controlled, but her parting look at me is not. It lingers just long enough to promise this is not finished before she turns, her heels clicking in steady rhythm as she walks away.
The tension in my chest shifts, loosening but not vanishing.
Alba’s attention moves to me. Her expression is unreadable, her posture straight, her gaze assessing with a weight that feels both calculating and unreadable.
Before either of us speak, the air changes. Another presence fills the hall.
Giovanni.
He comes from the far end, his steps measured, his gaze moving over both of us before settling on me. His eyes search my face, then flick toward the direction Camilla is walking.
“Camilla.”
It’s not loud, but it doesn’t have to be. The weight in it stops her mid-step.
Her spine stiffens before she turns, slow and composed, her face a mask of control. But her shoulders betray her, the faintest tightening that anyone who knows her would see.
Giovanni steps forward, unhurried, but the shift in the air is immediate. His presence presses into the space, not sharp but immovable, the way a storm builds before it breaks. His eyes settle on her, cold and unblinking.
“I didn’t think you’d bother with something so far beneath you,” he says, his tone smooth, almost polite. Then, after a pause, “I was wrong.”
The words are quiet, but the cut is sharp enough to draw blood.
Camilla’s expression doesn’t crack, but her jaw tightens just slightly. “I was—”
“If I see so much as a whiff of you near my wife again,” Giovanni says, each word measured, “or hear that you’ve approached her to speak another demeaning word, I will not be responsible for what happens next.”
He lets the silence hang, unbroken, before adding, “Now apologize to my wife.”
Her eyes flick to me, sharp, searching. I lift my hand automatically, my fingers moving to sign that it isn’t necessary, that I don’t need this. But Giovanni ignores me completely, his gaze never leaving her.
Camilla’s smile is still there, but it’s thin now, more a mask than before. “Giovanni…” she says, his name carrying a note of incredulity, as though she expects him to soften.
He doesn’t. “I won’t repeat myself.”
The silence stretches, taut as wire. Her chin lifts a fraction, but she knows she’s lost. Slowly, she turns her gaze back to me.
“My apologies, Liliana.” The words are smooth, practiced, but her eyes are still cold, still measuring.
I start to lift my hand again, to sign that it’s fine, but Giovanni’s hand closes gently but firmly over mine.
“That’s enough,” he says, his tone so cold it chills the air. His eyes flick back to Camilla. “Get the hell out, and never return.”
Her mouth parts, like she might protest, but she reads the set of his expression and thinks better of it. Without another word, she turns and walks out, the sound swallowed by the soil.
Giovanni’s gaze lingers after her for a moment. Is he already regretting telling her off on my behalf?
Before I can dwell on that thought, his gaze shifts back to me. There’s something sharper in his eyes now, the control still there but threaded with something else.
“That should not have been necessary,” he says, his voice low, measured. “You should have said something yourself.”
The air tightens between us. I feel the words building like the edge of a storm.
I hesitate. My hands move slowly. It’s fine. She is not the first person to insult or demean me.
“It’s not fine.” Giovanni’s voice cuts sharper now, the calm edge stripped away. “She speaks to you like this, and you do nothing.”
My gaze dips, a small retreat I can’t hide, but he doesn’t ease. His voice stays steady, unrelenting.
“Defend yourself, Liliana.”
The words aren’t a request. They’re a command.
“Giovanni…” Alba begins quietly, her tone low, a warning buried in her voice.
“No, Mamma.” His reply is cold, controlled. “Stay out of this.”
I lift my hands, signing that it isn’t worth it. That silence costs me nothing. I try to keep it calm, even, but his eyes only harden. His jaw tightens, the line of his shoulders sharpening as he steps closer.
“You will defend yourself,” he says, voice low but carrying weight. “I will not always be here to do it for you.”
The words land heavier than I expect, cutting deeper than I want to admit. My fingers move before I think, sharper than I intend. I don’t need to fight every time someone speaks.
His gaze doesn’t shift. He stands rooted, unyielding, his silence heavier than any raised voice. The air between us pulls tighter, as though the room itself is holding its breath.
And then, suddenly, I feel it.
The roll of nausea, sharp and twisting, cuts through everything else. My chest tightens, my stomach churning with an urgency that makes the rest of the moment scatter.
I take a step back, my hand pressing against my abdomen. Giovanni’s voice comes again, lower now, almost questioning, but I shake my head once, already turning away before he can follow.
The garden path feels too long. The air feels too warm. I reach the nearest side entrance of the house, keeping my pace steady until I am inside. I don’t make it far before I find the closest washroom.
I grip the edge of the basin, the porcelain cool beneath my palms. The nausea strikes hard, sharp, and sudden, forcing my breath to hitch. My stomach twists, my throat burns, and I bend over until it passes, leaving me weak, my pulse loud in my ears.
I keep my eyes closed, breathing slowly, the faint hum of the estate beyond the door a distant thing. When I finally straighten, I rinse my mouth, the taste acrid, unwelcome. My hands shake faintly as I splash cold water over my face. The shock of it doesn’t help the tightness in my chest.
In the mirror, my reflection is pale. My lips are pressed thin, my eyes wide, as if the fear threading through my veins is written plainly there.