Chapter 24
LILIANA
The mornings feel softer lately. I wake before Giovanni, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm at the back of my neck.
There is comfort in it, in the steady weight of him beside me, though the comfort is never without its shadow.
I lie still, watching the faint light creep through the curtains, and wonder when it became a habit to measure his love in the spaces between his words.
He hasn’t said it in weeks. The words he used to give me freely, almost without thinking, have fallen silent.
Not his touch, not his care. Those remain constant, protective and consuming all at once.
But the confessions are gone, and I try not to dwell on it, try not to let the absence settle in my chest like a warning.
I love him. I know it now, even if the truth feels too large to say aloud. It sits in me, heavy and certain, and I keep it there, locked away. If I give it voice, it becomes something that can be taken, and I’m not ready to know what that feels like.
The days are quieter with him away more often, but Camilla’s presence has shifted from sharp edges to something closer to steady ground.
We've found a strange rhythm. It isn’t friendship, not exactly, but there’s a steadiness now where there used to be glass shards underfoot.
She doesn’t look at me like I am a trespasser anymore.
She visits without pretense now, sits with me in the sunroom, and listens when I speak, even if my voice catches on the words.
Sometimes she even seeks me out, asking for my opinion on a dress or pausing in the hall to share a bit of news.
I am still cautious with her, but the wariness doesn’t feel so sharp.
It’s strange to think that not long ago I avoided her like a wound I didn’t want touched.
The speech therapy sessions are still exhausting, but I can hear the difference.
Slowly, my voice is beginning to shape words better, and even I can hear the changes in the heavily slurred words.
The therapist pushes me to shape the sounds, to trust the air in my lungs, and sometimes I surprise myself.
My therapist says I am building strength.
That my case would have been better if I was worked with as a child.
Some days the progress feels almost cruel in its slowness, but Giovanni watches every attempt with quiet pride, as if each word is worth more than gold. He never pushes me to speak when I do not want to. He just listens.
The signs of my pregnancy are stronger now. I suspect it's because winter is fast approaching. The nausea comes in waves that can turn without warning, and my appetite changes daily. My body feels different, softer in some places, heavier in others.
Giovanni notices even the smallest change—how I eat, how I move, how I rest—and adjusts everything around me without asking. Some days his protectiveness feels like a shield I’m grateful for. Other days it feels like a cage.
Tomasso has been around the estate more often.
I notice the way his eyes follow Camilla when she walks into a room, the subtle lean of his body toward hers when they speak.
It’s not overt, but it’s there, the kind of attention that doesn’t need words.
Camilla seems unaware, her focus always elsewhere.
I watch the two of them sometimes from the corner of my eye, wondering if she would notice if I told her outright.
It strikes me how strange it is, seeing him like that. Tomasso is careful by nature, loyal to Giovanni before anything else. But the interest in his eyes is never guarded. It’s always open, almost unthinking.
Dario is visiting when I decide to say something. He'd come back after Giovanni. I know he's just been with Maria. Their relationship is budding.
We are in the library, the fire low, the rain steady against the windows. He’s seated opposite me, idly flipping through a book he hasn’t turned a page of in ten minutes. I sign slowly, making sure he catches it. Tomasso likes Camilla.
He raises his brows, then smirks. “Ah. Yes. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. Everyone can see it. She’s beautiful, in that sharp way that scares men into behaving.”
I tilt my head. She hasn’t noticed.
“She will,” he says, closing the book and leaning forward. “Women like her always do.”
I study him for a moment. He is relaxed here, away from whatever shadows follow him outside these walls. I sign again. You’ve been around more lately.
“Maybe I like the company,” he says, his eyes holding mine longer than they should.
So do I, I sign, smiling.
That makes him pause. His smile fades into something softer, more guarded. “You’ve always had this… presence, Liliana. Even before Giovanni. Before all of this. I noticed. That’s why…” He stops, as if weighing the words, then finishes, “That’s why I liked you. From the start.”
I blink, caught off guard. The confession hangs between us, quiet but unshakable.
He doesn’t look away. “Not in a way that would’ve mattered. You're my cousin after all, distant one at that…” he laughs nervously.
I sign carefully. It's a slow dawning of realization. Why hadn't I noticed? It was always there. You’ve always liked me.
His mouth curves, not in mockery, but in quiet acknowledgement. “I have. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I’m not here to cause trouble for you.”
The air feels heavier, not uncomfortable, but charged in a way I didn’t expect. I don’t know what to say, so I sign again. You never showed it.
“I couldn’t. It wasn’t mine to show.” He straightens, his expression shifting back to the familiar ease he wears like armor. “Doesn’t change anything. Just means I’ve always wanted to see you treated the way you deserve. And you are. Mostly.”
Mostly?
His mouth curves in a faint smirk. “Giovanni’s not perfect. Neither are you. But you’re good for each other. Besides, I have a thing for Maria, you know?”
I hold his gaze for a moment, then nod.
Giovanni appears in the doorway then, his presence filling the room without effort. His eyes move from me to Dario, reading the air in seconds. “Am I interrupting?”
Dario smiles easily. “Not at all. We were just talking.”
Giovanni’s hand finds my shoulder as he comes to stand behind me. The weight of it is grounding. Possessive. I glance up at him, but he is looking at Dario.
Dario rises, smoothing his shirt. “I’ll leave you two to it.”
When he’s gone, Giovanni leans down, his mouth brushing my ear. “Everything alright?”
I nod, though my thoughts are still tangled. He lingers for a moment, as if deciding whether to press, but then he kisses the top of my head and moves to pour himself a drink.
Later, when we’re alone in the bedroom, he is softer than usual. His hands find me easily, his touch warm and steady, his voice low as he asks how I’m feeling. I tell him the truth with my hands. Tired and a little sick.
He eases me down onto the bed, pulling the blanket over us. His palm rests on my stomach, the faintest smile touching his mouth. “You’re carrying our future,” he murmurs.
I watch him, wondering if he knows how much I want to tell him I love him. The words press against my chest, but they stay there, locked away.
Instead, I turn onto my side, facing him. He studies me for a moment, then brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Rest, cara. I’m here.”
I close my eyes, letting the sound of his voice settle me. For now, that is enough.