Chapter 28
LILIANA
I do not cry when he leaves. I sit in the quiet, my fingers pressed into my knees until the ache travels all the way up my arms. The study door had closed behind him with the weight of something final, but the echo has not stopped ringing in my head.
He thinks I have been playing him. That I have been sitting in his bed, letting him love me, while I plotted against him with my father and Vittorio Greco.
I had not known it was possible for words to cut through bone, but his had.
It is not the first time someone has doubted me. It is not the first time my silence has been turned into proof of guilt. But it is the first time it has mattered.
Because it is him.
It hurts me beyond words that he thinks I betrayed him, that I sat with Vittorio Greco, connived with my father to steal from his, that my silence, my struggle to speak, is all an act to deceive him.
The photograph of me at that bar, the ledger with my name, they’re chains around my trust, and his disbelief is a weight I can’t shake. I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling, the ache in my chest a constant pulse.
I love him, more than I’ve ever loved anything, and the thought that he sees me as a liar, a schemer, cracks something deep inside me.
I sit like that for a long time, until the sunlight shifts across the floor and the ache in my legs forces me to move. By then, I have made my decision.
When he returns, I will tell him everything. The parts I had kept locked away. The parts I had thought would only bring more trouble if I spoke them aloud.
I had believed protecting him meant keeping some things buried.
That time my father had mentioned that Vittorio would definitely come for vengeance and he'd make Giovanni pay.
I didn't tell Giovanni then, because I thought it was an empty threat, and I felt sure that whatever came Giovanni's way, he'd deal with it.
I'm not so sure anymore now. Someone had deliberately sought to stir trouble with that picture and ledger, which only means Vittorio might be gaining on Giovanni. Even though I know Giovanni is tough as nails, I fear for him.
And he thinks I'm colluding with that snake. Now I understand how easily silence can be mistaken for deceit.
Giovanni returns at dusk, his boots heavy on the marble, his face a mask of exhaustion and anger. He strides into the bedroom, his eyes barely meeting mine, and the distance between us feels like a chasm.
I stand, my heart pounding, and sign, We need to talk.
He shakes his head, his voice rough. “I don’t want to hear it, Liliana.”
His dismissal stings, but I step closer, my hands moving, insistent. Please. Let me explain.
He turns away, his shoulders tense, but I persist, my signs sharp and desperate. I need you to know the truth.
He pauses, his jaw tight, and finally nods, a reluctant gesture that gives me a sliver of hope.
I sit on the chaise, my hands trembling as I sign.
That day… at the bar… My father took me.
It was the only time he ever brought me anywhere.
I didn’t know Vittorio’s plans, or what my father owed him.
I sat there, silent, because I was afraid.
The money… I didn’t know about it. My father used my name, my accounts, without telling me.
I see the doubt in Giovanni’s eyes, the hardness that doesn’t soften.
I didn’t betray you, I sign, my fingers frantic. I love you.
My explanation is thin. I know it even as the words leave me. I cannot give him proof, only my word. And my word is worth very little to a man who believes I have already lied.
His gaze stays on my face the whole time, unreadable, until I finish.
“You expect me to believe that,” he says at last, his voice even.
Yes, I sign.
His jaw tightens. “I don’t.”
The floor tilts under me, though I do not move. My pride tells me to walk away. To let the space between us grow until it swallows whatever we have left. But I cannot. I will not let him think I could hurt him, not when I love him in ways I do not even know how to name.
I cross the space between us before I can think better of it. My hands come up to his face, the roughness of his stubble beneath my palms. I tilt my mouth to his, pressing my lips to his as if I can pour the truth into him that way.
The kiss deepens, sharpens, until I am in his arms and the air between us is burning. It is not like before. It is not careful or coaxing. It is hunger, raw and consuming, a need to prove something neither of us can put into words.
We reach the bed without breaking apart. His hands are on me, pulling me close, as if closeness can make the doubt disappear.
My fingers claw at his shirt, tugging it free, the fabric catching on his shoulders before it falls to the floor. His skin is warm under my palms, the hard planes of his chest a map I know by heart, yet tonight, it feels different, like I’m touching him for the first time.
His hands slide under my blouse, lifting it over my head, and the cool air kisses my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch. I shiver, not from cold, but from the weight of his gaze, dark and unreadable, holding mine as if searching for a truth I’ve already given.
My bra follows, unhooked with a flick of his fingers, and I’m bare before him, vulnerable in a way that makes my heart ache. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples, and I gasp, the sensation a spark that ignites the need coiling low in my belly.
He presses me back onto the bed, the mattress soft under my weight, and I pull him down with me, desperate to keep him close, to erase the distance his distrust has carved between us.
His mouth finds my neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin, and I arch into him, a low moan escaping my throat. The sound is raw, unsteady, and it draws a growl from him, deep and primal, as he nips at my collarbone, just hard enough to make me tremble.
My hands roam his back, nails scraping lightly, feeling the flex of muscle as he moves over me. I feel for his tattoo. He tugs at my skirt, yanking it down with my underwear in one swift motion, leaving me exposed, my skin flushed under his stare.
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, my fingers clumsy with need, and he helps, shedding his pants, his arousal evident, hard and heavy against my thigh.
The sight of him, so raw, so wanting, sends a pulse of heat through me, and I pull him closer, needing him now, needing this to mean something.
He settles between my legs, his hands gripping my hips, and I feel the weight of him, the heat, as he pauses, his eyes locked on mine. There’s no anger here, no accusations, just a quiet, aching intensity that makes my chest tighten.
“Liliana,” he murmurs, my name a rough prayer, and I nod, unable to speak, my hands clutching his shoulders.
He enters me slowly, deliberately, stretching me, filling me, and I gasp, my body yielding to his. The sensation is overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and pain, not from his touch but from the unspoken words between us.
Each thrust is measured, deep, his hips rolling against mine, and I meet him, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, as if I can anchor him to me.
My nails dig into his back, and he groans, the sound vibrating through me, igniting a fire that burns away the hurt, if only for now.
Our rhythm builds, urgent, desperate, each movement a confession we can’t voice. His hands slide to my thighs, lifting them higher, and I cry out, the angle sending sparks through my core.
His mouth finds mine again, the kiss messy, all teeth and tongue, and I taste the salt of my own tears, the desperation of wanting him to believe me.
He moves faster, harder, his breath ragged against my lips, and I cling to him, my body trembling as pleasure coils tighter, a wave ready to break.
“Giovanni,” I whisper, my voice rough, barely audible, and his eyes darken, his pace faltering for a moment before he drives deeper, claiming me in a way that feels like forever.
The tension snaps, my body arching as I come, a sharp, shuddering release that pulls a cry from my throat, my hands gripping him as if he’s my lifeline. He follows, his groan low and guttural, his body tensing as he spills inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet.
For a moment, we’re still, his weight warm and heavy, my hands tracing the sweat-slicked curve of his back. I want to hold him here, to keep this closeness.
I turn my face toward him, but he does not look at me. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling beneath my hand.
Something in me breaks then, quietly, like glass slipping from a table and shattering on carpet. My pride is in pieces. My heart, too.
I pull the sheet around myself and stand, the cool air brushing my bare skin. He still does not look at me.
I curl into myself, the weight of his distrust suffocating, and when he rises, dressing without a word, I let him go, the ache in my chest a hollow thing.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space he’s left behind. The air feels colder now. Quieter. I tell myself I will not cry, that he has taken enough from me today, but my throat still tightens.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than his presence ever did. I stand there, still wrapped in the sheet, staring at the empty space where he stood. My chest is tight, my throat aching, but no tears come. Not yet.
I dress slowly, each movement deliberate, as if rushing will make me fall apart. The fabric feels wrong against my skin, too heavy, too sharp in places. I sink into the chair by the window, arms wrapped around myself, and stare out at the garden without really seeing it.
It should have meant something, what we just did. It should have been proof, not a question mark. But the way he wouldn’t look at me, the way his body was still warm against mine while his trust was already gone… it’s enough to hollow me out from the inside.