Chapter Twenty-Two
LUCIA
I sit beside Gio on the drive to Belmont.
It isn’t an accident.
When Armando opens the rear door of the SUV, Marco steps aside to let me enter first. I slide across the seat until I’m directly behind the driver.
Gio gets in beside me.
That leaves Marco in the front passenger seat.
No one comments.
The wedding ring feels too tight around my finger.
I twist it as Armando pulls away from the church.
One year.
I’ve agreed to wear Marco’s ring for one year.
After that, I can leave.
Assuming he keeps this promise.
The city passes beyond the windows. Streetlights slide across Marco’s face before vanishing again.
He hasn’t looked back since we left the church.
Gio sits close enough that our shoulders nearly touch, but he doesn’t reach for me.
For once, he seems uncertain what to say.
I look at the fading handprint on his cheek.
“Does it hurt?”
His fingers rise toward it.
“A little.”
“Good.”
“Fair.”
I look out the window again.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“All of it.”
“Did you know Marco was taking me back?”
“No.”
“Did you know about the wedding?”
“Not until yesterday.”
“And you agreed to stand beside him.”
“I was trying to get you out.”
“By helping him marry me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty leaves me with nowhere to direct my anger.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.
“That seems to be something you share with your brother.”
Gio flinches.
Marco remains motionless in the front seat.
I want him to react.
I want to hurt him badly enough that some part of what I feel leaves my body and enters his.
But he already looks wounded.
That only makes me angrier.
“Did you know about Aniya?” I ask Gio.
“No.”
I look at Armando.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror before returning to the road.
“You did.”
“Yes.”
The quiet admission fills the SUV.
“You drove me there knowing Viktor had her.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Armando’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Marco ordered me not to.”
“Of course he did.”
“Lucia,” Marco says.
It’s the first word he has spoken since we left the church.
I look at the back of his head.
“What?”
“Aniya was returned to Dmitri thirty-two hours after you went back.”
“You knew she would be?”
“No.”
“Then don’t say it as though that makes what you did better.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The silence lasts too long.
I lean forward.
“You knew I would go back if Aniya was in danger.”
“Yes.”
“So why take me there like a prisoner?”
“Because Viktor needed to believe you no longer trusted us.”
My fingers stop turning the ring.
“What?”
“If you returned willingly, he would know our alliance remained intact. He would keep Aniya hidden and continue watching everyone connected to the house.”
Marco’s voice stays even.
“He needed to believe he had separated you from us.”
I stare at him.
The pieces fit together.
The security around everyone’s families.
Marco refusing to explain.
My fear in the SUV.
My begging.
My hatred.
“You used me.”
“Yes.”
“You used my fear to make your lie convincing.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe I was alone.”
His eyes close briefly.
“Yes.”
The agreement comes without defense.
It should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
“And now you think marrying me fixes that?”
“No.”
“Then what does it fix?”
“It gets you out of Viktor’s house.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
My voice cracks.
Gio reaches for my hand.
I let him take it.
His fingers close carefully around mine.
Marco sees the movement in the side mirror.
His expression doesn’t change.
Good.
“Was everyone else part of the performance?” I ask. “Angela? Dario? Bruno?”
“No,” Marco says. “They knew nothing.”
“Gio?”
“No.”
“So you lied to all of them.”
“Yes.”
“And Armando?”
“He knew why you couldn’t be told.”
Armando looks at me in the mirror.
“I’m sorry.”
I turn toward the window.
Outside, Boston gives way to quieter roads and larger properties.
Gio keeps holding my hand.
I don’t pull away.
When the gates of the Belmont estate come into view, my body tenses.
They open before the SUV reaches them.
For one irrational moment, I want Armando to keep driving.
Then I see the house.
Lights burn in nearly every window.
The conservatory glows beyond the east wing like a lantern.
Home.
The word arrives without permission.
I reject it.
This is Marco’s house.
The place where I learned to trust him.
The place where he decided my trust was useful enough to weaponize.
Armando stops in front of the entrance.
The doors open before anyone gets out.
Angela runs down the steps.
She doesn’t wait for Armando to open my door. She pulls it open herself.
“Oh, thank God.”
I barely have time to release Gio’s hand before Angela reaches inside and wraps both arms around me.
The embrace breaks something open.
I bury my face against her shoulder.
She smells like flour, roses, and the lavender hand cream she keeps beside the kitchen sink.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
I begin to cry.
Not quietly.
Not with the controlled tears I learned to hide from Viktor.
My entire body shakes.
Angela holds me more tightly.
“I thought—“ I try to speak, but the words break apart. “I thought I’d never—“
Her hand moves over my hair.
“You’re home now.”
The word hurts.
I hold on to her anyway.
Behind us, the other doors open.
Gio gets out.
Marco remains on the opposite side of the SUV.
I feel his attention without looking at him.
Angela eventually draws back and cups my face.
“Let me see you.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you aren’t.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
She wipes it away impatiently.
“But you’re here.”
Dario stands in the open doorway.
His usual composure has disappeared.
“Miss Lucia.”
The relief in his voice nearly starts me crying again.
“Hi, Dario.”
He comes down the steps but stops several feet away, uncertain whether he’s allowed to approach.
I make the decision for him.
I hug him.
His arms close around me awkwardly.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he says.
“Thank you.”
Bruno appears behind him carrying a white bakery box.
I laugh through my tears.
“Is that what I think it is?”
He lifts the box.
“They were closing.”
“You stopped for pastries?” Dario asks.
“I happened to be nearby.”
“After midnight?”
Bruno scowls.
“Do you want one or not?”
I hug him too.
He pats my back once, then quickly hands the box to Dario as though it has become dangerously emotional.
Armando remains beside the SUV.
I look at him.
His expression is guarded.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” I admit.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“You drove me back.”
“Yes.”
“I trusted you.”
His gaze lowers.
“I know.”
I hate that phrase.
It sounds different from him.
Less like acceptance.
More like shame.
I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
Armando freezes.
“I’m still angry,” I say against his shoulder.
“You should be.”
“I haven’t forgiven you.”
“I understand.”
His arms close around me carefully.
“But I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper.
“So am I.”
When I release him, Marco stands alone near the front of the SUV.
No one approaches him.
Angela doesn’t look at him.
Neither do I.
She places one arm around my waist.
“Come inside. You must be exhausted.”
Gio retrieves my shoes from the floor of the SUV.
He carries them inside rather than asking me to put them on.
The foyer looks exactly the same.
White flowers stand beneath the chandelier. The marble is cold against my bare feet. The potted ficus still occupies its place beside the window, looking as unhappy as it did when I left.
For one moment, I’m afraid to move.
Then Angela guides me toward the kitchen.
Everyone follows except Marco.
I glance back before I can stop myself.
He stands in the foyer watching us.
Our eyes meet.
He looks away first.
The kitchen table is covered in food.
Not an elegant dinner.
Comfort food.
Bread. Cheese. Roasted vegetables. Pasta swimming in butter and Parmesan. Two bottles of wine. The bakery box Bruno carried inside joins a chocolate cake already waiting on the counter.
I stare.
“How did you know I was coming?”
Angela’s hands still.
“We didn’t.”
The answer lands softly.
She prepared all of this without knowing whether I would agree to marry Marco.
Whether I would return.
Gio takes a bottle of wine from the table.
“We were either going to celebrate or eat our feelings.”
“Gio,” Angela warns.
“What? It’s true.”
Dario, Bruno, and Armando would ordinarily have gone home hours ago.
Tonight, no one had been willing to leave before they knew whether I was coming back.
Dario opens a cabinet and brings down glasses.
Armando removes his jacket.
Bruno cuts the bread.
No one formally decides to celebrate.
It happens around me.
Within minutes, everyone is seated.
Everyone except Marco.
His chair remains empty.
Angela places pasta on my plate.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She gives me a look.
I pick up my fork.
Dario raises his wineglass.
“To Lucia.”
Bruno lifts his.
“Welcome back.”
Armando does the same.
“To unlocked doors.”
My throat tightens.
Gio’s glass is the last to rise.
“To Lucy.”
I look at him.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him use the nickname since I returned.
At Viktor’s house, every name belonged to someone else.
Romanova came from a man who wasn’t my father.
Marino belonged to Marco’s secretary.
Mikhailov was Viktor’s claim.
Lucy is different.
Gio says it as though the name doesn’t carry a history.
Only affection.
I raise my glass.
“To still being very angry with all of you.”
Dario laughs.
“I’ll drink to that.”
The wine helps.
So does the food.
Angela asks no questions about Viktor. Dario tells me his niece loved the book. Bruno reports that his granddaughter has filled half the sketchbook I helped him choose. Armando says the newspapers have been piling up beside my place at breakfast.
Gio tells the story of attempting to reason with me in the church vestibule.
“You slapped me before I finished one sentence.”
“You began with ‘Calm down.’”
Dario winces.
“A tactical error,” he says.
“I realized that.”
“You said it twice,” I remind him.
“I thought the first one might not have registered.”
Everyone laughs.
Even me.
For several minutes, the kitchen feels as it did before.
Warm.
Noisy.
Safe.
Then I glance at the doorway.
Marco isn’t there.
The laughter fades inside me.
Angela notices.
She says nothing.
By the time Bruno cuts the chocolate cake, it’s nearly two in the morning.
My exhaustion returns all at once.
Gio sees me cover a yawn.
“Come on. I’ll walk you upstairs.”
“I know where my room is.”
“I remember.”
He rises anyway.
Angela hugs me again before I leave.
“Your room is exactly as you left it.”
“My things?”
“Your book and sweater were downstairs. I washed the sweater and put both of them in your room.”
Her gaze moves briefly toward the empty hallway.
“Nothing else was touched.”
Gio carries my shoes and overnight bag upstairs.
I follow more slowly.
At the top, I look toward the west wing.
No light shows beneath Marco’s door.
My room is open.
Gio sets the bag inside and steps back.
I remain in the hall.
The bed is made. My clothes remain in the closet. The book I was reading lies beside the chair, marked at the same page.
My pale-blue sweater has been folded over the foot of the bed.
The photograph of my mother stands on the nightstand.
I cross the room and pick it up.
A fine layer of dust rests on the frame.
Angela was telling the truth.
No one moved it.
The bathroom still holds the pink bath crystals. My toiletries remain beside the sink. Even the empty suitcase sits where I left it on the closet floor.
My life waited for me.
I return to the bedroom door.
Gio stands in the hallway.
I test the lock.
It turns beneath my fingers.
My lock.
From the inside.
I open the door again.
“No one can engage it from out here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Did Marco change anything?”
“Nothing.”
I look at the handle.
“That doesn’t mean I trust him.”
“I know.”
“You aren’t allowed to say that either.”
“Right.”
His mouth curves faintly.
“Sorry.”
I look down the hallway.
“Where is he?”
“Probably in his office.”
“He didn’t come to the kitchen.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Gio leans against the doorframe.
“I think he believed you would be more comfortable without him.”
“That was considerate.”
The bitterness in my voice makes the word ugly.
“He also hasn’t slept much since you left.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
Gio considers the question.
“Sometimes.”
I look at him.
“He gave me back.”
“Yes.”
“He made me believe none of you wanted me.”
“Yes.”
“He says it was part of a strategy.”
“It was.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No.”
“Would you have done it?”
His answer takes too long.
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“No. It means I don’t know what I would have done with Aniya missing and everyone we loved under threat.”
He looks toward the stairs.
“But I would like to believe I would have found another way.”
“So would I.”
Silence settles between us.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit.
The words are barely audible.
Gio straightens.
“You don’t have to be.”
“I don’t want—“
I glance toward the bed.
He understands.
“I’ll take the chair.”
“You don’t have to stay all night.”
“I know.”
The forbidden phrase slips out.
We both stare at each other.
Then I laugh—only a little.
Gio smiles.
“There she is.”
He carries the chair from the window closer to the door and sits.
I change in the bathroom and return wearing pajamas.
The wedding ring remains on my finger.
I consider removing it.
Instead, I climb beneath the covers.
Gio picks up the book from the bedside table.
“Do you want me to read?”
“Out loud?”
“Unless you prefer interpretive dance.”
“You’d wake the entire house.”
“I’m very expressive.”
I settle against the pillows.
“Read.”
He opens to the marked page.
His voice fills the quiet room.
It isn’t a particularly good book. The story is slow, and Gio gives every character an accent that changes from one paragraph to the next.
It doesn’t matter.
I close my eyes.
The door remains open.
The lock remains mine.
Gio sits between me and the hallway.
For the first time in nine nights, I allow myself to drift toward sleep.
I’m back in the room I chose.
Surrounded by people who missed me.
Married to a man I don’t trust.
And leaning on his brother because, tonight, he is the only person who makes me feel safe.