Chapter Thirty-One
LUCIA
Matteo begins calling every morning.
At first, I like it.
His name appears on my screen shortly after breakfast, and I carry the phone into the conservatory or out to the kitchen terrace. He tells me about my mother while sunlight moves across the garden and the house begins its day around me.
Small things.
She hated coffee until she turned twenty. She cheated at cards. She sang in the shower but only when she thought no one could hear.
He tells me about the summer they lived near the Rhode Island coast. Maria learned to sail and nearly capsized the boat because she refused to admit she didn’t know what she was doing.
I give him memories in return.
My mother teaching me to braid my hair.
The songs she sang.
The way she cried at Alexei’s funeral even though Matteo seems to hate hearing that part.
Some conversations last twenty minutes.
Others continue for hours.
For a little while, he is simply a voice telling me how my mother laughed before I knew her.
#
Then the gifts begin arriving.
The first is a bracelet that belonged to his mother.
I accept it.
The second is a set of luggage in cream-colored leather. The cases arrive stacked in the foyer, each one stamped with my initials in gold.
I call him.
“Why did you send me luggage?”
“For when you come to Providence.”
“I already have a suitcase.”
“One suitcase.”
“It holds everything I need.”
“That isn’t the point.”
A man arrives the next morning to measure the windows in my bedroom.
Dario stops him in the foyer.
I find them arguing beneath the chandelier. The man has opened a sample book across the narrow table, covering it with swatches of silk, velvet, and embroidered linen.
“What’s going on?”
He holds up the book.
“Mr. Moretti sent me to measure for new draperies.”
I stare at him.
“Why?”
“He said you’d prefer something less severe.”
I look toward the gallery above us.
The curtains in my room are pale blue. I chose them from three options Angela showed me after the wedding. I remember standing by the window while she held the fabric against the wall, waiting without offering an opinion until I asked.
“Tell Mr. Moretti I don’t need draperies.”
The man looks uncomfortable.
“I was instructed—”
“I’m instructing you to leave.”
Dario closes the sample book and opens the front door.
The man leaves carrying his fabrics against his chest.
I call Matteo.
He answers on the first ring.
“You sent someone to change my bedroom.”
“I sent a decorator.”
“Without asking me.”
“I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“Why would you think that?”
“The house is very masculine.”
“I like my room.”
“Then he can work on the others.”
“No.”
A pause.
“You haven’t seen his designs.”
“I don’t care about his designs.”
“I was trying to do something thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful would have been asking.”
His voice cools.
“Fine.”
The following day, four men appear at the gates.
They identify themselves as my new security detail.
Marco finds me in the library. I’m sitting near the windows with a contractor’s estimate open across my lap.
He remains in the doorway.
“Moretti has men outside.”
“Did you let them in?”
“No. I’m asking what you’d like to do.”
Anger flares.
“At least you’ve learned.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Yes.”
The answer takes some of the force from mine.
“What are they doing?”
“They say they’ve been assigned to you.”
“I didn’t request them.”
“I told them that.”
“And?”
“They’re waiting for you to confirm.”
He doesn’t tell me to refuse.
Doesn’t suggest what I should do.
He simply gives me the information.
I call Matteo from the library.
“I have security.”
“You have Catenzio men.”
“I chose them.”
“You chose from men employed by your husband.”
“I chose Dario and Bruno.”
“They report to Marco.”
“They report to me when they’re protecting me.”
“You believe that?”
“Yes.”
Matteo sighs.
“You’ve known these people for two months.”
“I’ve known you for two weeks.”
“I’m your father.”
“That doesn’t make strangers at my gate less strange.”
“They’re Moretti men. They would die before allowing anyone to harm you.”
“I don’t want them.”
“You need people whose loyalty isn’t divided.”
“Send them home.”
“Lucia.”
“No.”
The word comes easily now.
“I’m not asking.”
Silence fills the line.
Then—
“Your mother was just as stubborn.”
“That isn’t going to make me change my mind.”
“I didn’t expect it would.”
The men leave ten minutes later.
I watch their cars disappear beyond the gates and consider the matter settled.
Three days afterward, a messenger delivers a recorded property deed.
The house is in Providence.
Six bedrooms.
Eight bathrooms.
A pool, guesthouse, and enough land to require its own groundskeeping staff.
The deed names me as the new owner.
I call Matteo from the study. The cream-colored luggage remains stacked in one corner because I haven’t decided what to do with it.
“Why did you give me a house?”
“It belonged to my parents.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It should remain in the family.”
“I don’t live in Providence.”
“You will need somewhere to stay while you learn the Moretti business.”
I sit straighter.
“What Moretti business?”
“The organization.”
“I have my own work.”
“The Rossi building.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“A community center is admirable, but it doesn’t prepare you to manage what you’ll inherit.”
“What will I inherit?”
“Everything.”
The word settles heavily.
“I don’t want everything.”
“You don’t yet understand what it means.”
“You’ve made plans.”
“I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
“For when you move.”
There it is.
Not if.
When.
“I’m not moving to Providence.”
“You haven’t seen the house.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You’re living with a man who purchased your marriage.”
The accusation hits harder every time he uses it.
“I’m living where I choose.”
“For now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the marriage is temporary. You signed an agreement.”
“My marriage is none of your business.”
“You are my daughter.”
“That doesn’t make my marriage yours.”
“And what about Gio?”
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“What about him?”
“You’re behaving recklessly.”
Cold washes through me.
“How?”
“You’re married to one brother and involved with the other.”
The judgment in his voice cuts.
“My relationships are not part of this conversation.”
“They are when they damage the Moretti name.”
I go still.
“I wasn’t raised with the Moretti name.”
“That can be corrected.”
“I don’t want it corrected.”
“You don’t know what you want.”
The words sound exactly like Viktor.
For a moment, I’m back in the courtyard.
Heat trapped between stone walls.
Ivan standing above me while I pretend not to be searching for a way out.
You don’t know what you like.
I stand so quickly that the chair rolls backward and strikes the edge of the bookcase.
“Don’t ever say that to me.”
Matteo becomes silent.
“Lucia—”
“No. Viktor spent six years deciding what I wore, where I went, and what I wanted. You don’t get to meet me and do the same thing because we share blood.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
The second familiar phrase is worse.
“From what?”
“The Catenzios.”
“I don’t need protection from them.”
“Marco returned you to captivity.”
“I know what he did.”
“He bought you back.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand men like him.”
“And I’m beginning to understand men like you.”
I end the call.
My hands are shaking.
I remove my mother’s pendant and place it on the desk. The silver chain coils beside the deed to a house I never asked for.
The office door stands open.
Marco is across the hallway.
He sits behind his desk, focused on his computer. A financial report occupies one side of the screen. His jacket hangs over the back of his chair, and the afternoon light has begun fading from the windows behind him.
He didn’t hear the conversation.
Or he’s pretending he didn’t.
I pick up the deed and cross the hall.
Marco looks up when I enter.
His attention moves from my face to the paper in my hand.
“What happened?”
I place the document on his desk.
“My father gave me a house.”
He reads the address.
“I know the property.”
“Of course you do.”
“It belonged to his parents.”
“He says I’ll need it when I move to Providence.”
Marco closes the document.
“Do you want to move?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
I stare at him.
“That’s all?”
“What else would there be?”
“He thinks you manipulated me into staying here.”
“I did.”
The immediate agreement throws me.
“He says you bought me from Viktor.”
“I gave Viktor money in exchange for the marriage agreement.”
“He says that makes me property.”
“It doesn’t.”
“He thinks the marriage should be annulled.”
“It probably should.”
Pain catches me by surprise.
“You agree with him.”
“Yes.”
I look away before he sees too much.
“He thinks my relationship with Gio proves this house is exploiting me.”
“Do you feel exploited?”
“No.”
“Then his opinion isn’t relevant.”
“He says you’ll use the marriage to keep me.”
Marco opens a drawer.
He removes a folder and places it on the desk.
“What is that?”
“Everything Evelyn needs to begin a joint petition for divorce, if you decide you want one.”
My breath catches.
The room goes still.
Inside is a proposed separation agreement, financial disclosures, and an affidavit acknowledging that our marriage has irretrievably broken down.
Marco’s signature appears wherever his can.
“You signed them.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After we signed the postnuptial agreement.”
“You’ve had these the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“In case you asked.”
I stare at his signature. The dark strokes remain controlled and even, identical on every page.
My signature wouldn’t end the marriage immediately. Evelyn would still have to finalize the documents, file them with the court, and arrange a hearing.
But the process can begin whenever I choose.
Marco has already agreed to every term.
“You don’t have to wait a year,” he says.
I look at him.
“You want a divorce?”
His expression changes.
“No.”
The word is quiet.
“Then why?”
“Because you cannot choose me freely while I’m holding you to an agreement you made inside a church surrounded by armed men.”
My throat tightens.
“You think giving me these makes what happened disappear?”
“No.”
“You think it proves you’re different from Viktor?”
“No.”
“Then what does it prove?”
“That the door is open.”
The answer enters the same place Matteo’s words wounded.
My father gave me a house and called it a gift.
Then told me when I would live in it.
Marco gives me a way out of this house knowing I may use it.
I pick up the papers.
He watches me.
No fear appears in his expression.
But I know him now.
It’s there.
Buried beneath control.
“If I sign these, what happens?”
“Evelyn files them. You remain here for as long as you want while the court process is completed.”
“Even after the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“And if I leave?”
“I’ll arrange security if you request it.”
“Gio?”
“That relationship is between you and him.”
“You wouldn’t stop it.”
“No.”
“Would you be angry?”
“Not with either of you.”
“Would you be hurt?”
“Yes.”
The honesty startles me.
“But you wouldn’t stop me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because loving you doesn’t give me the right to keep you.”
The words strike hard enough that I have to grip the papers.
He said it.
Not directly.
Close enough.
“Do you?” I ask.
Marco holds my gaze.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No attempt to take it back.
“I love you.”
My eyes burn.
“You barely know me.”
“I know you tear the crust from sandwiches and eat it after everything else. I know you read the last page of a book when the story makes you nervous.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“I know you drink tea after eight because you enjoy reminding me I shouldn’t have coffee. I know you want to fill your mother’s building with books and people who need somewhere safe to begin again.”
He rises.
“I know you’re kind when no one is watching. Stubborn when everyone is. And far more capable than any of us understood that first night you walked out of Vesuvio.”
He remains behind the desk.
He doesn’t come closer.
“I know enough.”
A tear slips down my cheek.
I wipe it away angrily.
“You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“Stop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I hate when you agree with everything.”
“Would you prefer I argue?”
“No.”
I laugh through the tears.
It feels ridiculous.
My father is trying to rearrange my life.
My husband has placed divorce papers in my hands and told me he loves me.
I don’t understand either of them.
I look down at the documents.
Then I place them on the desk.
Unsigned.
Marco watches my hand withdraw.
“That isn’t an answer,” I tell him.
“I know.”
I glare.
“Sorry.”
I walk around the desk.
He becomes very still.
I stop in front of him.
Close enough to see the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
Close enough to notice that his breathing has changed.
Close enough to remember the church.
The furious kiss I gave him because Viktor was watching.
That kiss wasn’t mine.
This one will be.
I take the front of Marco’s shirt in one hand.
His breath catches.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a decision.”
I pull him toward me.
Our mouths meet.
Marco doesn’t touch me.
Not at first.
His hands remain at his sides while I kiss him.
The restraint affects me more than if he had reached for me immediately.
I release his shirt.
His mouth follows mine for half an inch before he stops himself.
I look up.
“You can touch me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
One hand settles against my cheek.
The other rests lightly at my waist.
He kisses me again.
Slowly.
Nothing like the church.
There’s no anger in it.
Only the warm pressure of his mouth and the slight tremor in the hand against my face.
Marco Catenzio is shaking.
The realization breaks something open inside me.
I slide my arms around his neck.
His control slips.
Not completely.
Enough that the kiss deepens.
He draws me closer, then stops the moment my body meets his.
His forehead rests against mine.
“Lucia.”
My name sounds different in his voice.
Like something precious.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“I know.”
I pull back.
He closes his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“It also doesn’t mean I’m staying married to you.”
“I understand.”
“I may still sign those papers.”
“They’re yours.”
I study his face.
He believes every word.
That’s what makes it possible to kiss him again.
This one is brief.
Mine from beginning to end.
When I step away, Marco doesn’t follow.
The divorce packet remains on his desk.
So does the deed to Matteo’s house.
Two sets of documents.
Two possible futures.
One man assumes I’ll eventually do what he has planned.
The other has given me the means to walk away from him.
I pick up the deed.
“What are you going to do with it?” Marco asks.
“Send it back.”
“Moretti may refuse.”
“Then I’ll donate it.”
“To whom?”
“I haven’t decided.”
A smile touches his mouth.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
The old exchange settles warmly between us.
I reach the door.
“Lucia.”
I look back.
“I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
This time, the words don’t feel ruined.
I return to the study and put my mother’s pendant around my neck.
It belonged to her.
I choose to wear it.
The difference matters.