Chapter 7
Paola
The afternoon sun sliced through the bedroom windows, painting golden stripes across rumpled sheets.
I woke alone, my hand reaching for warmth that wasn't there. The space beside me was cool—Cesare had left hours ago, but later than he usually did. And there’d been a moment where he lingered… where it almost seemed like…
No. He had responsibilities. An empire to run. A man like Cesare Monti wasn’t hesitating to leave his penthouse to stay with a girl like me.
My body catalogued the changes. Soreness between my thighs. Tenderness in my hips. The phantom weight of hands that had gripped, claimed, marked. There were sure to be bruises somewhere, and the thought should have bothered me, but it only made me blush.
I wasn't a virgin anymore.
I stared at the ceiling, remembering. His mouth on my neck. The intensity in those gray eyes. The moment of sharp pain followed by something else entirely—something that had made me arch into him, wanting more.
I'd chosen it. Not in four days, like his deadline demanded. This morning.
Why?
Because waking in his arms had felt safe? Because the attraction was too strong to fight? Because some desperate part of me had wanted control over the one thing I could control—the timing?
All of the above. None of the above.
I forced myself up, wincing at the unfamiliar ache. In the bathroom mirror, the evidence stared back: faint bruises on my hips shaped like fingerprints, marks on my neck, my lips slightly swollen.
I looked different. Was different.
The shower was long, hot, steam filling the space until I could barely see my own reflection. Shouldn't I feel violated? Traumatized?
Instead I felt confused. And if I was honest—the most disturbing part—still wanting.
That scared me more than anything else.
When I emerged, wrapped in Cesare's robe, I found something on the bed that I hadn’t noticed before.
A note in sharp, masculine handwriting: Had to leave early. Wear this tonight. We have an event.
Next to it, a garment bag from a designer boutique.
When I pulled the covering away the dress made my breath catch. Emerald green silk—the exact color of my eyes—custom-made for my measurements. He'd paid attention to details I hadn't known he'd noticed.
A jewelry box sat beside it. Inside, diamond earrings and a matching necklace that probably cost more than my yearly salary at the gallery.
The gifts should have felt like pretty chains. They did. But they were also beautiful.
I hated that I wanted to wear the dress. Hated more that I wanted to see his reaction when he saw me in it.
The card tucked in the jewelry box held only five words: You'll be beautiful. Trust me.
Trust. What a word to use.
The elevator chimed at noon.
My heart jumped—Cesare home early?—but Piero emerged instead, carrying takeout bags and wearing a disarming smile.
"Buongiorno, cognata," he greeted. Sister-in-law.
"Cesare didn't mention you were coming."
"He doesn't know. I'm here unofficially." He held up the bags. "I brought lunch. Figured you might want company that isn't my terrifying older brother."
Despite myself, something loosened in my chest. "Is that allowed?"
"Probably not. But I've always been better at asking forgiveness than permission."
Against my better judgment, I followed him to the kitchen.
Piero unpacked pasta, fresh bread, homemade cannoli.
He moved around Cesare's sterile kitchen like he owned it, making easy conversation about the weather, the city, anything but the obvious elephant in the room. I couldn’t help but wonder how often he came over, and if this odd situation was keeping him away.
Maybe I could get some insight into the man I’d married from his brother, who seemed all too happy to ramble as I sat and listened.
I was so starved for normal conversation I almost cried into my carbonara.
But I wasn't naive. This wasn't purely social; it was, like everything else in Cesare’s world, transactional.
"You can ask," I said finally. "Whatever you came here to find out."
Piero's smile turned rueful. "My brother said you were perceptive."
"What did he send you to learn?"
"He sent me to make sure you're okay."
That surprised me. "He could check on me himself."
"Could he? Cesare's not exactly skilled at emotions. Vulnerability. Caring."
The word "caring" hung between us.
"He doesn't care about me," I said, but it sounded uncertain even to my own ears, especially when my mind flitted to earlier this morning. I tried to shut the memories down, knowing they’d make me blush. Was Cesare still thinking of the ache of being wrapped up in one another? Was that why he’d called Piero?
Piero studied me, eyes a warm brown instead of his brother's gray, but somehow just as sharp." You really believe that?"
"We barely know each other. This marriage is a transaction."
"Was a transaction. Past tense. Something's changed.
" He leaned forward. "Why did he spend two hours yesterday finding the perfect dress for you?
Why did he personally select those earrings?
Why did he call me at 6 a.m. just to make sure someone checked on you today because he couldn't leave his meeting? "
Each revelation landed like a small shock.
"He's invested in the performance," I argued weakly.
"Keep telling yourself that, cognata. But I've known my brother my entire life. I've never seen him care about any woman's comfort or happiness. Until you."
The words settled over me, heavy and impossible to process.
“Maybe… he feels bad about how everything happened. About how I was tricked into it.”
But Piero shook his head slowly. “If you knew the things that Cesare has done… and never felt badly about.”
His expression shifted as I tried to take in the implications of what he’d just said. "About tonight's event—it's Cesare's anniversary celebration. Six years since our father died, since he became Don. All the families gather to pay respect, reaffirm alliances, show strength."
The weight settled on my shoulders like lead. "So it's not just a party."
"Nothing in our world is just a party. This is theater. A display of power. Everyone assessing everyone else, looking for weakness." He paused. "Including Viktor Kozlov."
I tensed. I remembered Viktor from the wedding—ice-blue eyes that had lingered too long. He was obviously someone Cesare was worried about, which meant he should be on my radar too, now that I was a mafia wife.
"Viktor will be watching you closely tonight. Looking for weakness, for cracks in the marriage facade. You represent peace. Strength. Cesare's ability to secure what he wants."
"I'm a trophy to display."
"You're proof of the alliance," Piero corrected gently. "The Lombardo-Monti marriage ended a blood feud."
"Viktor will try to get to you," Piero continued. "Through conversation, intimidation, any opening he can find. He won't do anything obvious. But he'll probe, test, look for leverage. I’m telling you this so you’re ready.”
As the warning settled in, all I could do was nod. Part of me appreciated Piero giving me these details. Another quiet and defiant part resented that I was in this situation; that so much responsibility was being placed on me.
We ate in companionable silence for a while, each of us lost in thought. I finally glanced up and found the courage to ask, “How did you know? At the wedding? Cesare couldn’t have told you…”
His eyes were darker than Cesare’s, almost more of a blue than grey, and sharper; less direct.
He glanced at me and than away, chewing slowly before answering: “I’d met Bianca a few more times than Cesare had.
When negotiations were happening, in the early stages.
She has a way about her. An elegance.” He shrugged, adding blandly, “You don’t. ”
The words made me cringe, calling out what I’d known all my life.
Bianca was built to be admired, to strut through a life of luxury and jealousy.
I wasn’t. How would I get through tonight without making a fool of my husband, a man who wasn’t afraid to wash his hands in blood if it meant preserving the respect he deserved?
“Don’t worry,” Piero murmured, standing and wiping his hands on a towel. “You did well at the wedding. You’ll do well tonight, too. And Cesare would never let you fail. With him at your side, you’re safe.”
Piero gathered the dishes and put them in the sink to soak, cleaning up deftly. He must be used to cooking here. Maybe he’ll come again, I hoped a little desperately. It was lonely here.
But the thought of a family dinner with my husband and brother-in-law, laughing and watching the two of them interact, was overshadowed by the reality of the situation. And who I was really married to.
At the elevator, Piero paused. "Can I give you some advice?"
"Sure."
"Give Cesare a chance. Underneath all that control and coldness, there's a man who's capable of more than he shows." He paused. "You're getting under his skin, Paola. That's dangerous for him. But maybe it's exactly what he needs."
The door began to close.
"Good luck tonight. Remember: you're a Monti now. Act like it."
At five p.m., a team arrived. Hair, makeup, styling. Professional women who transformed me with practiced efficiency; another kind of art I hadn’t realized existed.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
This woman looked confident. Powerful. Like she belonged in Cesare's world.
Anna wouldn't recognize me either. The last time she'd seen me, I was in paint-stained jeans, hair in a messy bun, running late for our coffee date as usual. That felt like years ago instead of two weeks past.
Would she even want to know this version of me? Designer dresses and mafia events and lies about family emergencies?
The performance was getting easier. Or maybe I was losing myself.
The elevator opened at six-thirty sharp.
Cesare stepped out, already in his tuxedo, and stopped when he saw me.
For a long moment, he just stared.
"You look..." He trailed off, approaching slowly.