14 | The thought made me sick
The drive back to Luciano's mansion was suffocating, the air thick with an unease I couldn't escape.
Franco's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he navigated the darkened streets. Every bump in the road seemed to echo in my chest, a dull thud that resonated with the pounding of my heart.
It wasn't just the car ride that felt like it was closing in on me, it was everything. The fact that I was heading back to the place that had become my prison.
Luciano's mansion.
My husband's mansion. Or, rather, the mansion that was supposed to belong to my sister, Ciara.
She was the one he was meant to marry, not me.
The thought made me sick.
I glanced down at my hands, where the patches from the makeshift bandages I'd wrapped around my fingers still clung stubbornly. The raw skin beneath ached, and I realized with a jolt that I'd been biting my nails again.
I wasn't sure when the bleeding had stopped, but the sting still lingered, a reminder that I couldn't escape the pressure building inside me. Not even here, in the back of a car, driving toward the mansion that would never feel like home.
I could feel Franco's eyes on me for a moment, but I didn't acknowledge him. He didn't need to ask if I was okay, he already knew the answer.
The car pulled to a stop at the grand staircase, the mansion looming ahead like an ancient beast watching over its territory. The light from the grand chandelier shone through the windows, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds. Everything about it felt so... wrong.
This place wasn't mine, never had been, and yet I was here, the newest piece in a puzzle I had no interest in solving.
Franco turned off the engine and turned to face me, his expression guarded.
"You'll be alright?" he asked, the concern in his voice soft, but still evident. He was trying, I could tell, but it wasn't enough. Nothing ever was.
I didn't look at him as I shook my head. "I'll be fine."
With a small sigh, I opened the car door and stepped out, my heels clicking sharply against the cold stone. Every step felt heavier than the last, like gravity itself had decided to claim me.
Inside the mansion, the air was thick, oppressive. The silence was almost deafening, the kind of silence you only find in places that are too grand to be lived in.
I walked through the house without hesitation, moving like someone on autopilot.
I barely registered the paintings that lined the walls, the fine carpets that stretched across the floor. It was all just... there.
I came across a maid in the hallway, her face carefully composed, but there was something unreadable in her eyes.
"Is Luciano home?" I asked, my voice flat, void of emotion.
The maid nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Costa. He is in his office."
The words struck me like a blow, though I didn't show it. Mrs. Costa. A title that wasn't even supposed to be mine.
I thanked her before I turned and walked toward his office, my footsteps echoing through the hall. The door to his office loomed ahead of me like a wall, and with every step, the dread in my chest grew heavier.
I knocked once, lightly.
"Enter," Luciano's voice rang out, deep and unmistakable. The accent in his words hit me like a gust of wind, familiar and foreign all at once.
I could almost feel the weight of his presence through the door before I even stepped inside.
I walked in, the door closing softly behind me. And there he was—Luciano. My husband.
He was behind his desk, as I expected, his amber eyes lifting from the papers in his hand.
He looked just as devastatingly handsome as always, his dark hair tousled, his black shirt fitting him like it was made for him.
His muscles bulged slightly at his sleeves, the tight fabric stretched over his broad shoulders and arms.
Everything about him was dangerous, and I hated that it still affected me.
I stood there for a moment, silent, watching him, wondering if the man who had taken everything from me would even care that my sister was dead. Would he feel anything? Was I just another pawn in his game, or was there something beneath the cold exterior?
"Ciara is dead," I said flatly, the words falling from my lips before I could stop them.
Luciano didn't seem surprised. He didn't even flinch, not that I expected him to. His eyes flickered to mine, a small, imperceptible shift in his posture as he lowered the papers in his hand.
"I know," he said, his voice calm, detached. "I saw the news."
It was like he didn't care. He said it like it didn't matter, like her death was just another piece of information to file away. But something in the way his eyes lingered on mine told me there was more to it.
I couldn't hold it in any longer. I needed to know. "Aren't you sad?"
Luciano's expression didn't change. He didn't immediately respond, but I could see the tightness around his jaw, the faint flicker of something behind those amber eyes.
It was there. The sadness. The truth.
I wasn't imagining it.
But I needed him to say it.
"Be honest with me, Luciano," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
My voice was raw, harsh. I wasn't asking for sympathy—I just needed the truth.
"Are you relieved? Or are you devastated?
You were supposed to marry her. She was the one you wanted, not me or did you?
So tell me, what the fuck do you really feel? "
Luciano stood up slowly, his gaze fixed on me as he walked toward me. The air between us was charged, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of us wanted to acknowledge.
He stopped just inches from me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I thought he might say something, anything. But instead, he exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.
"I'm not sure what I feel," he said, his voice quieter now.
"I didn't mind marrying her even if it wasarranged.
I thought she was the answer... but she was just a distraction.
A way to avoid the grief I was carrying after my father's death.
The rivals who killed him..." His voice faltered slightly, but he quickly masked it with that same cold exterior.
I blinked, trying to process his words. "She was a distraction to the pain?"
Luciano nodded, his eyes suddenly distant. "Ciara was cruel. Mean, even. But she was someone my father had wanted me to marry, even after his death. He always praised her, she was an angel in his eyes."
"And me?" I asked quietly, my voice trembling with something I didn't want to admit.
Luciano turned his gaze back to me, his eyes dark.
"You," he whispered, "are nothing like her."