16 | Funeral
The black dress clings to me tight and restrictive, suffocating almost.
I glance over at Luciano in the car, his face an emotionless mask behind those dark sunglasses. His jaw is clenched, his hands gripping the leather seat as if it might break under the pressure.
We're headed to Ciara's funeral, and every inch of me wants to turn back, to pretend this isn't happening. But Luciano ordered me to be here, to pretend, to act like everything is fine, for appearances' sake.
I hate the way it feels to be in this car, in this situation, next to him, his presence a reminder of everything that's wrong.
The past few days have been nothing but a blur of duty and silence, each moment suffocating more than the last. But here we are on our way to say goodbye to her.
I swallow down the bitter taste rising in my throat as the car slows. The church comes into view, large and imposing, an empty monument to the dead.
I want to scream at it. At her. At him. But I stay quiet, obedient.
The car stops, and I can already feel the weight of the eyes that will follow us.
I push open the door, the cold air slicing through me as I step out, my heels clicking against the pavement. Luciano's hand brushes against mine briefly, but it's nothing more than a brush. Not even a touch.
We make our way up the stairs of the church, his steps steady, calculated, as if he's walking in a dream. And I? I follow, empty and hollow, knowing that I'm a mere shadow of who I once was.
The people around us watch, whispers floating in the air like perfume. But I don't care. I don't care about any of them. Not the guests. Not the pitying eyes. Not even the faint expression of regret I think I see in Luciano's posture.
Luciano walks ahead of me inside the church, his back straight, his face still hidden behind the sunglasses.
But I see it. I see the crack in his facade.
The way his shoulders slump slightly as he walks toward Ciara's coffin, his gaze flicking briefly to the polished wood as though he's saying goodbye to more than just her body.
He wishes her peace, but I can see the truth in his eyes. It's more than just that.
His hand trembles as it hovers near her coffin, and for the briefest of moments, his mask falters. A tear escapes his eye, slipping down his face unnoticed by anyone except me.
It's so damn small, so invisible to the people around us, but I see it. And I know. He's grieving her. He's mourning the death of a woman he never truly loved but still felt for. He's mourning someone who wasn't supposed to be his to mourn.
I hate him for it. I hate myself for feeling this sharp pang of jealousy in my chest. But I also understand. I understand that there was something real between them, something I could never touch.
I find a seat near the back of the church, far from Ciara's coffin, far from Luciano and my mom. I don't want to look at it. At her. At the woman who has his heart. The woman he was supposed to marry.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, the taste of blood filling my mouth. But I don't care. It's the only thing keeping me from exploding.
The tears well up, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of anyone. Not where they can see my weakness.
I shift in my seat, avoiding the pitying stares from the guests who can't help but glance in my direction. I'm sure they think I'm some joke—look at her, the wife, sitting so far away while her husband goes to his dead ex.
But it doesn't matter.
What matters is that she's gone, and I don't know if I'm sad because she's really gone or because, in some twisted way, I feel abandoned by Luciano, who is standing in front of her coffin with more emotion than he ever showed me?
He speaks to Ciara's mom, his voice low and quiet. I can't make out the words, but I don't need to hear them. He's mourning her, in his way.
I reopen the wound on my nails, my fingers digging into the raw skin until it bleeds again.
It's the only way I know how to deal with it, the only thing that makes the pain feel real.
Luciano isn't mine. Not in the way I've always needed him to be. He's a man caught between two women, and no matter how much he tries to convince me otherwise, I'll never be the one who fills the space she left behind.
The service continues, but my mind is elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of him, of her, of everything we never had and everything I will never have.
I look up for a moment, catching a glimpse of Luciano again, standing so tall and commanding in front of Ciara's coffin. His back is straight, but I see the cracks. I see the way he's struggling to hold himself together, but nobody else does.
Not the way I do.
────??────
I hadn't wanted to come here.
Ciara's old apartment was a shrine to everything I despised about her, a monument to her perfect life. But as Luciano's wife, I didn't have a choice. My duties required that I stand by him, a porcelain doll of composure.
The Upper East Side apartment was crowded, filled with her friends, business associates, and men like Chase and Franco, who I didn't even want to think about right now.
I clenched the champagne glass in my hand, resisting the urge to hurl it at the nearest wall. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to stand still, keeping my expression neutral.
Luciano wasn't far from me, but I hadn't spoken to him since we arrived. I didn't have to. His every movement betrayed what he was feeling.
I caught him looking at one of Ciara's dresses draped over a chair, his dark eyes heavy with something I couldn't place... grief, guilt, maybe even longing?
It twisted something deep inside me.
I looked away.
I couldn't bear to see him like that, mourning her in a way he never had for anyone else.
Still, I could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on me, judging me for being here, for being alive, for being the woman who had taken the place they all thought Ciara deserved.
"Darling," a sharp, familiar voice cut through my thoughts, dripping with faux sweetness.
My head snapped up, and there she was... Ciara's mom.
No, our mother. Hers and mine.
She moved through the crowd like a shark in bloody waters, wearing the black dress of a grieving parent but radiating anything but sadness. Her blond hair was styled perfectly, her makeup immaculate, but the venom in her eyes was unmissable.
She stopped in front of me, standing too close, and before I could even think, I felt the cold splash of wine against my face.
The room went still, and the sound of her glass slamming down on a nearby table rang out like a gunshot.
"You should've died instead of her," she hissed, her voice a low, trembling fury. "Do you hear me? This is your fault. Everything is your fault!"
My hand flew to my face, wiping away the wine dripping down my chin. It stung my eyes, and I blinked rapidly, trying to focus on her face.
Her finger jabbed at my chest, sharp as a blade. "If you hadn't gotten in the way, Ciara would still be alive. She'd be married to Luciano, and she'd have the life she deserved! But no, you had to ruin everything, just like you always do."
Her words sliced through me, each one sharper than the last. I could feel every pair of eyes in the room on us now, the weight of their judgment pressing down on me.
"You're blaming me for an accident?" I shot back, my voice shaking with disbelief. "That's insane, even for you."
"Don't you dare talk to me like that," she spat, her face twisting with rage. "You ruined her. You ruined everything the second you were born!"
Something inside me snapped.
I straightened, lowering the glass of champagne slowly onto the table beside me. My hands trembled, but my voice didn't.
"Please," I said, my tone icy, "it's not my fault that you decided to cheat on Papa with his guard. It's not my fault that Ciara is the illegitimate daughter."
Her eyes widened, and the color drained from her face.
"At least," I continued, stepping closer, my voice cutting like a knife, "I'm not going to end up like you... a heartless woman who only knows how to destroy the people around her."
She slapped me.
The sound echoed through the room, and I felt the sting bloom across my cheek like fire. But I didn't flinch. I didn't cry. I just stood there, staring her down, my breath steady despite the chaos pounding in my chest.
I could feel Luciano's presence now, somewhere behind me. He hadn't intervened, hadn't said a word, but I knew he'd seen everything.
"You think you're so much better than me," she whispered, her voice shaking with rage. "But you're nothing. You'll always be nothing."
"No," I said calmly, the truth in my tone cutting deeper than anger ever could. "I'm not nothing because I'll never sink low enough to become a woman like you."
The silence in the room was deafening as she turned and stormed out, her heels clicking against the floor like gunfire.
I wiped my face again, ignoring the pitying looks around me. My hands were shaking, and my throat felt raw, but I didn't let it show.
Luciano was at my side in an instant, his hand brushing against mine. I pulled away before he could touch me.
"I don't need your fucking help," I muttered, avoiding his eyes.
He didn't say anything, but I could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and unrelenting.
I turned and walked away, heading for the nearest bathroom.
The truth was, I didn't need his help.
I needed to get out of this place before it swallowed me whole.