Lucia #2
“Forgive me,” he says gently. “That sounded… clinical. Old habits. I only mean, children are hope. And this family could use some hope.”
My mouth is dry. I just nod because nodding is safe.
Marco leans closer to him, voice low, smug. “I told you. I’m doing the right thing.”
Enzo’s gaze flicks to Marco with something like approval. “It’s a good story,” Enzo says.
I hold my smile. My face is starting to ache from the effort.
Enzo looks back at me. “And you,” he says quietly. “How are you holding up?”
The question is so unexpected, I almost choke on it. No one has asked me that in weeks without it being a trap. My first instinct is to lie. To say “fine.” To say “busy.” To say “grateful.” But his eyes make my throat tighten.
“Fine,” I say, anyway.
He doesn’t call me on it. He nods like he understands exactly what “fine” means when it comes out of a woman’s mouth like that.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Enzo says. “It matters.”
To who? To the judge? To the newspapers? To Marco’s ego? I don’t ask.
Enzo glances toward the auction hall. “I should make rounds. Ensure the right people feel seen.” Then, with a final warm look, almost paternal, he says, “Try to enjoy yourself, Lucia. If you need anything tonight, you only have to ask.”
The kindness lands in my chest like a small, dangerous relief. Because it’s been so long since anyone offered help without attaching a hook.
Enzo steps away. And I realize I’m still watching him when he disappears into the crowd. His warmth lingers, faint and comforting in the way a blanket is comforting even if you don’t know who put it there.
My shoulders lower by a fraction. Just a fraction.
And that small release feels like a mistake the second it happens.
Marco notices. He always notices when my guard shifts, even slightly. His fingers tighten on my arm.
“Don’t get cute,” he murmurs, smiling at a passing couple.
“I’m not,” I say through my teeth.
Marco’s smile doesn’t falter. “Vitale likes you,” he says, like that’s a warning. “That could be useful.”
Useful.
Everything in this world is useful. People are useful. Children are useful. Mothers are useful.
I swallow hard.
Just survive this, I tell myself. It’s just a few more hours.Chapter 20 – Turo
I delay entering the auction room until avoidance becomes impractical. Not because I object to spectacle. This family survives on spectacle. But tonight, every room feels tuned to provoke reaction. And reaction is weakness.
From the gallery above, the noise reaches me in controlled waves.
Applause on cue. Laughter arriving exactly when it’s expected.
Charity dressed up as entertainment. Experiences paraded like virtue.
Men bidding not because they want the thing, but because they want the moment where someone else backs down.
I rest my hand on the railing and let my gaze drift without seeming to. The first lot is a villa on the coast. Three nights. Private chef. “Generously donated.”
The bidding jumps fast. Fifty thousand. Seventy-five. One hundred. Two men lock eyes across the room, smiling thinly, daring each other to blink.
“Two hundred,” Marco calls out suddenly, too loud.
The room laughs. It’s unnecessary. The number is already climbing. He’s not trying to win. He’s reminding everyone he can enter any contest he wants.
Enzo leans in, murmurs something near his ear. Marco waves him off, still amused with himself.
The villa closes at three hundred fifty. Applause.
Next is art. Abstract. Aggressively meaningless. The kind of piece that exists to be purchased, not understood.
Marco heckles the auctioneer. “Looks like something my kid could’ve painted.”
More laughter. Uneasy this time. People checking which way the wind is blowing before joining in.
I feel the familiar irritation coil and settle. Marco performing dominance because he’s afraid of silence. Afraid of stillness.
Then I see her.
Standing beside him.
The room narrows. Not because she’s loud. Because she isn’t. She doesn’t cling to his arm. Doesn’t play the role. She stands half a step apart, spine straight, chin level, hands folded neatly in front of her like she’s holding herself together by force alone. Contained.
Her dress is wrong for this room. Too simple. Too careful. No glitter. No excess. It makes her visible in a way silk never could. Like a clean line through noise.
My chest tightens before I can stop it. A physical response. Immediate. Unwelcome.
I don’t blink.
Her shoulders are tight with restraint rather than fear. Her weight balanced evenly on both feet, like she’s prepared for sudden movement. Her fingers are interlaced too tightly, knuckles pale.
I know that posture.
The posture of someone bracing for impact they can’t prevent.
Three years. Three years I trained myself not to reconstruct her face from memory. Not to imagine how time would have sharpened it. Not to wonder whether she still carried herself like survival was a conscious act.
And here she is.
My gaze catches on the familiar details whether I want it to or not. The line of her jaw when she sets it. The way her eyes move. Quick, precise, never idle. Accounting for space even now.
I should look away.
I don’t.
Another lot comes up. A hunting weekend. Guns polished to a shine. Blood sport dressed up as tradition.
Marco bids again. Louder. Higher than necessary.
“Five hundred,” he says, grinning like he’s daring someone to challenge him.
Someone does. Six. Seven.
Marco leans back, spreads his arms along the bench, pleased with the attention. “See? Good cause.”
Enzo smiles faintly. Approving. Encouraging.
I watch Marco’s hand drift to Lucia’s back. Not possessive yet. Testing. She stiffens immediately. It’s subtle. A fractional tightening of her shoulders. A barely-there inhale.
My fingers curl against the railing.
The hunt closes. Applause again. I don’t hear it properly. All my attention is locked on the way she recovers. How fast she smooths it away. How she resets her posture like nothing happened. Control under pressure.
The third lot is a yacht charter. Champagne. Mediterranean sunsets. The room warms to it. Men lean forward. Women laugh too brightly.
Marco says something to the auctioneer this time.
I can’t hear the words, but I see the effect.
The auctioneer’s smile sharpens. His tone shifts.
Anticipation thickens the air. My pulse ticks once, hard.
Marco’s mouth curves into something pleased.
Cruel. He glances at Lucia. She doesn’t look at him.
She stares straight ahead, jaw tight, like she already knows what’s coming.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. Heat. Tension. A low, unwelcome awareness that settles behind my ribs. This is not desire. This is recognition colliding with threat.
The auctioneer clears his throat. “And now,” he says brightly, “a special surprise lot, generously donated this evening.”
The room leans in. Marco’s hand presses at Lucia’s back. The microphone is adjusted. The moment stretches.
“A dinner date,” the auctioneer continues, voice pitched for humor, “with the lovely Lucia Cannata.”