2. Kylie
— ? —
Kylie
I found him in his study.
“Kylie.” He set down his pen. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother called.”
Nothing changed in his expression. Not a flinch, not a tell, not a single crack in that marble facade he wore like armor. He just nodded, like I’d told him the weather.
“She shouldn’t have worried you with-”
“Bianca Russo is moving into our house.”
Silence. The kind that fills a room like water, rising inch by inch until you’re not sure you can breathe.
“Yes,” Giovanni said finally. “I was going to tell you tonight.”
“Tonight.”
“I’ve been handling the logistics. The east suite needed work, and I didn’t want to bring it up until-”
“Until what?” I was shaking. I could feel it in my hands, this tremor I couldn’t control, and I hated it.
I hated that he could still do this to me, make me shake, make me small, make me the girl at the betrothal dinner who didn’t know what she was walking into.
“Until she was already here? Until I walked past her room and figured it out myself?”
“You’re overreacting.”
The words landed like a slap. I took a step back without meaning to, and something in his face shifted, regret, maybe, or just the recognition that he’d miscalculated.
“It’s a debt, Kylie.” He stood, came around the desk.
Near enough to smell him, that familiar mix of coffee and sandalwood and something underneath that was just him, the scent I’d buried my face in more times than I could count and now couldn’t stand.
“Her father died for this family. Tommaso Russo saved my father’s life, and he paid for it with his own.
The least I can do is make sure his daughter has a roof over her head. ”
“There are other roofs in this city. You own half of them.”
“She needs to be close. She’s been struggling since his death, and I - we - owe her more than some apartment across town where she can fall apart in private.”
“So she falls apart here instead? In our home?” I heard my own voice climbing and hated it.
“She won’t be in the way. She’s going to help with some administrative things - scheduling, correspondence. It gives her a purpose. A way to feel useful.”
Administrative things, scheduling, correspondence.
The words rattled around my skull like coins in an empty jar. Scheduling was Lucia’s job. Correspondence was divided between Dante and a team of lawyers who billed more per hour than most people made in a week. There was no gap in Giovanni’s life for Bianca Russo to fill.
Except the one next to him.
“You should have told me.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. Good. Let him think I was calm, that this was about logistics and not the slow, creeping certainty that I was being erased. “You should have told me before you told the staff. Before you told your mother. I’m your wife, Giovanni.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like I’m the last person in this house who matters.”
He reached for me. I stepped back.
Something flickered in his eyes, hurt, maybe, or just frustration, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Three years of marriage and I’d been demoted to an afterthought. The least he could do was let me have my space.
“I’m sorry.” He dropped his hand. “I should have told you first. It was an oversight.”
An oversight. Like forgetting to pick up dry cleaning. Like leaving a light on in an empty room.
“When does she arrive?”
“This afternoon.”
Of course. Of course it was already happening, already in motion, already a done deal by the time I even learned it existed. That was how Giovanni operated, he made decisions and implemented them, and the rest of us adjusted. I’d spent three years adjusting.
“Fine.” I turned toward the door. “I’ll make sure Lucia has the welcome arrangements handled.”
“Kylie-”
“It’s not a discussion, right?” I looked at him over my shoulder. “Those were your words. It’s a debt. It’s not a discussion.”
He didn’t have an answer for that. I didn’t wait for one.
***
Bianca Russo arrived at four o’clock with two suitcases and a smile like butter wouldn’t melt.
I watched from the upstairs window as she stepped out of the black car.
Enzo driving, because of course Giovanni had sent one of our men to fetch her like she was already family.
She was beautiful. I’d give her that. Tall and willowy, with dark hair that fell in perfect waves and the kind of bone structure that made you understand why sculptors used to pay women to sit still.
She looked up at the house like she was coming home.
I stepped back from the window before she could see me.
“Mrs. Ferraro?” Lucia appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. “Miss Russo is here. Mr. Ferraro asked if you could greet her.”
Of course he did. Because this was my job, wasn’t it? The donna’s role, welcome guests, smooth tensions, make everyone feel at ease while the real work happened behind closed doors. I’d been doing it for three years. I was good at it.
I’d just never had to do it for a woman moving into my home.
“I’ll be right down.”
The foyer was bright with afternoon sun when I descended the stairs. Bianca stood in the center of it, looking around with an expression of polite appreciation that somehow managed to seem possessive. Like she was cataloging everything. Making plans.
“Bianca.” I extended my hand. “Welcome.”
“Kylie.” She took it, and her grip was exactly right, firm enough to suggest confidence, soft enough to seem feminine. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Giovanni has been so kind.”
“He’s a kind man.”
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but I smiled through them. That was the job. Smile and nod and pretend the world wasn’t burning down around you.
“The east suite is ready,” I continued. “Lucia will show you up. Dinner is at seven, if you’d like to join us.”
“I’d love that.” Another smile, this one warmer, softer, the kind of smile you give a friend you haven’t seen in years. “I know this is an unusual situation. I want you to know I have no intention of being a burden. I’m here to help however I can.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
“Giovanni mentioned you handle a lot of the social calendar. The charity work, the family events.” She tilted her head, and something in her eyes shifted, a calculation too quick to catch if you weren’t looking for it.
“I used to do similar work for my father. If you ever need an extra set of hands…”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Lucia appeared to escort her upstairs, and I stood in the foyer until the sound of their footsteps faded. Then I stood there a little longer, staring at the hall table against the far wall.
It was an antique. Sicilian, Giovanni had told me once, from his grandmother’s house. Dark wood, carved legs, a surface scarred by generations of use. I’d barely noticed it when I first moved in. It was just furniture. Just another piece of the Ferraro legacy I was expected to polish and preserve.
But somewhere around year two, I’d started noticing something strange.
Things I left on that table got fixed.
The first time, it was a bracelet. A delicate gold chain my mother had given me, the clasp broken when I caught it on a doorframe. I’d set it on the hall table meaning to take it to a jeweler, and the next morning, the clasp was repaired. Perfect. Like it had never been broken at all.
I assumed staff. Lucia, maybe, or one of the housekeepers who came and went in silent efficiency. I didn’t think about it much.
Then it was a heel. A book with a torn cover. A photo frame with cracked glass. Every time, I’d leave the broken thing on the hall table, and every morning, it would be whole again.
Five years. I’d been leaving broken things on that table for five years, since before we were married, since the engagement when I’d started spending nights here, started treating this house like a home I might actually belong to.
Five years of small repairs. Of someone paying attention to the things I broke.
I ran my fingers over the scarred wood and tried to remember if I’d ever asked. If I’d ever said thank you to Lucia, or mentioned it to Giovanni, or done anything other than take the magic for granted.
I hadn’t. I’d just assumed someone was watching.
Someone always was, in this house. Living in the center of a family like the Ferraros, you were never really alone.
Even now, I could feel the weight of eyes.
Sal outside my door. The security feed recording every angle.
The staff moving through the halls like ghosts, seeing everything, saying nothing.
But none of them had ever mentioned the hall table.
“Mrs. Ferraro?”
I turned. Lucia had reappeared, silent as ever.
“Miss Russo is settled. Is there anything else you need?”
Yes, I wanted to say. I need my husband to look at me. To matter. To not feel like I’m disappearing in my own home.
“No,” I said. “That’s all.”
***
The first week was fine.
Bianca kept to herself mostly, meals in her room, polite greetings in the hallways, nothing that could be called an intrusion. She was quiet. Respectful. The perfect houseguest, if you ignored the fact that she wasn’t really a guest at all.
The second week, she started helping with Giovanni’s calendar.
“He’s so disorganized,” she said over breakfast, laughing like it was charming instead of an insult. “All these meetings crammed together, no time to breathe. I suggested some restructuring, and he actually listened.”
I looked at my husband across the table. He was reading something on his tablet, half-present as always.
“Giovanni hates having his schedule touched.”
“Maybe he just needed the right approach.” Bianca’s smile didn’t waver. “I’ve known him a long time, you know. Since we were children. Our fathers were close.”
I know, I didn’t say. I know exactly who your father was and what he did for this family.
“How do you take your coffee, Giovanni?” Bianca was already standing, already moving toward the sideboard where Lucia had set up the morning service. “I keep forgetting - black, right? Or do you do cream?”
“Black,” I said. “One sugar. He’s taken it the same way for three years.”