Chapter 15 Giulia
Giulia
SONG: A DOZEN ROSES BY AMIRA ELFEKY
Three weeks felt like three years. Or maybe three minutes.
Time moved differently when you were happy.
I woke up to Dimitri's arm around my waist. Again.
For the twenty-first morning in a row. Not that I was counting.
Except I absolutely was counting because each morning felt like proof that this was real.
That he kept coming back. That we'd somehow built something sustainable out of an arranged marriage and mutual suspicion.
Outside, fog wrapped around Silverleaf like cotton batting.
San Francisco mornings always looked ethereal from the bedroom window.
The grounds disappeared into white mist and trees became shadows.
The whole world narrowed down to this room, this bed, this man sleeping next to me with his face pressed against my shoulder.
He looked younger when he slept. Less Pakhan, more just Dimitri. The lines around his eyes smoothed out. His jaw unclenched. Sometimes I'd wake up before him just to watch him like this. Unguarded. Peaceful. Mine.
Possessive thought. Probably unhealthy. Definitely dangerous. I didn't care.
His eyes opened. Blue and alert instantly because mob bosses didn't wake up slowly. "You're staring."
"You're pretty."
"Pretty." He said it like I'd called him something obscene. "Men aren't pretty."
"You are." I traced the line of his jaw. "Devastatingly pretty. It's frankly unfair."
"I'm ruggedly handsome at best."
"Keep telling yourself that."
He pulled me closer. Kissed my neck in that spot that made me shiver. "What time is it?"
"Early. Six maybe."
"You should sleep more."
"Can't. My husband keeps showing up in my bed at odd hours and distracting me."
"Terrible habit." His hand moved lower. "You should complain to management."
"I'm considering it."
We didn't make it out of bed for another hour.
Later, I sat at the kitchen counter watching him make coffee. He'd shown up one morning with an espresso machine that probably cost more than my college tuition. Installed it himself, and refused to let me touch it because apparently I made coffee like a barbarian. His words. Not mine.
"You going into the city today?" I asked.
"Meeting at ten. Should be back by three."
"Should be?"
"Probably will be." He handed me a cup. Perfect temperature. Perfect foam. The man had impossibly high standards for everything. "Unless something explodes."
"Things explode often in your line of work?"
"More than you'd think. Less than the movies suggest."
I took a sip. Heaven. "What's the meeting about?"
"Port operations. Very boring. You'd hate it."
"Try me."
He leaned against the counter. Studied me with those too-blue eyes that saw everything. "You really want to know?"
"I really want to know."
So, he told me about shipping routes and customs officials and the complex dance of moving product through San Francisco's ports without attracting federal attention.
He explained the hierarchy of his organization.
Who reported to whom. Which families controlled which territories.
The careful balance of power that kept the city from descending into open warfare.
I took notes on my phone.
He watched me type. "Most wives don't want details."
"Most wives aren't me."
"True." Something shifted in his expression, softening. "You're not scared?"
"Of what? Port operations?"
"Of what I do. What I am."
I set down my phone and looked at him directly. "You're Dimitri. You're my husband. You make excellent coffee and you read Russian poetry when you think I'm asleep. The rest is just context."
"The rest is felonies, Giulia."
"I'm aware." I picked up my cup again. "But you're not asking me to participate. You're just telling me how your world works. I want to understand."
He was quiet for a long moment. "You're remarkable."
"I'm pragmatic. There's a difference."
"No." He crossed the space between us and cupped my face in his hands. "You're remarkable." He kissed me like he meant it. Like I was something precious he'd found unexpectedly and maybe he was falling just as hard as I was.
Terrifying thought. Also exhilarating.
When he left for his meeting, I spent two hours reading about Russian organized crime on my laptop.
Academic articles. FBI reports. News stories about territorial disputes and federal investigations.
The Morozov family appeared in several documents.
Always carefully worded. Always just shy of actual accusations.
My husband's name showed up three times.
Once in connection with his father's death.
Twice in relation to "alleged" criminal enterprises.
I should probably be more concerned. Normal wives didn't research their husband's criminal history.
Normal wives didn't take notes on organizational hierarchy.
Normal wives didn't sit in mansions in Silverleaf wondering if their marriage was built on something sustainable or if they were just two people pretending they could make this work.
But I'd stopped being normal the moment I'd agreed to marry a man I'd never met.
Margaret knocked on the doorframe. "Mrs. Morozova, lunch is ready."
"Thank you." I closed my laptop. "Margaret, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"How long have you worked for the Morozov family?"
"Thirty-two years. I started with Mr. Dimitri's father when I was twenty-five."
"Did you..." I paused, chosing my words carefully. "Did you ever meet Dimitri's mother?"
Margaret's expression shifted, became careful. "Briefly. Before she left."
"What was she like?"
"Smart, like you. She asked questions too." Margaret smoothed her apron. "She tried to make it work, she really did. But this life isn't for everyone."
"What made her leave?"
"That's not my story to tell, dear." Margaret's voice was kind but firm. "If you want to know about his mother, you should ask your husband."
She was right. But asking Dimitri about his mother felt like walking into emotional territory I wasn't sure we'd mapped yet.
We'd built something good in three weeks.
Something that felt stable. Asking about his mother might crack that stability.
I filed the question away for later. When we were stronger, and I was braver.
Lunch was excellent as always. Margaret made traditional Russian dishes that Dimitri never asked for but always devoured. Blini. Borscht. Beef stroganoff. Comfort food that probably reminded him of something.
I ate alone. Answered emails from my father asking how I was doing, responded to texts from my college friends wondering when I'd be free to visit, and maintained the fiction that my life was normal and just a newlywed adjusting to married life.
Not technically a lie just strategically incomplete.
Dimitri came back at three fifteen. He found me in the library surrounded by books on Italian American history.
"Research?" he asked.
"Trying to understand how we got here. Your people and mine."
"And?"
"We've been killing each other over territory for seventy years. It's depressing."
He sat down next to me and pulled me into his lap. "We're not killing each other."
"We're the exception that proves the rule."
"Maybe we're the start of something new."
I twisted to look at him. "You believe that?"
"I want to believe it." His arms tightened around me. "Doesn't that count for something?"
"It counts for everything."
We stayed like that for a while, not talking, just existing together in the quiet library while fog pressed against the windows and the world felt very far away.
This was the bubble. This peaceful isolation where we could pretend we were just two people who'd chosen each other.
Who weren't carrying the weight of family obligations and criminal enterprises.
Who could build something that wouldn't collapse under external pressure.
I knew it couldn't last. Nothing this good ever did.
But I chose to believe in it anyway. I chose to wake up every morning grateful for another day and to memorize the way he looked at me. The way his voice softened when he said my name. The way he held me like I was something worth protecting.
If this was temporary, I'd make the most of it. If this was real, I'd fight to keep it.
Either way, I was all in.
That night we made dinner together. He was surprisingly competent in the kitchen when he tried. We made pasta from scratch because I'd mentioned missing my grandmother's recipe. He followed my instructions exactly, measuring everything precisely, and approaching cooking like tactical planning.
"You're thinking too hard," I told him.
"There's a specific ratio of flour to eggs."
"It's pasta, not explosives."
"Pasta is serious business in your family."
"True." I added more flour to his mixture. "But it's also supposed to be fun."
"Fun." He said it like he was testing a foreign word. "Right. Fun."
"When's the last time you had fun?"
He paused to think about it. "Probably this morning when you called me pretty."
"Before that."
A longer pause. "I don't remember."
Something ached in my chest. This man who'd built his entire life around responsibility and violence and maintaining power had forgotten how to do things just because they were enjoyable.
"We're having fun now," I declared. "This is officially fun."
"Is it?"
"I'm declaring it. I have that authority as your wife."
"Do you?"
"Absolutely. It's in the fine print of our marriage contract. The wife gets to decide what counts as fun."
He smiled, not the careful, political smile he used in meetings, the real one that made his eyes crinkle. "The contract you never actually read?"
"I read enough." I moved closer, getting flour on his shirt. "The important parts, anyway."
"And what are the important parts?"
"The part where you promised to be my husband. The part where I promised to be your wife. The part where we figure out how to make this work even though everything's against us."
His expression shifted, becoming serious. "Giulia..."
"I know." I kissed him before he could say whatever he was thinking. Whatever truth he was about to voice that would pop our bubble. "I know this can't last forever. I know reality is waiting. But can we have tonight? Can we just have this one night where we make pasta and pretend we're normal?"
"We're not normal."
"I know. But we can pretend."
So, we pretended, made pasta, drank wine, and laughed when the sauce came out too salty.
We fixed it together, then ate at the kitchen counter instead of the formal dining room.
We talked about nothing important and avvoided the topics that would remind us we were playing house in a mansion bought with blood money.
Later, in bed, he held me close and said, "Three weeks."
"Has it been that long?"
"Since I started coming home every night. Since we built this." He paused. "Since I started believing in it."
"And now?"
"Now I can't imagine going back. Can't imagine sleeping anywhere but here. Can't imagine my life without you in it." His voice was quiet, almost vulnerable. "That probably makes me weak."
"That makes you human."
"Same thing in my world."
"Your world is wrong."
He laughed, soft and sad. "Probably."
I turned to face him. "I'm not going anywhere, Dimitri. Whatever comes next, whatever reality brings, I'm staying."
"You can't promise that."
"I just did."
"Giulia..."
"I love you." The words came out naturally, easily. A truth I'd been holding for days but hadn't found the courage to voice. "I know it's too soonthat we barely know each other and this is insane, but I love you."
Silence. Long enough that panic started creeping in. That I started wondering if I'd just destroyed everything by admitting feelings he didn't share.
"I love you too."
Three words. Simple. Direct. Terrifying in their honesty.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He pulled me closer. "God help us both."
We fell asleep wrapped around each other.
Two people who'd been forced together and somehow found love in the wreckage.
Two people living in a bubble that couldn't protect us forever but that we'd choose to believe in anyway.
Tomorrow would bring reality. Tomorrow would bring whatever crisis was building in the world outside our isolation.
But tonight we had this; each other and three words that changed everything.
I chose to believe that would be enough. Even though part of me knew better.
Even though the bubble was already cracking around the edges.
Even though love couldn't protect us from what was coming.
Tonight, it was enough.
Tomorrow could wait.