Chapter 7 Liana
Day Five, and I'm starting to worry my plan is working too well.
Santino texted this morning asking about dinner tonight. Just the two of us. Casual place. I could keep up the chaos. Order a salad, eat his food, talk about reality TV until his eyes glaze over.
But I need to be strategic. If I'm relentlessly exhausting, he'll figure out I'm doing it on purpose. Better to give him a break. Let him think maybe I'm not so bad. That maybe he can handle this.
Then hit him with something worse later.
"You're thinking too much," Gia says from my doorway.
I'm standing in front of my closet again, but this time I'm actually trying to pick something appropriate. "I'm being strategic."
"You're being calculating."
"Same thing."
"Not really." She walks in, surveys my options. "What's the plan for tonight?"
"Be normal."
She raises an eyebrow. "Normal?"
"Well, my version of normal. Not his mother's version." I pull out a dress. Simple, dark green, fitted but not too tight. Appropriate for a casual dinner. "I'm going to eat my own food. Have an actual conversation. Be pleasant."
"Why?"
"Because if I'm crazy every single time we're together, he'll realize I'm doing it on purpose." I hold up the dress. "But if I'm occasionally normal? He'll think the crazy parts are just me being clueless. Unpredictable."
"That's devious."
"That's smart." I grab shoes that actually match. "Besides, I need to study him. Figure out what else will drive him insane. Can't do that if I'm too busy being exhausting."
Gia sits on my bed. "What if you actually have a good time?"
"I won't."
"But what if you do?"
"I'm not changing my mind about this." I head for the bathroom. "One nice dinner doesn't change anything."
But as I get ready, I can't shake Gia's question. What if I do have a good time? What if, without the performance, without the act, I actually like being with him?
No. That's not happening. This is reconnaissance. Information gathering. Strategy.
Nothing more.
At six-thirty, I'm ready. The dress looks good. Not trying too hard, not trying too little. My hair is down, simple. Minimal jewelry. I look like someone going on a date.
A real date.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven. Punctual as always. I make him wait five minutes. Not fifteen like last time. Just five. Enough to maintain some control, not enough to annoy him.
When I open the door, he's standing there in dark jeans and a fitted shirt. No suit tonight. More casual. He looks good. Really handsome.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." His eyes travel over me. "You look nice."
"Thank you. So do you."
We stand there for a moment. No sarcastic comments. No playful banter. Just two people noticing each other. It's unsettling.
"Ready?" he asks.
The restaurant he chose is exactly what he said. A small Italian place, family-owned, with checkered tablecloths and candles on every table. It's charming. Intimate without being stuffy.
I actually like it. "This is nice," I say as we're seated.
"No Marconi's tonight." There's a hint of humor in his voice. "Thought we'd try something more low-key."
"Probably safer for your wallet."
He actually smiles. "Probably safer for my sanity."
The waiter brings menus. I study mine, aware of Santino watching me.
"See anything you like?" he asks.
"The chicken marsala looks good."
"You're not on a diet tonight?"
I meet his eyes over the menu. He's testing me. Seeing if I'll admit to the steak incident.
"I'm taking a break from dieting," I say smoothly. "Doctor's orders."
"Your doctor told you to stop dieting?"
"My doctor told me I need to eat actual food. Something about nutrients and energy." I set down my menu. "So tonight, I'm eating real dinner."
"Good to know."
The waiter takes our orders. I get the chicken marsala. Santino gets veal piccata. We both order water.
"No wine?" I ask.
"Not tonight. I'm driving."
While we wait for food, we actually talk. Not about arrangements or families or the forty days. About other things. He asks about my charity work. I tell him about the senior center, about the residents I visit. Their stories. Their lives.
"There's this woman, Dorothy," I say. "Ninety-four. Sharper than anyone I know. She was a nurse in World War II. The stories she has..." I shake my head. "She's incredible."
"You really do care about this." It's not a question.
"I do. Old people get forgotten. But they have so much wisdom. So much life experience." I pause. "That's why I offered to have your grandmother live with us. I meant it."
His expression shifts. "Liana—"
"I know you think it's crazy. And maybe it is. But I genuinely think she'd be happier with family around her."
"She has family around her."
"During the day. But at night?" I lean forward slightly. "She's alone. Nobody should be alone like that."
He's quiet for a moment, studying my face. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"Even though it would mean having a ninety-two-year-old living with us as newlyweds."
"Even though."
Something in his eyes softens. "That's actually kind of amazing."
I wasn't expecting that. "What?"
"Most women your age wouldn't want that responsibility. The inconvenience."
"I'm not most women."
"No." His voice drops lower. "You're definitely not."
The way he's looking at me makes my pulse quicken. There's heat in his gaze. This wasn't part of the plan.
Our food arrives, breaking the moment. I focus on my chicken, which is actually delicious.
"Good?" Santino asks.
"Delicious." I take another bite. "How's yours?"
"Perfect."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. I'm acutely aware of him across the table. The way he moves. The way his hands look holding his fork. Strong hands. Capable.
Stop it, Liana.
"Tell me something," he says suddenly. "Something real. Not the rehearsed answers you give at family dinners."
I set down my fork. "Like what?"
"Like what you actually want. From life. From this arrangement." He pauses. "From me."
It's a dangerous question. An honest one. I could lie. Give him the answer he wants to hear. Play the role he expects. But something about tonight feels different. Like maybe, just for a moment, I can be real.
"I want to matter," I say quietly. "I want what I do to have meaning. To make a difference."
"And you don't think you can do that as my wife?"
"I think there are limits to what I'd be allowed to do." I meet his eyes. "You said it yourself. The business is your domain. I'd have my hobbies. My charity work. But not real power. Not real responsibility."
"And you want that? Power?"
"I want to not be ornamental." The honesty surprises even me. "I want to be more than decoration."
He's silent for a long moment. "You could be with the right partner." He leans back. "Someone who saw you as an asset, not an accessory."
"And are you that partner?"
"I could be."
"You're different tonight," he says.
"So are you."
"How so?"
"Less arrogant." I smile slightly. "More human."
He laughs and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him genuinely laugh. "I'm human every night."
"Are you? Because most of the time you seem like you're performing. Playing the part of the powerful underboss who has everything figured out."
"I do have everything figured out."
"Do you?"
His smile fades. "Most things."
"But not me."
"No." His eyes lock on mine. "Not you."
We finish dinner without incident. I eat my entire meal. He eats his. No food stealing. No reality TV recaps. Just conversation and comfortable silences and this growing tension I don't know how to name. When the check comes, he pays without comment.
"Thank you for dinner," I say as we walk to his car.
"Thank you for being normal."
I laugh. "Is that what this was? Normal?"
"Compared to the other nights? Yes."
"I can be normal when I want to be."
"The question is whether you want to be."
He opens my car door. I slide in, and he closes it behind me. As he walks around to the driver's side, I watch him. The confident stride. The way he moves like he owns the space around him.
He's attractive. I've known that from the start. But tonight, I'm seeing more. The intelligence behind the arrogance. The humor he usually keeps hidden. The way he actually listens when I talk.
This is dangerous territory.
He gets in, starts the engine. The car roars to life. It's a sports car, sleek and powerful, and the sound alone tells me this is going to be a problem. We pull out of the parking lot, and immediately I notice his driving. He drove carefully on the way to the restaurant but not anymore.
He's fast. Really fast.
"You know the speed limit is low here, right?" I say carefully.
He accelerates. We're definitely going faster than we should be now.
I grip the door handle. "Maybe slow down a little?"
"I'm fine." His tone is dismissive. He weaves around a slower car, cutting back into the lane with inches to spare.
My heart jumps. "That was close."
"It wasn't close. I had plenty of room." He shifts gears smoothly.
"Not really."
We're flying down the street now, the city lights blurring past. The engine responds with a growl.
"Santino." My voice is tighter now. "You're going too fast."
"I know how to drive." He doesn't slow down.
"I'm not saying you don't, I'm just saying maybe you could slow down a little—"
He takes a turn too sharp. Too fast. I grab the door with both hands as we swing wide, the tires squealing slightly.
"Oh my God. Santino! Slow down!"
"What? This car can handle the curves. It’s fine." He sounds almost amused.
"That was not fine! You almost hit that car!"
"I was nowhere near that car." He glances at me briefly, then back to the road.
"You were right next to it!"
"Liana, I've been driving this car for three years. I know what I'm doing."
But he doesn't slow down. If anything, he speeds up. Like he's trying to prove a point. Or scare the hell out of me. We're on a main street now, traffic lighter, and he's really opening it up. The speedometer climbs.
"Santino!" My voice is sharp now. "Please slow down!"