Chapter 17 Liana
"I'm out of ideas."
I'm sitting cross-legged on Gia's bed, staring up at the textured ceiling like it might hold answers. In three hours, we have a joint family dinner scheduled—both families together for what Papa is calling pre-wedding planning.
I'd rather have a root canal without anesthesia.
"Out of ideas?" Gia looks up from her phone, her expression skeptical. "You've only tried what, five different approaches?"
"More, actually." I start counting them on my fingers, ticking off each spectacular failure. "The steak thing, the gun thing, inviting Nonna, moving into his place, the sex schedule, the crying. Nothing's working the way it's supposed to. He's not walking away."
"Maybe that's because you don't actually want him to walk away anymore."
I sit up abruptly, my heart jumping in my chest. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't psychoanalyze me. I know what I want."
"Do you?" She sets down her phone deliberately, giving me her full attention. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look miserable. And not because the plan isn't working. Because you're starting to realize you don't want it to work anymore."
"That's not true." The denial comes automatically.
"Isn't it?" She stands and walks to my window. "You've been different the last few days. Quieter. Sadder. Like something inside you broke."
"I'm just tired from playing this role. It’s exhausting."
"You're conflicted," she corrects, turning to face me. "There's a difference."
"I'm not—" I stop myself, taking a deep breath and trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "It doesn't matter what I'm feeling. The plan was to make him walk away from this arrangement. That goal hasn't changed."
"But your heart has." The words are gentle but uncompromising.
"My heart has nothing to do with this." I can hear how hollow the protest sounds.
"Liana." She says my name like a sigh. "What do you actually want?"
I want to run this family the way I've been trained to run it since I was old enough to understand what our business means. I want what Papa promised me before he decided a marriage alliance was more valuable than my capabilities. I want to matter in a way that doesn't depend on who I'm married to.
But even as I think it, even as I try to summon the righteous anger that's sustained me through this entire charade, the words feel hollow. Empty. Like I'm reciting lines from a script I no longer believe in.
"I want my birthright," I say finally. "That fundamental truth hasn't changed."
"Are you sure about that? Because you removed all your stuff from his apartment. You stopped texting him. You're pulling away from him in every way that matters." She crosses her arms, studying me with those perceptive eyes that see too much. "That's not sabotage anymore. That's protection."
"Protection from what?" I ask, though part of me already knows the answer.
"From getting hurt when he eventually takes everything from you." Her voice drops, becoming softer. "From caring too much about someone who's going to break your heart."
"I'm not going to get hurt," I say, but the conviction has drained from my voice.
"You already are hurt. I can see it all over your face." Her voice is filled with sisterly concern. "You like him."
"That's irrelevant to the situation."
"Is it?" She challenges. "Is it really?"
"Yes. Because liking him doesn't change anything about our reality.
" The bitterness seeps into my words now.
"I still lose everything when we get married.
He still takes over operations completely.
I still become just his wife instead of who I actually am, instead of everything I've worked to become. "
"Have you told him any of that? Have you been honest with him about what you're afraid of?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" I stop, the words tangling in my throat.
Because I've gone too far with the chaos act to suddenly pivot to honesty?
Because I'm terrified he'll confirm my worst fears about what he wants from this marriage?
Because it's easier to push him away preemptively than risk him choosing the business over me when it actually matters?
All of the above, if I'm being honest with myself.
"Because it won't change anything," I finish, choosing the safest answer.
Gia is quiet for a long moment, just watching me with that knowing expression. "What if you're wrong? What if he'd surprise you with his answer?"
"He won't." I'm certain of this, at least.
"You don't know that for sure."
"I know men like him, Gia. They want power. Control. A wife who looks good at events and stays out of the way of the actual business." I stand up, needing to move, needing to escape this conversation. "I need to get ready for dinner."
"Liana—"
"I need to get ready," I repeat more firmly, and the finality in my voice makes it clear the conversation is over.
She doesn't push any further, just watches me leave with worried eyes.
I go to my room and stand in front of my closet, staring at the array of clothes that represent different versions of myself.
The bright colors and short dresses I wore to drive him crazy.
The chaotic outfits designed to make him question my competence.
The professional pieces I wear to the port when I'm actually working.
What do you wear when you're giving up? When you're accepting defeat?
Not the chaos outfits, that's for certain. Not the bright colors or short dresses or anything that screams "look at me, I'm worth noticing."
I pull out something simple instead—black, elegant, appropriate. The kind of understated dress that whispers old money and good breeding. The kind of thing a proper mafia wife would wear to a family dinner.
I put it on and look at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I look tired. The shadows under my eyes are visible even with makeup. I look sad in a way I can't quite hide. I look like someone who's already accepted her defeat.
I look like I've lost.
An hour later, I'm sitting in the private dining room of a restaurant downtown, one of those expensive places with private rooms for families like ours who need discretion. Both families are in attendance, filling the elegant space with their presence and expectations.
Papa and Vincent Marcello sit at the head of the table like the kings they are, discussing business in low voices like they always do.
Mama and Giovanna have their heads together on the other end, talking about wedding details with the kind of enthusiasm I can't seem to muster.
Various aunts, uncles, and cousins fill in the spaces between, their conversations creating a constant hum of noise.
And Santino sits directly across from me, his eyes tracking my every movement. He's been watching me since I arrived.
I keep my gaze down, focused on anything except him. On my plate with its artfully arranged food. On my wine glass with its deep red contents. On the pristine white tablecloth. Anywhere but on him.
"Liana."
I force myself to look up. He's leaning forward slightly, his expression concerned in a way that makes my chest ache. "Are you alright?" The question is simple, but there's genuine worry in his voice.
"I'm fine." The lie comes easily after so much practice.
"You're unusually quiet tonight."
"I'm just tired." I take a sip of wine, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. "It's been a long day."
"Doing what?" He's still watching me too carefully.
Working at the port, managing the shipping schedules and coordinating with suppliers. Running operations that you'll inherit the moment we say our vows. Managing the business I'll never be allowed to keep no matter how competent I am.
"Just busy with various things," I say instead, keeping my voice light and noncommittal.
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him trying to figure out what's changed. "You took your things from my apartment."
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
"You weren't comfortable with them there. It seemed like the right thing to do." I set down my wine glass carefully, focusing on the movement to avoid his eyes.
"I never said I wasn't comfortable with your things there."
"You didn't have to say it explicitly." I finally meet his gaze, keeping my expression neutral and polite. "I could tell from your reaction. I overstepped boundaries."
"Liana—"
"It's fine. Really, it's perfectly fine." I give him a small smile, the kind that's polite and distant and says nothing real. "I shouldn't have assumed I could just move my things into your space without asking properly first. I apologize for overstepping."
He frowns at me. "You didn't overstep."
"Clearly I did, or you wouldn't have reacted the way you did."
"You didn't." He's getting frustrated now, I can hear it creeping into his voice. "I was just surprised by how much you'd brought over. I wasn't expecting—"
"It's fine," I repeat, cutting him off. "We don't need to discuss it any further."
Mama calls my name from down the table, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. I turn away from Santino gratefully, relieved to have an excuse to break the conversation.
"Yes, Mama?"
"Giovanna and I were discussing the ceremony flowers. We can't decide between white roses or calla lilies. What do you think?"
I look between the two mothers, both watching me expectantly, waiting for me to have an opinion about flowers for a wedding I don’t want.
"Whatever you think is best," I say simply.
"But it's your wedding, darling," Mama says, her tone gently chiding. "You should have an opinion about these things."
Should I? Why? Does my opinion matter for anything else in this arrangement? Will anyone care what I think once I'm officially Mrs. Marcello?
"Both are beautiful flowers," I say diplomatically. "I'm happy with either choice."
Giovanna and Mama exchange a glance that speaks volumes. They're not used to me being this passive, this compliant. Usually, I have opinions about everything. Usually, I care enough to express them.