Chapter 18 Santino
Liana is pulling away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it.
The question that keeps circling through my mind is why. And the answer I keep coming back to—the one I don't want to consider, the one that makes my hands tighten into fists—is one that terrifies me more than I want to admit.
But I can't stop thinking about it.
I pull up our text thread and scroll through the messages from the last few days, analyzing them like they're encoded intelligence reports.
Her responses have gotten progressively shorter, more distant, stripped of personality.
The exclamation points that used to punctuate every sentence are gone.
The heart emojis she used to add to everything are gone.
Everything that made her texts distinctly Liana—all of it gone, erased as thoroughly as she erased her presence from my apartment.
My door opens without warning. Bruno walks in without bothering to knock, which means he's worried about something.
"Boss, we need to discuss the Benedetti situation. It's escalating and—"
"Not now." I don't look up from my phone.
He stops mid-stride. "It's important. They're making moves—"
"I said, not now." The sharpness in my voice cuts through the room.
He's quiet for a moment, and I can feel him studying me with that perceptive gaze that's kept him alive in this business. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing's going on."
"You've been distracted for days now. Snapping at everyone who talks to you. Staring at your phone like it owes you money." He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. "This is about her."
"It's not—"
"Don't lie to me, boss. I've known you too long for that." He moves further into the office and sits down across from me without invitation. "What happened between you two?"
I set down my phone with more force than necessary. "She's different now."
"Different how?"
"Quiet. Distant. Completely withdrawn. She took all her things out of my apartment without explanation.
She barely looks at me during family dinners anymore.
She won't answer my calls or respond to my texts with anything more than one-word answers.
" I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair.
"It's like she's checked out completely from this entire arrangement. "
"Maybe she's just tired. You said she's been busy with something—"
"Busy with what?" I stand abruptly, needing to move, to pace. "She won't tell me what she's doing. Just says 'things' and immediately changes the subject whenever I ask."
"Ask her directly. Demand answers."
"I tried that. At dinner last night. She deflected every single question I asked. Spent the whole evening talking to our mothers about wedding flowers and seating charts and other meaningless details."
"Maybe she doesn't care about the specifics—"
"She agreed to everything they suggested. Didn't have a single opinion about her own wedding." I stop at my window, looking out at the city below. "Not one opinion, Bruno. About anything."
"Maybe she doesn't give a shit about flowers."
"She cares about everything—that's who she is as a person. She has strong opinions about pasta sauce and the correct color of dish towels. But her own wedding? Nothing. Complete indifference."
Bruno is quiet for a long moment. "What do you think is going on?"
I don't want to say it out loud. Because saying it makes it real, makes it something I have to confront instead of just a suspicion I can keep contained in my own mind.
But I can't keep it inside anymore. The thought has been eating at me for days.
"I think there's someone else."
"Someone else," Bruno repeats. "You think she's cheating on you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I turn to face him, needing to see his reaction.
"Think about it logically. She removes all her stuff from my place like she's preparing to leave, creating distance between us.
She won't tell me where she is or what she's doing with her time.
She's distant, checked out, barely engaged with any aspect of this wedding or our relationship. "
"Or she could just be tired of your controlling behavior—"
"What about the swingers resort?" I continue, the words spilling out now that I've started. "She suggested a swingers resort for our honeymoon. Who does that? What woman suggests that to her husband?"
"Someone with unconventional ideas?"
"Or someone who's comfortable with that lifestyle.
Someone who's done it before, who's experienced in those situations.
" I'm spiraling now but I can't stop myself.
"And the sex toys she bought. She went to that sex shop and purchased all those things, was apparently very comfortable doing it.
The woman at the store was 'so helpful,' according to her.
How many times has she been to a place like that? "
"Boss, you're reading way too much into this.”
"Am I? Alexei said he was interested in her at the poker game.
Said if I changed my mind about marrying her, he'd be happy to pursue her himself.
" I stop, forcing myself to breathe. "Any man would be interested in her, Bruno.
She's beautiful, intelligent, comes from a good family. Any man in our world would want her."
"But she's engaged to you. The arrangement is set."
"Is she though? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like she's preparing an exit strategy. Like she's slowly extracting herself from this arrangement."
Bruno leans forward, his expression serious. "Have you considered that maybe you're the one who's scared? That you're looking for reasons to doubt her because you actually care about her, and caring about someone makes you vulnerable?"
"I'm not scared. I'm being realistic about the situation."
"You're being paranoid and letting it cloud your judgment."
"Then explain her behavior to me. Give me another explanation that makes sense for why she's suddenly so completely different."
"I can't explain it. But jumping straight to 'she's cheating' seems extreme, even for you."
Maybe it is extreme. Maybe I'm letting my imagination run wild with scenarios that have no basis in reality. But what else makes sense given the evidence?
"She won't even answer my calls anymore," I say quietly, the admission feeling like weakness. "She reads my texts—I know she does—and just doesn't respond. Who does that to their fiancé weeks before the wedding?"
"Someone who needs space? Someone who's processing something?"
"Or someone who's too busy talking to someone else instead."
I pick up my phone from the desk, staring at the dark screen like it might suddenly light up with answers. I could call her right now. Demand answers. Confront her directly.
But what would I even say? "Are you cheating on me?" Like some desperate, insecure fool who can't control his own woman?
No. I won't give her that satisfaction.
But I can't stop thinking about it, can't stop the scenarios from playing out in my mind. There's someone else. There has to be someone else. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
No woman changes this dramatically, this completely, without a reason. Without someone influencing that change. She was chaos and energy and driving me insane with her constant presence in my life and my space.
Now she's distant and cold and barely acknowledging my existence.
Something changed between then and now.
Or someone changed her.
"When's the last time you actually saw her?" Bruno asks, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. "Besides family dinners where you're surrounded by people?"
I think about it, counting back the days. "Almost a week."
"A week? What the fuck? You're getting married soon and you haven't seen your fiancée alone in a week?"
"She's been busy with whatever she's doing. I've been busy with business." The excuses sound weak even to my own ears.
"Busy with what specifically?"
"Business. Things." I sound like her now, I realize. Vague and evasive and offering nothing concrete.
"You’re not putting in the work. No wonder she’s gone cold on you. Maybe you should go see her. Actually, talk to her face to face instead of obsessing over text messages and worst-case scenarios. Ask her what's wrong. Ask her what changed."
I don't respond, because the truth is lodged in my throat. The truth is, I'm scared to ask. Terrified of what the answer might be.
If she says yes—if she tells me there's someone else, that she's in love with someone else—then what do I do?
I can't walk away from this arrangement. Our families need this alliance. The territories, the business opportunities, the expansion into new markets—it all depends on this marriage happening.
But if she's in love with someone else, if her heart belongs to another man...
"I should have put a tracker on her car," I mutter, the thought occurring to me suddenly.
"What?" Bruno's tone is sharp with alarm.
"A tracker. Like she did to mine." I look at him, the idea taking shape. "I should have done the same thing. Then I'd know where she is right now. What she's doing. Who she's with."
"Boss, that's—"
"Smart. That would be smart strategically. She even said so about my car."
"No, that would be completely insane." Bruno stands, his expression concerned now. "You need to calm down. You're spiraling into paranoia."
"I'm protecting my interests."
"You're being jealous and irrational," he counters firmly. "And you're letting it cloud your judgment in ways that could be dangerous."
Maybe he's right. Maybe I am jealous of some phantom rival I've created in my mind. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong about the situation.
"Where is she right now?" Bruno asks pointedly.
"I don't know. She didn't tell me her plans."
"Have you asked her?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Because I don't want to look desperate. Because I don't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she's gotten under my skin, that her distance affects me. Because I'm terrified of what she might say if I push for answers.
"I'm giving her space like she clearly wants," I say instead.
"Or you're avoiding the truth because you're afraid of it."
Bruno heads for the door, clearly done with this conversation. "Talk to her before you drive yourself completely crazy with theories that probably aren't even true."
He leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
I stand at my window, looking out at the city sprawled below, and the questions cycle through my mind relentlessly.
Where is she right now? Who is she with? Is she thinking about me at all?
Or is she with someone else right now, laughing about how she played me? How she made the great Santino Marcello look like a desperate fool?
I pour myself a drink from the crystal decanter on my desk. A large one, filling the glass more than halfway. It's not even noon yet. I drain my glass and immediately pour another, the scotch burning down my throat but doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest.
Soon she’ll be my wife, bound to me legally and permanently.
Whether she wants to be or not.
Whether there's someone else or not.
Whether I can trust her or not.
Mine.
The thought should comfort me, should make me feel secure in the inevitability of the arrangement. Instead, it feels like I'm trying to hold onto something that's already slipping away, like grasping at smoke.
I wonder where she is right now. What she's doing. Who she's with.
And whether I have any right to care when this is just a business arrangement that was never supposed to involve actual feelings.