Chapter 11
A year later…
Maison étoile glitters like a palace of excess.
With marble floors polished to mirror-shine and ceilings so high they disappear into gold-accented clouds, it feels more like Versailles than a mall—the air hums with laughter, champagne clinks, and the swish of silk skirts.
Security here is tighter than at the White House, and the clientele?
Exclusively handpicked. One million a year just to shop here.
Izzy twirls in front of a wall of mirrors, holding up a slinky pink Versace gown against her frame.
Gigi sips champagne, already buried under armfuls of garment bags and luxury boxes.
They chatter around me like birds, their voices full of laughter and glittery plans.
And I smile. I do. Because anytime away from Roberto is good. Because pretending is easier in heels.
But my ribs ache—a dull, throbbing ache beneath the layers of Chanel and Dior. I shift slightly to ease the pressure, and the movement makes Gigi glance at me.
"You okay, Soph?" she asks lightly, lifting her glass to her lips.
"Of course," I lie. "Just a little tight in the corset."
She laughs and goes back to debating between two pairs of stilettos.
I want to tell her. God, I want to tell her.
But I can’t. I’m not even sure what I’d say.
That my husband, the man everyone thinks is charming and generous, lost his temper last night because I wore the wrong lipstick to dinner?
That he said I embarrassed him in front of Enrico?
No. That would ruin the day. And days like this… they’re rare—days when I almost feel like a woman with friends, not a possession on loan.
"I’m starving," Izzy announces. "Should we grab lunch at the rooftop bistro?"
"Let’s," Gigi says, looping her arm through mine. "Soph, you’re coming, right?"
I nod, willing my smile to stay in place.
"Yes. I wouldn’t miss it."
But as we head toward the private elevator, past glittering storefronts and glass cases lined with five-figure jewelry, I can’t help but wonder—what would they say if they knew?
What would they do?
The elevator doors slide open to sunlight and linen-draped tables, and just like that, the questions vanish behind the clink of glassware.
The rooftop bistro at Maison étoile is all white umbrellas, lavender sprigs, and panoramic views of the skyline. It smells like fresh basil and sunshine, and for a moment, I almost forget the bruises under my dress.
We’re seated near the edge, velvet ropes keeping the common world out. The waiter brings us a bottle of rosé without asking. It’s always chilled. Always perfect.
"I swear," Gigi says, pouring herself a glass, "if Luciano looks at me like that again, I’m going to climb him like a tree."
Izzy chokes on her water. "Jesus, Gigi."
Gigi shrugs, totally unrepentant. "What? He’s hot. He’s dangerous. He calls me Signorina DeLuna in that voice that could melt concrete. And I know he’s thinking filthy things."
"Probably because you’re constantly undressing him with your eyes," I murmur, sipping delicately.
"Oh, please, he started it. Remember last month at my brother’s birthday dinner? He pulled my chair out and brushed my back with his hand. It wasn’t an accident. It was a statement."
"You’re going to get him killed," Izzy says, grinning despite herself. "Luciano answers to Toni, and Toni would absolutely murder anyone who touches you."
"Then I’d better make it worth it." Gigi winks and downs her glass.
We all laugh, and for a second, it feels normal. Light. Easy.
Then Izzy sighs and rests her chin in her palm. "You two are lucky. At least you can go out without needing six guards and a signed permission slip. My brothers are insane. The last time I went to brunch alone, Enrico threatened the ma?tre d’ for not reporting my entrance."
"Well, to be fair," Gigi says, "you do have a history of sneaking off with boys your brothers hate."
Izzy grins. "They hate every boy."
I smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. I envy them—Gigi’s recklessness, Izzy’s captivity that’s still wrapped in love. My own cage comes with velvet walls and violent shadows. There's no warmth in it. Only surveillance. Only consequences.
I glance across the terrace, and for a second, my heart stops.
A tall man in a black suit leans by the bar. The cut of his jaw, the stance, the cold gravity of his stillness, it’s him.
Raffael.
My pulse spikes, and my breath catches.
But then he turns.
And it isn’t him.
Just a stranger with the same bone structure. The same ghost of danger.
I look down quickly, masking the ache that rises without permission. I shouldn't still hope. Shouldn’t still look. I haven't seen Raffael in over a year. He's long gone, maybe even dead. Anyway, he never cared about me. I was just a job, nothing else.
I told my father about Roberto after our honeymoon. I showed him the bruises after waiting until we were alone. Showed him the way the skin under my ribs bloomed purple and black.
He laughed.
"Suck it up," he said. "Marriage is compromise. You’re not dying, are you? Good. Now tell me something useful."
But I couldn’t. Roberto doesn’t trust me with anything—no business talk. No names. No meetings. I’m an accessory, not a partner.
He’s smart like that.
My father wanted leverage. Wanted me to spy. But I have nothing to offer. Nothing to trade.
Except maybe my silence.
The only person who might listen—who might help—is Marcello.
My big brother. The one who used to tuck me in and break the noses of anyone who made me cry.
The only man in my family who ever truly loved me.
But he’s still in Sicily, building something of his own.
An empire, they say. Power. Freedom. I don’t know the details, and I don’t dare ask.
He’s too far away.
And even if he could help me… it'd cost him everything.
So I smile for Gigi and Izzy. Laugh when they do.
Let them believe I’m okay.
Because outside of this little terrace, my life belongs to a man who touches me like I’m property. And treats me like a whore.
And the only person who ever made me feel safe?
Disappeared a long time ago.
The waiter is halfway through describing today’s specials when my phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it at first—trying to stay present, keep laughing, keep pretending—but the second buzz comes harder.
I glance down.
Roberto:
Where are you?
Like he doesn't know. Like Pacco isn't standing by the terrace, watching me, and reporting to him. My pulse spikes, and my fingers go cold. I force a smile, flicking the screen off before the girls can see the way my hand trembles.
Gigi giggles. "Let me guess, he still can’t go ten minutes without his bride?"
Izzy grins around the rim of her water glass. "God, you’re lucky. I hope I find a man like that one day."
They laugh. I smile. Politely. Hollow. Like I’m not bleeding on the inside.
I text back quickly:
Me:
Maison étoile. Rooftop bistro. With Gigi and Izzy.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Roberto:
Good. Get a dress for the Russo charity ball this weekend. Something elegant.
And something sexy for tonight.
Something white.
White.
The word stops me cold, and my insides tremble so hard I don't think I can hide it. Memories slam into my chest like a brick and pull me under. My mind doesn’t drift—it plummets.
Back to that night.
The white room.
The white dress. My wedding dress.
The way the netting of the canopy fluttered in the sea breeze like something out of a dream… before it turned into a nightmare.
The blood.
My blood.
Speckled across the sheets. Across the floor. The curtains. The rug. On his hands and even the fucking Orchid.
He was so calm. So methodical.
Like he’d been waiting for this moment with the patience of a man who knew he’d take what he was owed. By the time he was done, I didn’t even cry. I didn't have the energy. I was something else after that night.
Something not quite broken, but certainly not whole.
A hand touches my arm.
I blink, snapped back to the sunlit terrace.
Gigi’s brow furrows. "Soph? You okay? You went kind of pale."
I clear my throat and fake a sip from my glass. "Just the heat. I think I skipped breakfast."
Izzy smirks. "Maybe you’re pregnant. It’s about time."
More giggles. More smiles. But I can’t laugh. Not with white still burning behind my eyes.
Pregnant. That's what Roberto wants. The last thing I want to do is bring a life into this world.
Into his world. Even though there are moments when I wonder if I were pregnant, would he stop beating me?
Would he stop using me like a whore? But those moments are fleeting; the fear of an innocent child being subjected to Roberto's… filth is unimaginable.
Thank God for Doc Brown—the only person in this world besides my father who knows the truth about Roberto—who comes at Roberto’s command every month to take my blood for a pregnancy test. Unfailingly, every third month, he gives me the shot that we both know will prevent said pregnancy.
"Dear child, I can get you out." He said last time, when he saw the bruises on my ass and hips.
"Where would I go?" I asked desolately.
"Anywhere but here," he answered.
I shook my head. Yes, I could go, I suppose, with his help.
But then I would leave everything else behind.
Not that there is much. Besides the girls, who are giving me the only sense of normalcy I have.
It's not like I haven't thought about it.
I could go. I could take my jewelry, pawn it, and just vanish.
Work as a waitress somewhere, because I don't have any job experience or a college degree.
I could live in a tiny space until they eventually found me.
And they would. It wouldn't be just my enraged husband after me.
My father and Angelo would be just as hot on my heels.
They'd search the entire Earth for me. And never stop. Never.