Chapter Twelve #2
Willa Contarini sat on a plush velvet chair on the sprawling terrace, a crystal flute of vintage Dom Pérignon resting lightly in her perfectly manicured hand.
She wore a tailored white silk suit that screamed of quiet luxury, her blonde hair coiffed into effortless waves.
To the casual observer, she was the picture of elite, aristocratic serenity.
Internally, she was bleeding out from a thousand invisible cuts.
It had been six months since Lorenzo Falco had looked at her with dead eyes and banished her from his empire.
Six long, agonizing months since the oak doors of the compound had slammed shut, severing her from the power, the protection, and the obscenely lavish lifestyle she had spent her entire adult life securing.
Willa was not the type of woman to accept defeat.
When she had first been thrown out, she had retreated to her family’s estate in Milan, fully expecting the storm to pass.
She had calculated that Renzo’s anger—whatever had caused it—would eventually cool.
He was a man who required a soft place to land.
He would realize he missed her delicate touch, her devotion.
He would realize that the brutal, violent world of the syndicate was too to carry without her playing the perfect, sympathetic companion.
She had waited for the phone to ring. She had waited for a black SUV to arrive in her driveway.
It never happened.
Worse than the silence was the total, impenetrable blackout of information.
Willa had spent weeks trying to subtly pry into the goings-on at the Falco estate.
She had bribed low-level guards, reached out to former staff members, and tried to charm her way into the social circles of peripheral Capos.
Every single door had been slammed in her face.
Lorenzo had not just thrown her out; he had insulated his world against her.
Casimir Valente ran the security of the Falco syndicate with the ruthless efficiency of a military dictator.
Word had come down from the Don himself: If any man, woman, or child speaks the name Willa Contarini to anyone inside the Zanetti or Falco bloodlines, they will be stripped of their rank and exiled.
Willa knew absolutely nothing. She had no idea if Renzo was mourning her loss. She had no idea if Roselia Zanetti was still lurking in the shadows, covered in engine grease. She was blind.
And the blindness was driving her insane.
The Contarini family was wealthy, certainly.
They had old money, sprawling estates, and a respectable name in the northern Italian social registries.
But they were nothing compared to the Falcos.
The Falcon Syndicate was a global superpower.
They owned politicians, controlled shipping empires, and possessed a level of obscenely dark, untouchable wealth that made the Contarinis look like mere peasants.
Willa’s father had banked heavily on the union. The engagement to Lorenzo Falco was supposed to elevate the Contarini name to the zenith of European society. Now, with Willa back in her childhood bedroom and no wedding date on the calendar, the family’s social credit was beginning to hemorrhage.
"Willa, darling!"
The shrill, musical voice shattered Willa’s dark thoughts. She arranged her face into a perfect, flawless smile before turning toward the sound.
Approaching her table were Beatrice and Caterina, two of Milan’s most prominent socialites.
They were draped in diamonds and carrying Hermès bags that cost more than luxury cars.
They were the exact kind of women Willa had once lorded her engagement over.
Now, they were circling her like sharks smelling a drop of blood in the water.
"Beatrice. Caterina," Willa greeted, standing up to exchange hollow, air-kissing embraces. "It is so wonderful to see you both. You look stunning."
"And you look incredibly rested, darling," Caterina purred, taking a seat across from Willa, her sharp eyes scanning the silk suit. "Though we must admit, we are quite surprised to see you here in Como. Shouldn't you be down south, wrangling caterers and tasting cakes?"
Willa’s grip on the stem of her champagne flute tightened just enough to turn her knuckles white, though her smile remained perfectly pinned in place.
"Oh, you know how it is," Willa laughed, a light, airy sound that she had perfected in front of a mirror. "The logistics of planning a high-society event are simply exhausting. I came north for a little reprieve."
Beatrice exchanged a deeply meaningful, condescending glance with Caterina. The gossip had been running rampant through the Italian elite for months. A Don’s fiancée did not simply move back into her father’s house for half a year to take a 'reprieve.'
"Of course," Beatrice murmured, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. She reached across the table, placing a heavily ringed hand over Willa’s.
"It is just... well, we have all been waiting with bated breath, darling.
We expected the embossed invitations months ago.
The whispers are getting quite loud. Tell us truthfully, Willa...
is the wedding still happening? Or has Lorenzo... been distracted?"
The words were spoken with such saccharine sweetness, but the underlying pity was a physical blow to Willa’s ego. They were looking at her as if she were a discarded toy. A woman who had reached for the sun and had her wings burned off.
Willa felt a surge of hot, venomous rage boiling in her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to shatter her crystal flute against Beatrice’s perfectly powdered face. She was Willa Contarini. She did not accept pity. She demanded envy.
But she could not tell them the truth. To admit that Lorenzo Falco had looked at her with disgust and ordered her off his property would be social suicide. She would be a pariah by sunset.
So, she fell back on the only weapon she had left: the lie.
"Oh, Beatrice, please do not listen to the ridiculous rumors," Willa said, gently extracting her hand from the other woman’s grasp to pick up her champagne.
She offered a look of weary indulgence. "Lorenzo is simply overwhelmed at the moment.
The port expansions in Marseille and the new political transitions in Rome require his undivided attention.
You know how dedicated he is to the syndicate. "
She took a slow, elegant sip of her champagne, raising her chin.
"Syndicate business takes precedence over party planning," Willa lied seamlessly, painting herself as the understanding, patient matriarch-in-waiting.
"We decided to postpone the formalities until his schedule allows us to celebrate properly.
I am merely giving him the space a Don requires to conquer his enemies. "
Caterina smiled, though her eyes remained calculating and unconvinced. "How wonderfully understanding of you, Willa. He is a very lucky man to have a woman willing to wait in the wings for so long."
"I am sure he appreciates your patience," Beatrice added, standing up from the table. "Do let us know when the invitations finally go to the printer, darling. We simply cannot wait to see you back on the throne."
As the two women walked away, their heads leaning together as they immediately began to dissect the interaction, Willa sat alone on the terrace.
The fake smile violently collapsed from her face, leaving behind a cold, hardened mask of desperation and fury.
She stared out at the glittering waters of Lake Como, her mind racing.
The lie would only hold for so long. Eventually, the socialites would demand proof.
Eventually, her father would demand answers.
She could not hide in Milan forever, pretending to be a queen whose king was simply too busy to crown her.
She needed to know what was happening in Naples. She needed to know what—or who—had caused Lorenzo to snap out of the trance she had kept him in for years.
Willa set her empty glass down on the table with a sharp, definitive click. She had laid low for long enough. The waiting game was over. If Casimir Valente had sealed the front doors of the Falco estate, Willa Contarini was just going to have to find a way to crawl in through the windows.