2. Aria
ARIA
T he rest of the dinner passes in a haze.
Dish after dish arrives in gleaming silver trays, each one a spectacle.
Golden saffron threads shimmer over pillowy rice, yielding a fragrance that is heady and warm.
Slow-roasted lamb glistens in its own juices, the meat so tender it yields at the barest touch.
There's risotto studded with wild mushrooms and shaved truffle, its aroma earthy and rich, and platters of spiced prawns, still crackling from the pan, swimming in butter and chili oil.
The scent alone makes my stomach clench with longing.
Servers glide past in silent harmony, unveiling each course with theatrical precision.
They speak the names of dishes like sacred incantations, tracing their lineage to centuries-old recipes and kitchens where stars hang on walls like medals.
Every plate placed before me is a promise of indulgence.
And yet, I barely touch any of it.
My fork hovers uselessly even as hunger curls at the edges of my stomach, but something inside me has gone still.
The decadence feels disgusting.
I sit surrounded by splendor I can't bring myself to taste.
I manage a few spoonfuls, just enough to avoid drawing attention, pushing the rest around my plate as Papa speaks, his voice carrying over the murmur of conversation.
He leads the room as he always does, introductions rolling from his tongue, ensuring I acknowledge every guest, every name, every power broker sitting at this table.
I nod when I am supposed to.
I murmur the appropriate pleasantries.
I commit nothing to memory.
The world around me has become weightless, muffled, as if I am watching everything unfold from behind glass.
I hear their laughter, the clinking of crystal glasses, the smooth, easy cadence of men's voices who do not need to fight for space because they already own it.
I feel my mother's occasional glance, the silent expectation in her gaze, waiting for me to play my role with perfection.
But my thoughts are elsewhere.
I am thinking of the way Papa said marriage.
He did not speak of it as a possibility, nor was there any room for a discussion.
What he laid out in front of me was a decision that had already been made.
By the time dinner finally draws to a close, my body feels wound too tight, my chest constricted with something between frustration and dread.
The moment it is polite to do so, I push back my chair, smoothing my hands over my dress as I rise.
"If you'll excuse me," I say, my voice steady despite the storm building beneath my ribs.
No one stops me.
I move quickly, my heels whispering against the marble floors as I slip past the double doors and into the quieter halls beyond.
My heartbeat quickens as I make my way down the grand staircase, past the gold-framed oil paintings of Lombardi men who have shaped this empire, each of their expressions severe, their presence looming even in death.
I descend into the lower levels of the estate, following the familiar path through sparsely lit corridors, the polished opulence of the upper floors giving way to something simpler, something real.
By the time I reach the servant's quarters, my breath is coming too fast, my body thrumming with restless energy.
I knock twice before pushing the door open.
Luciana looks up from where she's perched on her small cot, a book spread open on her lap.
She is the only real friend I have.
Growing up in a household like mine, I was never allowed to do the things other girls my age did.
There were no impromptu shopping trips, no after-school sleepovers, no careless afternoons spent in parks or by the beach.
Every moment of my life has been measured, controlled, watched.
Sheltered is too soft a word for what I have endured.
I have been protected so fiercely that I have never actually been free.
Luciana is one of the few exceptions to my loneliness.
She has been in the house since we were both children, technically a servant but so much more than that.
She is young, pretty, and sharp-witted, her dark curls always loose, her hazel eyes always watching.
She knows everything that happens in this house before anyone else does, slipping through corridors and overhearing the kind of secrets that could get her killed if she ever repeated them.
She grins when she sees me, sitting up straight.
"You look like you're about to commit murder."
"I might," I mutter, sinking onto the chair beside her bed.
She tosses her book onto the nightstand and crosses her arms. "That bad?"
Worse. But I don't want to say it aloud yet.
If I do, it will make it too real.
I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temple. "I need food. Real food."
Luciana tilts her head, assessing me, and then with a knowing chuckle, she reaches for her phone. "Pizza?"
"Yes."
She scrolls through her screen before pressing a few buttons. "Done. You owe me for this."
"Put it on my tab," I say dryly.
Twenty minutes later, I am curled up in the chair, my shoes kicked off, my dress bunched up at my thighs, watching as Luciana lifts the lid of the large cardboard box now sitting on the small wooden table between us.
The scent of melted cheese, rich tomato sauce, and garlic butter fills the room, warm and comforting, reminding me there is life outside the world I have been raised in.
I grab a slice, the cheese stretching between the crust and the box, gooey and golden.
The first bite is heaven, the perfect balance of salt and heat, of soft dough and crisp edges.
The garlic lingers on my tongue, the tang of tomato cutting through the richness, and for the first time all night, I feel human again.
Luciana watches me with amusement.
"See, this is why you should eat with me instead of those soulless aristocrats upstairs."
I take another bite, closing my eyes for a brief moment, savoring it.
The dinner was a performance.
The food was meant to impress, to be photographed, to be praised and picked at but never truly enjoyed.
This, though… this is sustenance.
Luciana pulls a slice of pizza from the box, biting into it with a satisfied mmm .
"You know," she says, chewing thoughtfully, "you're wasting all that expensive tailoring by hiding away down here."
I roll my eyes, sinking further into my chair as I take another bite, the warmth of the food settling deep in my stomach.
"I'd rather be here than up there playing the part of a dutiful daughter."
She grins, wiping a smudge of sauce from her lip with the back of her hand. "And yet, there's at least one person up there who wouldn't mind you playing a different part."
I arch a brow, licking a bit of garlic butter from my thumb. "What are you talking about?"
Luciana leans in, her smirk widening. "Oh, come on, Aria. You really think I don't notice the way your eyes go all soft and dreamy around Enzo Moretti?"
The slice of pizza nearly slips from my fingers.
Heat spreads up my neck before I can stop it.
"I do not look soft and dreamy," I say quickly, too quickly.
Luciana lets out a laugh, leaning back against her pillows.
"Oh, you do. It's tragic, really. The fearsome Lombardi princess, all moony-eyed over the Salvatore family's deadliest hitman."
I throw a balled-up napkin at her, but she only dodges it, still grinning.
"It's not like that," I mutter, though even I can hear the lie in my own voice.
Luciana isn't fooled either.
She tilts her head, watching me with that knowing glint in her eyes. "No?"
I look away, suddenly very interested in my pizza.
But the image of Enzo fills my mind without permission.
Broad shoulders, lean muscle carved from a life of violence.
A scar that cuts through his brow, adding to the sharpness of his already chiseled face.
I think of the way his dark eyes always seem to see straight through me, stripping me bare without a single touch.
All of a sudden, the pizza tastes like cardboard and my appetite has gone twice over.
Luciana saw him once, and that was all it took to understand the way he sears himself into a room.
It was nearly a year ago, during one of the rare ceasefires.
The Salvatores had come to our estate under the guise of diplomacy, Luca and his brother Marco arriving with their inner circle, making just enough noise to let us know who held the stronger position.
It had been a week of pressed suits, formal dinners, and rehearsed smiles, Papa straining to keep the peace while quietly measuring the length of the knife behind their backs.
I had watched from the periphery, playing the part of the obedient daughter with a flute of sparkling wine in one hand and ice blooming in my chest.
They had entered our halls like with the graceful ease of men who have spent too much of their lives in money and violence to be afraid of danger.
Luca, the don of the Salvatore family, with his brother Marco beside him.
But it was the third man, the one who walked just behind them, who stole the breath from every room he entered without meaning to.
He didn't speak during the meetings.
He didn't greet the staff.
He didn't try to blend in or offer any kind of pretense.
He simply observed, his eyes sweeping across the estate with the same methodical attention he might've used to assess a target.
Dressed in black, with a sharp jaw and a presence carved from some older, colder world, he stood apart from the Salvatore entourage.
Even Marco, whose reputation for brutality extended across both coasts, seemed to give him space.
Enzo wasn't decorative muscle.
He was there for a reason, the unspoken deterrent that reminded Papa what would happen if diplomacy failed.
And yet there was nothing loud about him.
He didn't posture or sneer, but was coiled and unreadable, a man built for final acts.
I remember the way the light fell across his face as he stood beside the arched windows, the late afternoon sun casting long streaks across the room, making the scar that cuts across his brow more pronounced.
I hadn't meant to stare.
But when my fork slipped from my fingers and struck the floor, the clatter drawing every eye for a split second,