2. Aria #2
I looked up and found his gaze already on me.
He didn't look away, not even when my cheeks flushed.
He just sat there, gaze dropping to my mouth, then lower, like he was already imagining me on my knees, lips parted, thighs spread.
The corner of his mouth lifted knowingly, as if he could see the ache building between my legs and was already counting the ways he'd ruin me for anyone else.
I'd always been an obedient girl to my parents, tolerating most of their whims because, for all their conservative tyranny, they gave me a life most would be grateful for.
And yet… after Enzo, I realized obedience had never been the same as loyalty.
He touched me once—truly touched me—and suddenly I couldn't stand the taste of being controlled, not in the kitchen, not in the dining hall, not in the bed they'd one day try to barter me into.
After Enzo, I didn't just want freedom.
I ached for it.
Luciana had been serving drinks that evening, dressed in her plain black uniform, invisible to most.
But not to Enzo.
I remember her telling me later, when the Salvatores had gone, that he had scanned the room like a man memorizing blueprints.
That she'd caught him watching not just the exits, but the rhythm of the servers, the places we kept weapons, the way Papa gestured with his ringed hand when he was lying.
She noticed the way his posture stiffened every time Marco leaned too close to one of the younger waitstaff.
The way he always positioned himself between Luca and the nearest threat.
Even among wolves, Enzo moved differently.
Luciana never said it aloud, but I think she respected that about him.
He wasn't like the other men who came to our estate, the ones who leered behind cigars and thought they owned the world because they could buy silence.
Enzo didn't need to boast or flex his reach.
He didn't need anyone to fear him because they already did.
And as for me, I hadn't forgotten the way I'd felt under his gaze.
I hadn't spoken a word to him, but later on, when cornered me in the gazebo and challenged me in a way I'd never dreamed was possible, I surrendered like a rabbit to a wolf.
Luciana's words echo now in the small room, half-teasing, half-knowing, but I don't need her to finish the thought.
She saw him once, but I've never stopped seeing him.
And no matter how far I run, no matter how well I bury the truth beneath layers of silk and obedience, I know exactly where my mind drifts the moment my guard slips.
Luciana cackles, pointing at me. "You're blushing."
I scowl. "I am not blushing."
She only grins wider. "You're picturing him, aren't you? I bet you're thinking about his hands. Among other things, haha!"
I groan, dropping my head into my hands as she dissolves into laughter.
"You're the worst," I grumble.
Luciana takes another bite, chewing smugly. "You love me."
I shake my head, but my lips twitch. "Not as much as you love—" I pause for effect, meeting her gaze before finishing, "Damiano Russo."
Luciana chokes on her pizza.
I smirk as she coughs, pounding her chest, eyes wide. "Excuse me?" she wheezes.
"Oh, you heard me." I lean forward, resting my chin in my palm. "I see the way you watch him."
Luciana's face darkens to a deep shade of crimson. "I do not watch Damiano Russo."
I let out a soft tsk , enjoying the rare moment of turning the tables on her.
"You absolutely do. Every time he's on duty in the courtyard, you suddenly find reasons to take the long way around."
"That is slander," she hisses, but she refuses to meet my eyes.
"Damiano," I repeat, dragging out the name just to watch her squirm. "Big, broody, always standing around like a statue carved out of pure irritation."
Luciana huffs, grabbing another slice as if she can chew her way out of this conversation. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I grin. "You so do."
She shoves the pizza into her mouth, cheeks burning as she chews aggressively.
I chuckle, shaking my head as I push my plate away.
The teasing has done its job, offering a brief, well-timed reprieve from the pressure building behind my eyes.
For a few blessed minutes, it almost felt like an ordinary night.
But warmth fades, laughter dies down, and reality always has a way of pulling its chair back up to the table.
I take a slow breath and press my fingers against the edge of the seat, grounding myself.
The thought I've been avoiding isn't going to wait quietly much longer.
"Luciana."
She looks up, still a little smug from getting the last word.
"What?"
I meet her gaze and say it plainly, because there's no elegant way to wrap this in sarcasm.
"I'm three weeks late."
Luciana doesn't say anything right away.
She just looks at me like I've said something truly inconvenient.
"What?"
I press my fingertips together, trying not to fidget. "I haven't gotten my period."
She pushes the pizza box aside, no drama, just a quiet dismissal like it's now beneath her attention. "You're sure?"
I nod.
She sits back slightly, her expression shifting from mildly horrified to clinically interested. "So. We're doing this."
"I haven't told anyone," I add. "Not a soul. I didn't even let myself think it until tonight."
Luciana taps a nail against the table, not fast, just enough to prove she's already three steps ahead. "All right. We need to confirm it before we panic. Quietly."
I look at her. "How?"
She stands, straightening her dress like this is just another item on her to-do list. "I'll get a test."
"Luciana—"
She pauses at the doorway. "If you're about to ask me not to make a scene, you're about three weeks too late."
I nod, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.
She hesitates for half a second before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Alone, I sink back into the chair, my gaze falling to the pizza box.
The scent still lingers, warm and rich, but I don't reach for another slice.
I rise from the chair, my limbs stiff, my dress still pressed with the shape of where I had been sitting.
The wooden floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I make my way to the door, slipping out into the dim corridors of the lower level.
The estate is still, the remnants of the evening lingering in the form of faint footsteps echoing from the upper halls, the clink of silver trays being cleared away.
Somewhere beyond the thick walls, the city moves on, but in here, time feels stretched thin.
I climb the grand staircase, my fingers grazing the carved railing as I ascend, my pulse steady but too loud in my ears.
The paintings of my ancestors loom along the walls, their eyes following me, their expressions carved from centuries of legacy and expectation.
The house feels cavernous at this hour, the air thick with the scent of cigars and expensive cologne, remnants of the men who had occupied the dining hall.
By the time I reach my room, my hands feel unsteady, my body tense with something I don't want to name.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in a space that feels both too vast and too suffocating all at once.
I reach for my phone, pressing Enzo's number before I can second-guess myself.
It rings once. Then again.
Then the line cuts out.
I stare at the screen, frustration twisting inside me.
Where is he?
Tossing the phone onto my vanity, I drag a hand through my hair before unfastening the delicate clasps of my dress.
The silk pools at my feet, discarded without thought as I reach for my chemise.
The fabric is cool against my skin, thin and weightless as I slip it over my shoulders, my fingers tracing along the lines of my stomach without thinking.
My thoughts drift before I can stop them.
I remember the way Enzo's hands had roamed over my skin, the roughness of his palms against the softness of my body.
The heat of his breath as he whispered things meant only for me.
The way his grip had tightened when I arched beneath him, his body heavy over mine, the press of him claiming me in ways I shouldn't have allowed but never once regretted.
My fingers curl into the fabric at my waist, gripping it, gathering it, the memory of him still imprinted on my skin.
A knock at the door jolts me back to the present.
I release the gathered silk, smoothing it over my thighs before crossing the room.
The handle is cool beneath my fingertips as I unlock the door, pulling it open just enough for Luciana to slip inside.
She moves quickly, closing the door behind her, her expression unreadable.
She presses a small brown paper bag into my hands.
"First thing in the morning." Her eyes are full of worry for me, and before she steps away, she envelops me in a tight hug.
Her gaze searches mine, waiting for reassurance, maybe, or permission to be as terrified as I am.
My throat tightens as I clutch the bag to my chest. "Luciana…" My voice quivers, raw in a way I rarely allow it to be.
Her shoulders loosen, the fire in her eyes dimming just a little.
"It's going to be okay."
I nod, though neither of us believes it.
"Thank you."
She gives my hand a squeeze before slipping out, leaving me alone with the one thing I cannot ignore any longer.
I set the bag down on my nightstand, staring at it as if it might change the reality of what it contains.
The bed feels cold when I finally crawl beneath the sheets, the silk smooth against my skin but offering none of the comfort I crave.
I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my thoughts churn relentlessly.
I don't know how long I lay there, shifting, staring at the ceiling, at the faint glow of the city spilling through the curtains.
The night stretches on, and eventually, exhaustion overtakes me.
When morning arrives, I rise before the sun, the room still draped in shadows as I make my way to the bathroom.
My fingers tremble as I unwrap the test, as I follow the instructions Luciana had whispered to me the night before.
Minutes pass like hours.
I stare at the counter, the world narrowing to the small strip of plastic in front of me.
Then, finally, I force myself to look. The result is clear.
Two lines.
No room for doubt, then.
The truth settles in my chest, heavy and irreversible.
I am pregnant.