5. Laney
LANEY
The welcome dinner for Enzo started at seven.
I stood in front of the mirror in our bedroom, smoothing down the black dress I had chosen because it was safe and because Costanza could not find fault with it.
My hands were already shaking. I told myself it was just nerves, just the normal anxiety of a family dinner, but that was a lie and I knew it.
Massimo came up behind me, adjusting his cufflinks. He smelled like the cologne I had bought him two Christmases ago, woodsy and clean. For a second I thought he might say something. Tell me I looked nice. Ask if I was all right.
He checked his watch instead.
"We should go down," he said.
I nodded and followed him out of the room.
The formal dining room was already full by the time we arrived.
Candles flickered along the center of the long table, throwing shadows that made everyone look sharper, more dangerous.
The cousins filled the chairs on both sides, their voices loud and overlapping in that particular way families have when they are pretending everything is fine.
Aurelio sat at the head, smaller than I remembered, his hands trembling when he reached for his wine.
Costanza sat to his right, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. Enzo sat to his left.
He looked good.
That unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
Prison had not touched him the way I thought it would.
He was still lean, still sharp, still the version of Massimo's brother who could walk into a room and take it over without saying a word.
His suit fit him perfectly. His hair was shorter than it used to be, but it suited him.
He smiled at something one of the cousins said, and the smile did not reach his eyes.
Massimo guided me to our seats with a hand on the small of my back. The touch was brief. Automatic. He pulled my chair out, and I sat, folding my hands in my lap while he took the seat beside me.
I told myself to relax. This was just dinner. I had sat through dozens of these. Hundreds, maybe, in the ten years I had been part of this family. I knew how they worked. Smile. Nod. Stay quiet unless someone asked me a direct question. Do not bring up my work. Do not embarrass Massimo.
But I could not shake the feeling that everyone was watching me.
Enzo caught my eye from across the table and raised his glass slightly, like a toast. I did not know what to do with that, so I looked down at my plate.
The first course arrived. Some kind of seafood thing I did not recognize. I picked up my fork and waited for everyone else to start.
Massimo touched my hand briefly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. I wanted to hold on, to thread my fingers through his and feel like we were on the same side of whatever this was. But he pulled away to reach for his fork, and the moment was gone. The gesture felt automatic, like patting a dog.
"So," Enzo said, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around us. He was looking directly at me. "Laney. Still digging holes in the dirt?"
The table went quiet.
Every fork stopped moving. Every conversation died mid-sentence.
I froze with my own fork halfway to my mouth, my stomach dropping so fast it felt like the floor had given out beneath me.
Heat rushed to my face, prickling along my neck and up into my hairline.
I set the fork down carefully, my hand shaking just enough that the metal clinked against the plate.
Don't answer. Just don't.
"She's been working that site for years," one of the cousins said from down the table, grinning like he had just told the best joke in the world. "What's she found so far? Rocks?"
Another cousin laughed, the sound sharp and ugly. "Maybe a pot."
"Pottery shards," the first one corrected, like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. "Broken pottery. Very important."
The laughter spread down the table. Not loud.
Not cruel, exactly. But enough. Enough to make my throat go tight and my chest ache and my hands feel too hot in my lap.
I stared at my plate and willed myself not to react.
My pulse was hammering in my ears. I folded my hands together under the table where no one could see them shake.
Massimo did not laugh.
I glanced at him, desperate for something. Anything. A look. A word. Some small sign that he was on my side.
His face was neutral. Almost blank. He cut into his fish with the same steady precision he always had, like nothing had happened. Like Enzo had asked about the weather and the cousins had agreed it might rain.
Say something. The thought burned through me, desperate and sharp and humiliating. Defend me. Tell them the work matters. Tell them to stop. Tell them I'm not a joke.
But he did not.
He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Reached for his wine and took a careful sip, his eyes on his plate the whole time.
I sat there with my pulse hammering in my ears and said nothing.
What could I say? That the dig mattered?
That I had spent ten years tracing their family line back to the Roman era, that my work was published in journals they had never heard of, that professors in Rome cited my papers?
I could hear how it would sound before I even opened my mouth.
Defensive. Small. Like I was a silly American trying to convince them I had value.
So I stayed silent.
The conversation moved on. One of the cousins asked Enzo about someone I did not know, and Enzo answered in a low voice that made everyone lean in to hear.
His voice was smooth. Controlled. He sounded like Massimo when he was doing business, that particular blend of authority and ease that made people listen whether they wanted to or not.
I picked up my fork again and forced myself to take a bite.
The fish tasted like nothing. I chewed and swallowed and tried not to think about how badly I wanted to leave.
Massimo's knee brushed mine under the table. I did not know if it was an accident or on purpose. I did not move away.
Rosaria was watching me.
She sat three seats down, across from Massimo, and when I caught her eye she gave me a small smile. It was kind. Warm, even. It surprised me enough that I almost smiled back, my throat tightening with something that felt dangerously close to tears.
"Laney," she said gently, her voice cutting through Enzo's story just enough to draw the attention away from him. "How is Sofia? I have not seen her in weeks. I miss that sweet girl."
I swallowed hard and found my voice. "She's good. She's been asking about you, actually. She wanted to know when you were coming to visit again."
"Davvero?" Rosaria's smile widened, her whole face softening. "Tell her I will come soon. She is such a joy, Laney. You have done a beautiful job with her."
"Thank you," I said, and meant it. Rosaria had always been kind to me, in a family where kindness felt like currency nobody wanted to spend on the American daughter-in-law.
She had been the one who held my hand during Sofia's birth when Massimo was stuck in a meeting he could not leave.
She had been the one who taught me how to make Massimo's favorite dish when I was still trying to prove I could fit into this family.
She had never once made me feel like I was less than I was.
Until now.
Rosaria tilted her head slightly, her expression shifting into something I could not quite read. There was sympathy there. Maybe pity. Her smile stayed, but her eyes went careful.
"You know," she said, her tone still gentle but quieter now, like she was telling me a secret, "Costanza and Vittoria were speaking the other day. I overheard them in the sitting room. Your name came up more than once."
My chest tightened. The air in the room felt too thick, too warm. I could not get a full breath. "Oh?"
She nodded slowly, but did not elaborate. Just looked at me with those soft, knowing eyes, like she was waiting to see if I would ask. Like she wanted me to ask.
I did not ask.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. The question was right there, sitting on my tongue, desperate to get out.
What did they say? What were they talking about?
What do they want? But asking felt dangerous.
Like stepping into a room I knew had no light, no floor, nothing to catch me when I fell.
If Costanza and Vittoria were talking about me, it was not to say anything good.
And if Rosaria was not telling me what they said, it was because she thought I was better off not knowing.
Or maybe she was giving me a warning.
Either way, I was not going to chase it. Not here. Not with the whole table listening.
"Well," I said, keeping my voice as light as I could manage, "I'm sure it was nothing important."
Rosaria's smile did not falter, but something in her eyes flickered. Sympathy, maybe. Definitely pity. She reached across the table and patted my hand once, briefly, her fingers warm and dry against my skin.
"Of course," she said softly.
Then she turned to Aurelio and asked him something about the estate, her voice shifting back into the easy warmth she always had, and just like that, the moment passed.
I reached for my water glass and took a long drink, trying to steady myself. My hand was still shaking. I set the glass down and pressed my palms flat against my thighs, hidden under the table, and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
Massimo still had not looked at me.
The family moved on to other things. Business, mostly.
Aurelio asked Enzo something about a shipment, his voice thin and shaky, and Enzo answered in that same low, controlled tone that made everyone stop and listen.
One of the cousins mentioned a property deal that had gone through.
Another brought up someone's wedding. Costanza commented on the wine, her voice cool and precise, and everyone murmured agreement like she had said something profound.
I sat there and tried to look like I belonged.
It was not the first time I had felt like this.
Like an outsider in my own husband's family.
Like someone they tolerated because Massimo had chosen me and there was nothing they could do about it now.
I had felt it at our wedding, when Costanza had looked at me like I was a stain on her son's perfect life.
I had felt it every time I tried to talk about my work and got polite, empty smiles in return, the kind that said they were humoring me but did not actually care.
But tonight it was sharper.
Enzo's words had drawn blood, and nobody had stepped in to stop it.
Not even Massimo.
I glanced at him again. He was talking to the cousin on his other side now, his voice low and easy, his posture relaxed. He looked comfortable. Like this was just another dinner, just another night with his family. Like nothing had happened.
Why didn't you say anything?
The question sat in my chest, heavy and sour, making it hard to breathe. I knew I would not ask it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Because asking meant admitting that I needed him to defend me, and admitting that felt like admitting I could not defend myself.
Which was ridiculous. I was a grown woman. I had published work. I had spent ten years on a dig that nobody else in this family could even understand, let alone accomplish. I knew things they would never know. I had built something that mattered.
But sitting here, with Enzo's mockery still hanging in the air and the cousins' laughter still ringing in my ears, none of that felt like it mattered.
Not to them.
Maybe not even to Massimo.
The dinner went on.
More courses arrived. The staff moved quietly around the table, clearing plates and refilling glasses with a precision that spoke of years of practice.
They did not look at anyone. Did not speak unless spoken to.
I wondered if they heard everything that happened at this table. I wondered if they pitied me too.
Enzo told a story about someone I had never met, something about a deal that had gone sideways and then come back around. Everyone laughed. Massimo laughed too, just once, a short, low sound that made my stomach twist into a knot.
He could laugh at Enzo's jokes.
But he could not defend me when Enzo tore me down.
I hated how much that hurt. I hated that it surprised me. I should have known better by now.
Rosaria caught my eye again, just for a second, and the sympathy in her expression nearly undid me. I looked away before I could do something stupid, like cry.
Get a grip, I told myself. You've survived worse than this.
But I was not sure that was true anymore.
The candles burned lower, their flames guttering in some draft I could not feel.
Someone asked for more wine, and one of the staff appeared with a fresh bottle.
Costanza said something about the weather turning cold, and one of the cousins agreed, launching into a story about a storm last winter.
Aurelio's hand shook when he lifted his glass, and for a moment I felt a flicker of something that might have been pity.
Then I remembered that he was the head of this family. That he had built the world I was sitting in. That he had raised Massimo to value peace over everything, even his wife.
The pity died.
I folded my napkin carefully in my lap and waited for the dinner to end.
Enzo looked at me once more, just before dessert arrived. He did not say anything. Just looked. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and something about the way he watched me made my skin crawl. It was not the look you gave someone you had just mocked. It was sharper than that. Colder.
Calculating.
This was not over.
I did not know what this even was yet, but I knew it was not over.
Massimo reached for the dessert menu, and his shoulder brushed mine. The touch was brief. Impersonal. It might as well have been a stranger sitting next to me.
I picked up my fork when the tiramisu arrived and forced myself to take a bite. It was good. Of course it was good. Everything at this table was always perfect.
Except me.
The dinner went on.