Chapter 54
Chapter Fifty-Four
VIOLA
Annie makes the introductions.
A smooth, practiced circle of names to match perfectly polished smiles.
I sit here with my hands folded neatly in my lap, and I let their names wash over me.
I nod at the right moments, murmur the expected “Nice to meet you,” but inside I’m already detaching, watching everything from a safe distance the way I’ve learned to do for years.
Then the segue happens.
Effortless. Inevitable. The way these women always steer the conversation exactly where they want it to go, like they’ve choreographed the entire morning.
One of them leans forward. If I remember correctly, her name is Suzie. She has sharp cheekbones and perfectly arched brows. Her diamond earrings catch the sunlight streaming through the tall windows and flash like tiny blades. She tilts her head, the smile on her lips never quite reaching her eyes.
“So,” Suzie says, her voice deceptively light, “this has to be the fastest wedding in the history of weddings.” She lets the words hang there like a challenge.
Another woman, Mariella, I believe, chimes in right on cue, her tone bright but edged with unmistakable envy. “How did that even happen?”
All eyes turn to me.
My heart is thumping against my ribs, but I keep my expression perfectly calm. The cool mask I perfected over years of living in Salvatore’s suffocating house slides into place effortlessly — smooth, impenetrable, the only thing that has ever kept me safe.
I’ve rehearsed this answer in my head many times. Clean. Simple. Safe.
“It was of mutual benefit,” I say quietly. “I had information that could help him in his new role, and he offered me safety and security.”
The words leave my lips with the practiced ease of someone who has spent four years learning exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back. I don’t elaborate. I don’t smile. I simply meet their gazes one by one, letting the statement sit there between us like a closed door.
For a moment, no one speaks.
I can feel the subtle shift in the air — the way their smiles tighten just a fraction, the flicker of surprise mixed with something sharper, hungrier. They hadn’t expected me to answer so directly and yet give nothing away. They’d wanted more. They always want more.
But I’ll give them nothing else.
Suzie is first to speak, her words dripping with fake sweetness and a subtle mocking undertone that makes the rest of them lean in a fraction. “Must be nice.”
Another one, I’ve already forgotten her name jumps in, her tone saccharine. “My husband says he married me for love, yikes I guess.”
The dig is clear — sharp, deliberate, meant to cut.
It should sting. Part of me waits for the familiar twist of shame or anger, but instead I feel a flicker of dark amusement.
I don’t care. Not really. Their opinions have never mattered to me, and they matter even less now.
I simply sip my mimosa, letting the cool bubbles dance across my tongue, and say nothing.
One of the women lets out a soft, mocking little laugh. “What kind of information would make a man like Ricci Santori marry you?”
I smile sweetly “If I tell you, I’ll have to tell my husband to kill you.”
She rears back in surprise, and the others twitter nervously.
They move on quickly after that, turning the conversation to the charity gala like nothing happened.
Their voices are bright and animated as they discuss themes, decorations, guest lists, the perfect shade of linen for the tables.
They purposely leave me out, talking around me as if I’m not even there.
I sit back in my chair, the leather cool against my back, and let them.
I don’t need to be part of their little circle.
I never have. Part of me wants to simply walk out, after all, I have done what I came to do, but then they will know they’ve won. Their condescending smiles get to me.
Annie turns to me with a big smile, as though she’s doing me a favor by remembering I exist. “Do you have any ideas, Viola? We’d love to hear your thoughts.”
I shake my head calmly. “No, I don’t. It looks like you all have everything under control anyway.” I look around the table. “But I’d be happy to support by writing a check.”
Ricci was right. The table goes instantly dead quiet. The insult is blatant, and it lands exactly where Ricci said it would. Their eyes narrow with envy and spite. I keep my expression pleasant, neutral.
I set my napkin down neatly and stand. “I should go. Thank you for having me. I’ll look forward to seeing you all at the gala.”
One of the women can’t help herself. “Are the rumors true?” she asks, her tone laced with satisfaction. “You really married Ricci Santori because Salvatore left you nothing?”
I meet her eyes without flinching. “Yes,” I say simply. “The rumors are true. Ricci saved me.”
I say a polite goodbye, turn and walk away.
The relief hits me the moment I’m out of their sight.
I promise myself right there, walking through the mall, that I will never get involved with them again.
They’re not bad women. They have husbands who are unfaithful and bully them, so they have to find someone weaker than them to bully.
But it reminds me once again of why I never had any interest in engaging with them in the past.
I step into the waiting car. “Take me to the studio, please.”
I need to throw more pieces. I need to get my hands dirty again and feel like myself.