Page 23

I'd left Italy for America at the young age of twelve. I'd gone to a boarding high school and afterwards, traveled around Europe and North America before entering Yale. It's an excuse for why my Italian isn't perfect, but I try.
I zone in on the girl before me. She still isn't looking at me. And just as I guessed, she isn't comfortable with my Italian, so she refers back to English. “He’s fair,” she says, careful.
I smile at her down-turned head. It's obvious she's hedging. Fair doesn’t mean kind, but it's fine. I don't push it. I tell her to put the tray down and draw my bath. She happily skips to do my bidding.
When she's done, she comes out to inform me. I thank her and leave the rest of the tea to go take my bath. Perhaps, that'd soothe me.
The bath is steaming, scented with rose oil, just how I like it. I'd submitted my preferences to the head maid a week before on the day I visited Enzo and caught him with his whore. I shut down that memory.
Instead, I sink into the bath, letting the heat loosen the knots in my muscles, the delicious soreness in my joints. My mind drifts to the wedding, to Enzo’s kiss, and then last night, his mouth on my pussy, his cock filling me while I shamelessly urged him on.
Ugh. I'm no different from his whores.
I scrub my skin hard, trying to wash away the memory, the way my body craved him—still craves him. He’s my enemy, a Mancini, and I’m here, playing his wife. How fucked up is that?
But last night I wasn’t playing—I was his, and I hate myself for it.God.It's all so messed up. I don't need my judgement clouded. If I'm going to hate him, it has to be completely.
I try to recall what preceded the hot sex session. It's a haze, as though it had happened eons ago and not just yesterday. What the hell is Enzo doing to me? I remember the introduction to his men, and I focus on the memory. I focus on Matteo’s easy laugh as he'd teased me yesterday evening. Would he be displeased that Enzo had let himself lose control with me? I shake my head vigorously and go back to the recollection of memory.
I’d held my own with his men. I don’t think he expected it. Despite that I'd spent most of my time overseas, and I didn't get introduced to the family business earlier, I have a lot of Rossi blood in me. Which means I'm not a pushover. I'm not easily intimidated, no matter what.
The bath water is cooling now and I step out of it. I towel myself dry before proceeding to the room to get dressed. I dress in a black blouse and tailored pants, my dark curls pulled back, ready for business. Whoever said a nice bath is an antidote to every trouble hadn't lied.
My phone buzzes, and I grab it as I settle at a desk. It’s Aida, calling to keep me up to date about the business I'm in charge of. Her voice is like a lifeline to an old life, a life I'm itching to get back to. But I don't dwell on it as I dive into the money laundering operation I run on the side for Papa. We talk numbers, accounts, fronts—millions funneled through shell companies, clean as snow. Aida’s thorough, catching me up on every move.
After we're done, Aida launches into idle chatter. “Fina, you missed chaos,” she says, her tone all drama. I imagine her with her legs crossed at the ankles and her eyes alight as she narrates what I've missed to me. Aida has always had a penchant for drama.
“Tell me,” I urge. Back home, I never indulged in gossip or drama, for that matter. My life's packed full of problems already. But right now, I can't help but indulge. I need to rid myself of the memory of last night.
“Riccardo’s back, and he's stirring shit. He tried to reroute a shipment, but Carlos handled it on Signor Rossi's order.”
My laughter is mocking. “Good. Better to keep him in line.”
It's on the tip of my tongue to ask whether there's any indication from Papa that he misses me. He'd after all given me out without a thought to my feelings. It's only karmic that he misses his dear daughter. But I doubt he does. And even if he misses me, he's not one to show it. He hasn't called, not that I expect him to. And I won't call him either. I have his stubborn streak after all.
“You’re missed,” Aida says, her voice softer now.
Unable to help it, I say, “by whom?”
“By everyone. Even Luis. I told you he had a thing for you. He won't shut up about how he thinks it's a mistake that you're married to Enzo Mancini.”
I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it.”
“This place isn’t the same without you, Serafina.”
My throat tightens, but I brush it off. “I’m fine,” I say, voice firm. “I’m keeping Enzo in line and everything is going well.” I shudder at the lie. “Just keep things tight.”
I want to add, “and look after Papa,” but I decide against it and hang up before Aida can launch into more chatter.
The call had grounded me and my head's exactly where it should be. I head downstairs for breakfast, my heels clicking on the spiral staircase. Enzo’s manor unfolds around me, all sharp angles and old wealth. The halls are lined with dark stone, etched with vines, and tall windows spill light onto floors of black marble.
Paintings hang heavy, faces of dead Mancinis staring down, their eyes cold. The air carries hints of cedar and wax, like a vault sealed tight. It’s not grand or warm—it’s a fortress, built to intimidate, and I feel its weight.
To intimidate whom? Certainly not me. I walk taller, refusing to shrink. I wonder what awaits me in the dining room. Wonder if I'll have my first breakfast with myhusband. The word sounds ridiculous. It'll never sound right. My stomach twists at the thought of breakfast with him, his presence a live wire I can’t possibly dodge.
In the dining room, a long table waits, set for one. Relief surges through me like lightning. I hadn't realized how much I'd been counting on not seeing Enzo here.
The head maid, an older woman with grey streaks in her bun, greets me. “Signora, breakfast is served,” she says, her voice formal. “Signor Mancini regrets he cannot join you. He isn't back from the mission he went on last night.”