Page 25

Present

T he boutique smells of leather and expensive perfume, the kind of place where both are custom, and the sales associates pretend they don’t hear the whispers between women with last names that carry weight.

Lucia Falcone stands in front of a wall of handbags, her manicured fingers brushing over the smooth Italian leather of a deep emerald clutch.

The color is bold, rich, the kind a woman like her should wear with pride.

But her eyes are dull when she looks at it.

She knows I’m watching her. She has since we stepped into this store together, since I suggested a shopping trip after calling in an old favor. Tense, wary, like a cornered animal waiting for the trap to snap shut.

“I didn’t expect you to reach out,” she says finally, lifting the clutch and turning it over in her hands. Her tone is even, practiced, but I don’t miss the way her fingers tremble slightly on the gold clasp. “The Testas and Falcones aren’t exactly friendly these days.”

I keep my expression neutral, tilting my head as if considering the statement. “The daughters of the families have always understood things differently than the men, haven’t we?”

Lucia lets out a quiet breath, something close to a bitter laugh. “That’s true.”

I pick up a sleek black purse, examining the fine stitching. “And sometimes, it’s good to have a friend.”

Her lips press together, and for a moment, I think she’ll push back. But then she exhales, setting the clutch down. “Friendships not something we get the luxury of, Evany.”

No. We get alliances. We get calculated moves and delicate dances. We get survival.

I glance at her reflection in the floor-length mirror.

She’s stunning, the way all the mafia wives are expected to be—dark waves falling over her shoulders, curves that are meant to be displayed and envied.

But the makeup on her face is too heavy today, a little too perfect.

And when she turns slightly, I catch it.

A bruise, faint beneath the layers of foundation, just at the edge of her jaw.

Something inside me goes cold.

I set the purse down carefully. “Are you okay?”

She stiffens. It’s the slightest reaction, but I see it in the way her shoulders lock up, in the way she reaches for another bag like it’s something to anchor herself to. “Of course.”

I don’t look away. “Lucia.”

She hesitates, her fingers curling around the strap of a navy-blue handbag. The silence stretches. And then, so quietly I almost miss it, she says, “It’s mostly fine.”

Mostly.

The word grates against my nerves.

“Marriage is… an adjustment,” she adds, forcing a small smile. “But Rocco and Alessio are out most nights at Diamond Club, so I have the house to myself. It’s not so bad.”

Diamond Club. My mind locks onto the name instantly.

Lucia’s gaze flicks to mine in the mirror. “Why did you really ask me to come out today?”

I hold her stare, considering my answer. If I tell her the truth, she might warn them. If I lie, she’ll know.

So I choose something in between. “Because I know what it’s like to feel trapped.”

Relief flickers in her eyes, but it’s raw and fleeting, before she masks it with a scoff. “You? Please.”

I arch a brow.

She turns to face me fully, folding her arms across her chest. “You don’t get it, Evany.

You were never made to be someone’s wife.

Your uncle made you into a weapon, not property.

I had one role—be beautiful, be obedient, and birth the next generation of Falcones.

” She shakes her head, jaw tight. “Do you know what that’s like? ”

My throat tightens. Because, in a way, I do.

“I don’t envy you,” she murmurs, voice quieter now. “I admire you.”

That stuns me. I expected resentment. Expected jealousy, maybe even bitterness. But admiration?

Lucia huffs out a breath and shakes her head, like she’s shaking off whatever moment of honesty just slipped free. “Come on. Let’s get lunch.”

I nod, falling into step beside her. But as we leave the boutique, one thing is clear.

Lucia isn’t the kind of woman who would protect her husband.

And Rocco just became a much easier target.

I step into Il Fiore with Lucia, the hush of the restaurant a stark contrast to the chaos brewing in my head.

The place is upscale—white linen tablecloths, crystal stemware, waiters moving with quiet efficiency.

The scent of truffle oil and fresh bread lingers in the air, wrapping around us like a warm invitation.

Lucia walks beside me, her posture perfect, her movements elegant, but I don’t miss the tension in her shoulders. She’s used to playing a role—doll-like wife, silent possession. She wears it well, but I can see the fractures beneath the surface.

We’re led to a booth tucked away in the back, away from curious eyes and eager ears.

Privacy is a luxury in our world, one that’s rarely granted without intention.

The waiter pours us both glasses of Barolo without asking, because of course, they already know what we’ll be drinking.

I lift my glass, watching Lucia over the rim as she does the same.

“To marriage,” she says, her voice dry.

“To survival,” I counter, because that’s all this is.

She smirks but doesn’t argue, taking a sip before setting the glass down. “I suppose you want to ask about my husband.”

I lean back, tilting my head. “I don’t care about Rocco.” It’s not a lie. He’s nothing to me but a means to an end.

Lucia lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course you don’t. But you still want to know, don’t you?”

I don’t pretend to misunderstand. I set my glass down and glance at her, at the bruises she’s tried so hard to hide. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do.”

She exhales, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

I arch a brow. “So he only hits you when you deserve it?”

Lucia flinches, just barely, but I catch it. She glares at me, but there’s something tired in her eyes that says she’s too used to this. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”

She shakes her head, reaching for a piece of bread, tearing it apart like it’s personally offended her. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

None of us do. That’s the unspoken truth.

“Why do you admire me?” I ask, not bothering to soften the words.

Lucia looks up sharply, eyes flashing. “Why wouldn’t I? You get to be something. You get to be someone. My father—he groomed me to be a good wife, a good pawn . Your uncle made you a real part of the family.”

I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the deep red liquid catch the dim lighting. “You think that’s better?”

Lucia leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “I think it means you get to fight back.”

A beat of silence stretches between us, heavy with what neither of us say. She’s right about one thing. At least I get to carve my own way out.

“I suppose you’re right. But being right has consequences.”

She eyes me warily as our lunches are set down in front of us. “What does that mean?”

“It means I was never here.”