Page 18

Chapter Thirteen

Francesca

D ante is behaving strangely and not in a way that eases my nerves. It’s the kind of strange that makes my skin prickle with unease. The kind that feels like the calm before something brutal.

He’s… nice.

Not just in front of the children but even when they’re out of earshot.

Polite. Almost gentle. And I don’t know what to make of it.

I keep my distance as much as I can, avoiding him like it’s a matter of survival.

It feels like one. But in those unavoidable moments when we cross paths, brief exchanges over breakfast, a passing glance in the hallway, he watches me. Quiet. Intent.

Like he’s trying to see beneath my skin, into the marrow of me, searching for the truth I haven’t told. As if he’s still waiting for me to betray him again. As if he doesn’t know I no longer have it in me.

The only things keeping me breathing now are the children and the fragile hope that one day, Dante will grow tired of having a nanny as a wife. That he’ll find a woman who suits his world better, someone who fits the role in public and private, and when that happens… maybe he’ll let me go.

It’s all I have left to cling to. That quiet, desperate hope that one day he’ll be done punishing me. And that when he is, I’ll finally be free.

The children are starting school in a couple of days, which means I’ll have to find a way to occupy myself. Maybe this is when he’ll start giving me more maid duty or, worse… treat me more like his whore.

He hasn’t initiated anything since our wedding night three weeks ago. Not even a touch. And somehow, that feels worse. Like a sword hanging over my head, its blade gleaming, waiting to fall.

Maybe I was such a poor fuck he decided I wasn’t worth the effort. I don’t know why, but the thought stings.

“Papa!”

Lucia’s voice pulls me from the spiral in my head. I glance up just in time to see her launch herself into Dante’s waiting arms.

I set my paintbrush down and watch them, heart aching with something I can’t name. I’m happy for her, truly—but a part of me throbs deep in my chest. The part I keep buried. The little girl I used to be, still somewhere inside me, small and suffocating.

I didn’t grow up wanting perfection. I just wanted to be seen. To be held without fear. To speak without flinching. But the world got too heavy, too sharp, too loud. And my voice went quiet. Muted.

But I remember her. And when I look at Lucia, I fight for her. Because if she gets to keep even a small piece of the light I lost, then maybe that girl inside me hasn’t been diminished completely.

“We’re all ready for school,” Lucia announces proudly.

“Is that right?” Dante replies, but he’s not looking at her when he says it. He’s looking at me.

And I can’t hold his gaze for long.

Because if I keep looking, I won’t see just the father, the man pretending to have decency. If I look a little longer, I’ll see the other version. The one who spit in my face. The one who held a gun to my head and called me a whore.

I drop my eyes and turn away, starting to pack up the painting materials.

“Yes. We went to get all the supplies after the school orientation.”

“Where’s Alessio?”

“In the salon,” I say, and despite myself, I smile faintly. “He’s preparing for his next pirate mission.”

“Ah.” Dante’s tone softens a notch. “And who is this mission against?”

I hesitate, the answer on my tongue, but I bite it back. I’m not here to amuse him. I’m not here for anything except the children.

“Cece!” Lucia pipes up brightly. “She’s gonna be the queen mermaid! Chasing him from her sea.”

Dante arches a brow. “So, you’re a queen now?”

“Only in the fictional realm,” I reply coolly, keeping my tone light, my smile controlled. “I know my place.”

The words land. I see it in the way his mouth tightens and his jaw ticks.

I force myself to remember. The pressure of his fingers on my face. The sting. The heat. The spit.

I reach up reflexively, wiping the corner of my cheek, and I know the moment he registers the gesture. His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken. He knows exactly what memory I’ve just brought to the surface.

“Lucia,” he says quietly, still watching me. “Why don’t you go help your brother plan his attack? I need to speak with Cece.”

I don't like him calling me Cece. He has no right to do so.

Lucia hesitates, looking between us, but I paste on a soft smile and nod at her. “Go on, little fish. Your pirate needs you.”

She darts off, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, and suddenly, the room feels colder.

He steps forward, and I brace myself. The silence between us stretches, heavy and charged.

He stays where he is for a moment, like he’s unsure how to start. His jaw works, then stills. Finally, he takes another step closer.

“I just wanted to say… you’ve been doing a good job. With the children.”

I don’t answer. Just nod once and keep my eyes on the brushes I’m cleaning, the movements deliberate and methodical.

“They’re happy,” he continues, his voice lower now. “They feel safe. That’s because of you.”

Still, I say nothing. I keep tidying, keeping my hands busy when everything else inside me is anything but.

Another step. “Francesca.” Softer this time. Almost… tentative. “Can we talk?”

“I thought we were,” I reply, flat and clipped, still not meeting his gaze.

He exhales slowly, and I feel the frustration in it even more than I hear it. “Not like this.”

Finally, I glance up just for a second. “Ah, of course,” I say coolly.

His posture shifts, a flicker of relief on his face, but it’s short-lived. I reach into my bag and pull out a folded stack of papers, setting them on the counter between us like a shield.

“These are the required purchases for the children,” I say. “It’s a lot for a first year, if you ask me, but I suppose it makes sense for an elite school.”

“That’s not?—”

“I used the card you provided,” I continue, cutting him off. “But only for the children. Nothing personal. Everything falls within the limits you set. ”

“You’re allowed to buy things for yourself,” he says quietly.

I ignore that. “The orientation went well. A lot of documents, schedules, policies. I’ll organize them into a folder by Monday so you can look over everything… or pass it on to whoever replaces me.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

His expression hardens, the faint hint of warmth vanishing.

“What replacement?” His tone sharpens in an instant.

I hesitate for only a second too long before answering. “I assumed that eventually, you’d find a proper wife. Someone fitting.”

“Fitting for what?”

“For you. For this house. For the image. Isn’t that what all of this is?” I gesture vaguely between us. “Temporary.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Not anger exactly, something murkier. Something messier.

“You think I’d replace you like staff?” he asks, his tone calm but dangerous. “Like a broken vase or a maid who overstepped?”

“But isn’t that exactly what I am?” I say with resolve. “A punishment. That’s what you told me I was the night you married me. You didn’t choose a wife, Dante. You chose a sentence.”

His jaw tightens, that familiar tic pulsing at his temple. “I did what I had to do. You’re the one who lied. The one who spied.”

I lift my hands, a quiet surrender laced with exhaustion. “Yes. Of course. You’ve been so generous in your cruelty. I can hardly keep up with the gratitude.”

The silence pulses between us, thick with everything we’ll never say.

“I’m just… waiting,” I continue softly. “For the day you get tired of your little war prize and find someone who fits better on your arm. Someone worthy of the Forzi name.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off.

“I’ve arranged everything for the children. Their schedules, supplies, school files. That’s my only focus now. I’ll do my job until you release me. But don’t pretend this is something it’s not.”

I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m not your wife, Dante. I’m your punishment. Your nanny. Your maid. Your?—”

“Enough ,” he snaps, but his voice isn’t as sharp as it used to be. It sounds almost… winded.

“So what? You’re just going to go full martyr now? Saint Francesca, Nanny Killjoy?” He says it like a man trying to claw his way back to having the upper hand. But he’s too late. The damage is already done.

The name almost makes me laugh. Almost. I lift my chin, meeting his eyes squarely. “Tempting title. But I can’t be Nanny Killjoy”—I offer a brittle smile—“because there’s no joy left in this house to kill.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, I think he might say something real. But then his jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, guilt, maybe. Or self-loathing. And then his voice drops, low and ugly. “I think I might visit your room tonight.”

The air leaves my lungs. My throat tightens, but I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze with all the cold control I can muster. “You do as you must,” I say simply. “It’s your house. Your bed. Your whore.”

His breath catches. It’s sharp, like a wound he didn’t expect to feel. But I don’t wait to see how deep it cuts.

I turn and collect the brushes, stacking them one by one. Calm. Methodical. Behind me, the silence stretches. When I finally glance back, he’s gone.

And I stand there in the quiet, trembling slightly but still standing. Still breathing. Still me.

Children are exhausting. And I mean that in the best possible way. They’re loud and demanding and full of questions I don’t always have the answers to. But their chaos is honest. Their needs are simple. They don’t lie or manipulate or punish love.

And thank God for that.

Because by the time they’re finally tucked in and asleep, I have nothing left. Not even the energy to spiral into my usual overthinking. No dread, no rage, no grief tonight, just bone-deep fatigue.

And all I want is a shower. Hot water. Silence. My bed.

Nothing more. Just a moment to pretend I’m not a prisoner in silk.