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Chapter Eleven

Nora

S ometimes, I forget I’m at war with my body. Sometimes, I forget that no matter what I do, it’s a war I can never truly win. And then, out of nowhere, life reminds me in the cruelest way and at the most unlikely moments.

This morning was one of those reminders.

I woke up feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all, the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, even though I’d spent the night in bed. Every joint in my body ached, each one screaming for attention as if they’d decided to unite in protest. The dull, constant pain that I’ve learned to live with was louder today, refusing to be ignored, making it impossible to find any comfort.

I’m not sure when it started—this flare-up, as the doctors call it. Maybe it was the stress of the wedding, the uncertainty of my new life, or the tension that continues between Rafaele and me. Or perhaps it’s just another reminder that no matter how much I try to push forward, my body has its own plans.

And I’ve never felt so alone.

Because here, no one knows. Here, I’ve pretended to be so normal that I almost forgot who I really was. I’ve built this image of strength, of resilience, but it’s fragile. It’s a mask I wear to fit into a world that doesn’t have room for weakness.

But today, I can’t ignore it. Today, the mask feels too heavy, and I’m struggling to keep it in place.

Here, I can’t talk about it. I can’t admit that I’m struggling, that every step I take feels like walking through quicksand, that every breath is an effort. Rafaele doesn’t know, and I don’t know how to tell him. How do you explain to someone that you’re not just tired, that it’s not something a good night’s sleep can fix? How can I explain that I’m not good enough to be his wife or anyone’s wife? That the person he settled for is broken in ways that can never be fixed.

The truth is, I’ve become so good at pretending that sometimes I convince even myself. But today, my body won’t let me forget. Today, I’m painfully aware of the reality I can never escape.

I sit on the bed and blink at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s late, much too late, and poor Fate is looking at me, fidgeting by the bedroom door, obviously needing to go outside.

Tears build in my eyes. Maybe it’s a good thing Rafaele doesn’t feel like touching me—what kind of mother would I even be if I’m already failing a sweet little dog after only a week?

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, wincing as I stand up. My lower back and knees burn with the effort, the pain sharp and unforgiving. “You go ahead. I’ll be right down,” I tell her, opening the door and watching the little ball of energy run down the hall and disappear down the stairs.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the day ahead. Today, I’ll do what I always do—I’ll push through the pain, the exhaustion, the doubt. I’ll put on the mask and pretend everything is okay. As I walk to the bathroom to get ready for the day I wonder how long I can keep the lie until my husband starts to wonder what's wrong with me.

You shouldn’t worry about him finding out; he doesn’t care and is never around, the voice in my head reminds me. Instead of reassuring me, it makes me feel even more sullen because it’s the truth. And I can’t admit it out loud, but my husband doesn’t care.

My reaction to it all angers me though. I should be hardened, especially after everything I witnessed at home, seeing how much love—especially unrequited love—could destroy a person, how it broke my mother’s spirit. I should be relieved that Rafaele didn’t even try to make me like him. Except that he did make me like him—a little—without even trying that hard. And part of me can’t help but wonder what would happen if he did like me. How good things could be.

And it’s in these moments that I realize I’m not as strong as I thought I was, not as guarded, not as… hardened.

The extra-hot shower does wonders for loosening the tightness in my muscles, easing the stiffness enough to help me get through the day. It’s not a permanent fix, but it’s something.

When I step into the kitchen, I’m greeted by the sight of Teresa having a full-on conversation with Fate, who’s sitting on the floor, her fluffy tail wagging enthusiastically. The scene is so adorable I don’t have to force a smile. Teresa is truly a godsend, making this house feel more like home.

“Good morning,” I say, my voice lighter than it’s felt all morning.

“Ah, Mrs. Lucchese, there you are! I was starting to worry.” Teresa gestures for me to sit at the table and then begins bustling around the kitchen.

“I stayed up reading later than I planned,” I lie smoothly, an excuse that works without fail. “Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” I add as she sets cutlery beside me. “It’s almost lunchtime.”

“Nonsense. There’s still a good two hours before lunch, and I kept your plate warm.” She puts on a bright red mitten, opens the oven, and retrieves a plate full of eggs, potatoes, and crispy bacon. “You need to eat,” she all but orders, placing the plate in front of me.

My stomach growls at the smell, but I shake my head with a half-hearted joke. “I can afford to skip a meal.”

The frown on her face tells me she didn’t take it as a joke. “Why would you say that? You are beautiful and perfect, and I know Mr. Lucchese loves your curves very much.”

I nod, taking a bite of my toast. Your Mr. Lucchese doesn’t even look at me , I think to myself.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I say aloud, glancing over at Fate’s food bowl. “And thank you for feeding this scoundrel.”

Teresa laughs, her good humor returning as she crouches down to scratch behind Fate’s ears. “I’m so happy to have her here. I always thought Mr. Lucchese needed a pet, but he’s all about order—I never thought he’d give in.” She looks up at me, her eyes full of mirth. “It must have taken a very special lady to make him cave.”

As I finish the last bite of my breakfast, I pull out my phone to check my emails. It’s a habit, a way to stay connected to the world I’ve distanced myself from, the world I sometimes wish I could still be a part of. My heart skips a beat when I see the email from Columbia.

I freeze, my finger hovering over the screen as I read the subject line: Final Notice: Columbia University Master's Program.

My stomach tightens as I open the email, my eyes scanning the words that confirm what I feared. Your delayed admission is almost up, and if we do not receive a response in the next thirty days, your spot will be forfeited .

A wave of sadness washes over me. I had almost forgotten about the dream I once had, the plans I had made for my future—plans that now feel like a distant memory. As a mafia wife, even married to the nicest of men, pursuing a dream like this would be difficult. But I'm not married to the nicest of men; I’m married to the most feared of them all. The idea of asking Rafaele for support, or even permission, feels laughable.

Still, I can’t bring myself to reject the offer, not yet. It feels like a final nail in the coffin of who I used to be, and I’m not ready to let go of that just yet.

Teresa notices the change in my demeanor, her eyes narrowing with concern. “Is everything alright, Mrs. Lucchese?”

I force a smile, nodding as I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket. “Yes, everything’s fine. Just… an old email. Nothing important.”

But as I say the words, I feel the weight of the decision I have to make pressing down on me. I can’t tell Teresa—she wouldn’t understand. No one here would. The dreams I had before this life feel so out of reach now, and it’s like mourning a future that never truly began.

I stand up, suddenly needing to move and escape the confines of the kitchen. “Thank you again for breakfast, Teresa. I think I’ll take Fate for a walk.”

Teresa watches me carefully, sensing there’s more beneath the surface, but she simply nods. “Of course, Mrs. Lucchese. The fresh air will do you good.”

I grab Fate’s ball, my mind still reeling from the email. As I walk out the door, the reality of my situation settles over me like a heavy shroud. The life I once dreamed of feels like it’s slipping further and further away, and I don’t know how to stop it.

As the crisp autumn air fills my lungs, I find a small sense of relief. Fate's antics bring a genuine smile to my face as she struggles to catch the oversized ball, her tiny legs scrambling in the fallen leaves. For a moment, I’m able to forget the pressure of the email, the reality that’s closing in on me. But as the day wears on, the fatigue settles back into my bones, and I find myself drawn to the library—the one place in this house that feels like a sanctuary.

The library is my refuge. Ever since I discovered it during one of my solitary explorations, it has become my favorite place in the house. The room is a perfect blend of warmth and comfort, with its gentle colors and the constant, soothing crackle of the fireplace. The soft glow of the fire casts a welcoming light over the bookshelves that line the walls, filled with volumes that seem to whisper secrets from another time.

I settle into the plush green sofa, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into my tired muscles. Fate is already fast asleep at my feet, her little body finally at peace after a day of endless exploration. I open the book in my hands, letting the familiar scent of old pages fill my senses, and begin to read. The words on the page start to weave their magic, pulling me into another world, far from the worries that have been gnawing at me all day.

But as the minutes pass, my eyelids grow heavier, the lines of text blurring together. The soft crackling of the fire, combined with the comfortable weight of Fate at my feet, makes it hard to keep my focus. I feel myself drifting, the book slipping slightly from my grasp as my head tilts back against the sofa.

Just as I’m about to succumb to sleep, I hear the faint creak of the door. My eyes flutter open, and I see Rafaele standing in the doorway, his expression hesitant. He looks almost… awkward, a stark contrast to the composed and confident man I’ve come to know.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice low, almost as though he’s unsure whether to disturb me.

I blink, still groggy from the edges of sleep. “Why are you asking?” The question slips out before I can stop myself. I’m genuinely curious, especially since this is the first time he’s asked me anything so directly about how I’m doing.

Rafaele shifts his weight, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I won’t impose my presence if you want to be alone. I just thought I’d check in.”

I straighten up a little, suddenly feeling more awake. “You’re not imposing,” I say, surprising myself with the sincerity in my voice. “I’m not chasing you out of your own home.”

“ Our home,” he corrects me gently, his gaze meeting mine for a moment before moving away.

His words catch me off guard but in a good way. There’s something reassuring in the way he said it, like he’s acknowledging that this place, this life, is as much mine as it is his. I nod toward the chair opposite me, feeling a strange urge to keep him here, to bridge this gap that’s always between us.

“Why don’t you sit?” I offer, trying to sound casual, though my heart picks up pace. “It’s nice to have company.”

He hesitates for a moment before finally stepping into the room and taking a seat in the armchair across from me. He’s still a bit stiff like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself, but I appreciate the effort.

We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound coming from the crackling fire and Fate’s soft breathing. It’s a comfortable silence, though, and I find myself relaxing again, the tension in my shoulders easing just a bit.

“You seem to like this room,” Rafaele says, breaking the quiet. His voice is softer now, almost as if he’s afraid of disturbing the peace we’ve found.

“I do,” I admit, glancing around at the bookshelves that line the walls. “It’s a good place to escape to.”

He nods. “I always loved this room the best, too, even if I don’t have much time for it these days.”

“You don’t seem to have much time for anything these days.” Damn it. I bite my bottom lip, immediately regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I quickly look away, focusing on the fire as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Ah,” he says, his tone neutral. We just sit like that for a while, the silence heavy and awkward. I’m too embarrassed to look at him, afraid of seeing the disdain I’m sure is on his face after my careless remark.

“The timing is off,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I’ve been dealing with far more issues than I expected, and it’s taking me away from home more than I’d like.” I turn back to him, surprised that he would even try to justify my comment. He doesn’t need to—he certainly doesn’t have to.

“It’s fine.” The words come out automatically, a reflex more than anything else.

He lets out a soft laugh, the sound almost foreign. “But it’s not, though, is it?” His dark eyes meet mine, and it’s like he’s seeing right through me. “I thought you wanted it that way. That you were scared.”

“Do you want me to be scared?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Everyone else is.”

“I’m not scared.” And that’s the truth. Maybe I’m crazy, delusional, or whatever you want to call it, but his actions speak louder than all the horror stories I’ve heard about him. Fate nestles closer to me, reminding me of his thoughtful gift. Actually, what I’m scared of is growing attached, scared of seeing sides of him I like more than I should. And the more I look at him, at his discomfort and stiffness, the more I realize that if he doesn’t give any kind of warmth, it’s not because he doesn’t want to—it’s because he doesn’t know how.

“Teresa said you didn’t seem like yourself today. Is everything alright?”

So he worries. He actually cares, and I can’t help but feel that damn warmth spreading across my chest. And this is what scares me—this is what I absolutely need to avoid.

I wave my hand dismissively, torn between hating that he cares and craving it at the same time. But I also don’t want his vision of me to change. I’d hate for him to see me as a victim, as a weak girl who can’t take things head-on. “She worries too much.”

“She cares.”

Do you? The question hovers on the tip of my tongue, and I think he sees it because he cocks his head to the side, his eyes never wavering from my face.

“I just feel a little under the weather. Nothing that some herbal tea and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

“Do you want me to get you a cup of tea?”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “The sotocapo is offering to serve me?”

“This sotocapo is also your husband.”

“I—” I start, then sigh, shaking my head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll go to bed soon.”

He nods but stays in his chair, his presence filling the room with a quiet, steady strength that makes me feel… safer, somehow.

“I also tried the cake you made when I came home last night. It was delicious.”

I feel a blush creeping up my skin. Compliments from him seem to hit differently, more deeply. “Do you bake often?”

“Enough to drive my mother crazy. Same with the reading, mind you. She could never understand why I would stay inside and be stuck in a book.”

“It’s not about being stuck; it’s escapism. When you read, you get to visit so many different worlds.”

I don’t know what to say because there’s nothing more to add. This is exactly what I feel. It’s as if he’s seen a part of me that I didn’t expect him to understand.

“You really enjoy reading too, then,” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

He nods, his gaze falling to the book I’ve set aside on the table. “I used to have more time for it, but as my role within the family increased, the less time I had for it. It’s not to say that I don’t miss it sometimes.”

His honesty surprises me, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of the man behind the title, behind the cold exterior. “I’m going to my parents’ house for dinner tomorrow night,” I say, almost hesitantly. “I can’t dodge their invite any longer.”

“Okay, what time are we expected to be there? I’ll make sure to be home by then.”

“What? No, it’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll just say you’re too busy, which is true.”

He frowns, leaning forward in his seat. “Don’t you want me there?”

“No, that’s not it. I could use the support, but honestly, subjecting you to a dinner with my parents…” I wince at the thought.

He shakes his head, his expression softening just a fraction. “I will be there, Nora. Just give me a time.”

I’m taken aback by his determination, by the way he insists on being by my side. “Seven,” I finally say, my voice quiet. “We’re expected at seven.”

He nods, the decision made. “I’ll be home in time.”

I nod, still a bit stunned by his insistence. “Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers playing with the edge of the book I’d been trying to read. The tension between us starts to ease, and I feel the weight of the day begin to lift… just a little.

He shifts in his seat, his gaze moving to the book on the console. “What are you reading?” he asks, the deep timbre of his voice resonating in the quiet room.

“It's The Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe,” I reply, almost without thinking. “It's about a young man who falls in love with a woman he can never have… it doesn’t end well.”

His eyebrow arches, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Sounds like a cheerful read.”

I chuckle softly. “It’s a bit tragic, yes. But there’s something about the way it’s written… The emotions feel so raw, so real.”

He leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Your voice… it’s soothing,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Deep and smoky. I bet you could make a fortune narrating audiobooks.”

His smirk turns into a genuine smile, and something in his eyes glimmers, an interest piqued. “Is that so?” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Let’s put that to the test.”

Before I can respond, he reaches for the book on the side table, his long fingers effortlessly flipping to a random page. He clears his throat, and then, in that same deep, smoky voice, he begins to read.

“‘She is sacred to me. All desires are silent in her presence; I do not know what has come over me…’” His voice wraps around the words, giving them new life, a depth I hadn’t noticed before.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, letting the sound of his voice wash over me. It’s soothing, like a lullaby, and I find myself drifting, the lines between reality and the story blurring.

Just for a minute , I tell myself.

When I open my eyes again, the sunlight is streaming through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. I blink, disoriented, and sit up, realizing with a start that I’m in my bed. My heart races as I piece together what must have happened.

He must have carried me here.

The thought sends a flurry of butterflies through my stomach, and I can feel the blush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. I’ve never been this close to anyone before, let alone to someone as intimidating as Rafaele. The fact that he carried me, tucked me into bed… it’s unexpectedly tender, and it terrifies me how much I like the thought.

My heart pounds in my chest as I imagine the scene: Rafaele, with his strong arms and steady hands, lifting me with care, his face stoic, his woodsy cologne wrapping around me. It’s a ridiculous, romanticized notion, but I can’t help the way it makes me feel—flustered, vulnerable, and far too aware of the growing emotions inside me.

What does this mean? Why does it affect me so much?

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of sleep and confusion. But the feeling lingers, and no matter how much I try to deny it, I can’t ignore the simple truth: Rafaele is starting to matter more than I ever intended.