The ballroom glitters with the kind of wealth that makes normal people's retinas burn—crystal dripping from every surface, champagne that costs more than most people's rent, associates dressed in suits that could fund small wars.
Marco's hand clamps around my waist like a vise disguised as affection, his fingers digging into silk as he parades me past tables of men who've definitely killed people over less impressive insults than what I'm thinking about them right now.
"Smile wider, darling. You look constipated." His breath warms my ear, whiskey-sweet and threatening. "Remember, you're representing the Caruso name tonight. Try not to embarrass me more than your bloodline already has."
I stretch my mouth into something that might pass for happiness if you squint and have cataracts. Around us, the who's who of organized crime pretend to enjoy themselves. Marco's grip tightens as we pass his father's table, and I catch him watching Salvatore with an expression I've never seen before—calculating, almost predatory.
"Don Torresi, you remember my wife." Marco says. "Lucia's been absolutely devoted since our wedding. Haven't you, sweetheart?"
"Of course." The words taste like copper pennies.
Torresi's eyes move between us with the kind of knowing that makes me want to shower in bleach. "The Santoro girl. Your father's debts are all settled then?"
"Working on it," Marco answers before I can speak, his fingers bruising new territories on my hip. "Though some debts can't be paid in money, can they, Lucia?"
Whatever that means.
Dinner arrives in courses that blur together—each more elaborate than the last, each harder to swallow than the one before. Marco drinks steadily while I push food around my plate, my stomach churning with dread.
Between the entrée and whatever pretentious dessert they're about to serve, Marco stands. The room quiets.
"I'd like to propose a toast," he announces. "To family. To loyalty. To the sacred traditions that bind us together and make us stronger than our enemies."
Murmurs of approval ripple through the crowd. Glasses rise in anticipation. But Marco's not done.
"And speaking of tradition..." He reaches down, grabbing my wrist. As he pulls me to my feet, his mouth brushes my ear: "Smile and perform, darling, or I'll tell everyone here about your pathetic little infatuation with my father. Imagine how quickly they'd put a bullet in your head for disrespecting the family like that."
My blood turns to ice water.
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
Not that it's mutual but enough to destroy me. In this world, a wife lusting after her father-in-law isn't just a scandal; it's a death sentence.
"I want you all to look at my wife." His voice projects confidence.
Two hundred eyes turn toward me like spotlights. Marco's arm snakes around me, possessive and threatening.
"Lucia here is the perfect example of what a wife should be. A Santoro who understands her place, who serves the Caruso family with appropriate gratitude and devotion." His fingers dig into my waist, each point of pressure a reminder of what he knows. "Tell them, darling. Tell everyone how grateful you are for this marriage. How devoted you are to your husband."
I can see Salvatore from here, his knuckles white around his whiskey glass, jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth don't shatter.
"I'm grateful," I begin, the words tasting like poison, "for the opportunity to serve the Caruso family. My marriage to Marco has been... educational."
"Educational?" Marco laughs. "She's being modest. Tell them how I've taught you your proper place. How you've learned to be an obedient wife."
The threat is clear: perform or die.
"Marco has definitely taught me about power," I say, louder now. "I've learned exactly what kind of man I married."
The room holds its breath. Marco's fingers dig into my arm hard enough to leave prints, but his smile never wavers.
"See? She's even developing a sense of humor." He raises his glass higher, victory in every word. "Which brings me to my announcement. Effective immediately, Lucia will no longer be working for my father. A wife's place is with her husband. Isn't that right, Father?"
Salvatore sets down his glass. The look he gives Marco could peel paint, but his voice remains controlled. "If that's what you feel is best for your household, Marco."
He can't object without revealing too much, and Marco knows it. The trap is perfect, and I'm the bait that got crushed in its teeth.
"To tradition!" Marco finishes his toast, and the room echoes it back.
The rest of dinner crawls by like a funeral procession. But underneath the humiliation, rage starts to simmer.
My grandfather's voice echoes in my memory—rough from cigarettes but soft with conviction: "Love isn't weakness, piccola. It's the only thing worth a damn in this rotten world. Anyone who uses it as a weapon? They're the weak ones."
Marco's fingers drum against my thigh under the table, a reminder of his power, and my rage builds with each tap. He took the only clean thing in my life and turned it into ammunition. The more I think about it, the hotter my blood burns.
By the time dessert arrives, I'm practically vibrating with fury. Not the cold, calculating kind that the men at this table traffic in, but the volcanic kind that my grandmother used to warn me about.
"Santoro women burn hot," she'd say. "Once lit, we don't go out easy."
Marco's hand tightens on my arm as we finally leave, steering me through the crowd with the casual ownership of a man walking his dog. He doesn't feel the tremor running through me, doesn't recognize it for it is.
When we reach our bedroom, my stomach churns with nausea that has nothing to do with the foie gras and everything to do with watching my only escape route get welded shut in front of two hundred witnesses.
Marco sheds his jacket with the satisfied air of a general who's won a campaign, tossing it over a chair like he's discarding armor after battle.
"Did you see his face?" He loosens his tie with theatrical satisfaction. "Twenty years of him treating me like I'm defective merchandise, and tonight I showed the great Salvatore Caruso exactly who holds the real power in this family."
My stomach rolls again, but this time it's pure, molten fury.
"You are just a pathetic little boy," I hiss.
"What did you just—"
I'm already moving, shoving him hard enough that he stumbles backward into the dresser. The surprise on his face feeds the inferno in my chest.
"You used me to hurt him." I advance on him, and for once, he's the one stepping back. "You turned me into a weapon against your own father because you're too much of a coward to face him directly."
His hand cracks across my face, but this time I don't just hit back. My fist connects with his jaw, then his stomach, wild and uncoordinated but fueled by fury that makes up for lack of technique.
He staggers back, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with shock that quickly transforms into something that looks like interest.
"Well, well. The mouse finally found her claws." He laughs, blood speckling his teeth. "You're becoming interesting, Lucia."
"Tell me, Marco, does it ever get exhausting?" The words pour out, surprising me with their venom. "Pretending you're this big powerful man when everyone knows you're just daddy's disappointment playing dress-up in a suit you'll never fill?"
His face darkens, but I'm already committed to this destruction, my mouth running ahead of my survival instinct.
"What would the perfect Joana say if she could see you now?" I'm breathing hard, circling him. "Her precious son, beating women because he can't handle being pathetic. Would she be proud?"
His face contorts with rage. "You don't get to speak her name—"
"Why not? Everyone else does. Every day, every look your father gives you screams how much he wishes it was you in the ground instead of her."
"I'll fucking kill you." His voice drops to a whisper, and I see him reach for his pocket—for the knife I know he keeps there.
That's when I grab the champagne bottle, smashing it against the dresser's edge in one fluid motion. Glass explodes across the floor, leaving me holding the neck with its crown of jagged teeth.
"Go ahead." I point it at him, my hand steady as stone. "But you're too much of a coward to do it yourself. You'll have someone else clean up your mess, just like always."
He lunges at me, faster than I expected, but my body moves on pure instinct.
The crown slashes across his cheek, opening a gash that immediately wells with blood. He jerks back, hand flying to his face, and when he pulls it away to see the red coating his fingers, I watch something fundamental shift in his eyes.
Fear. Real, primal fear.
And then.
He backs toward the door, never taking his eyes off me. No threats, no promises of retribution, no final words. He just leaves, pulling the door closed with the quiet care of someone who's realized they've been sharing a cage with something far more dangerous than they imagined.
I stand there holding my improvised weapon until I hear his footsteps fade completely down the hallway. Only then do I let the bottle neck fall from my trembling fingers.
My whole body shakes as the adrenaline crashes through me in waves, but underneath the trembling is a wild, fierce joy. Because I know, with the certainty of someone who's drawn blood and seen fear in their tormentor's eyes, that Marco will never touch me again.