"So what now?" I whisper.
It's a photograph. Me. Leaving a bookstore in Milan last Tuesday. A red X drawn over my face.
Now, I live in his marble tomb of a mansion on the outskirts of Milan. Servants who won't meet my eyes. A bedroom on the opposite wing from his. And a husband who has spoken exactly seventeen words to me in thirty-six months. La Esposa Rechazada del Cruel Mafioso - Adri Lu...
I almost laugh. His problem? I've been his problem for three years. The rejected wife. The bargaining chip. The ghost who haunts his hallways, invisible unless needed for a photo op or a family dinner where I must smile and pretend he comes to my bed at night.
Not when the priest asked if he accepted me. Not when his gold signet ring pressed cold against my knuckle. Not even when his men cheered, glasses of whiskey raised to la nuova sposa — the new bride. "So what now
Like I'm his.
"You're in my room," I reply, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice. Leaving a bookstore in Milan last Tuesday
I look up at Alessandro. His jaw is clenched. His hands — those hands that have never touched me with kindness — are shaking.