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.”