Page 43 of Luca
I gesture around the kitchen, but I mean more than that. I mean the guards and the restrictions. The loss of spontaneity, of the freedom to wake up and decide to catch a train to anywhere.
"Most women would be grateful for this life."
"I'm not most women." The words come out fierce. "And grateful for what? Being kept like a beautiful parrot in a cage?"
His eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment I see the man who makes people disappear. The man he tries very carefully to keep hidden from me.
"You're my wife, not a pet."
"Then treat me like one. Let me have a car. Let me go places without a babysitter. Let me have some piece of my life that's mine."
"And if something happens to you?"
"Then something happens to me! At least I'd be living instead of just... existing."
We stare at each other across the kitchen island. I can see him trying to understand why I'm not content with safetyand luxury. I can't explain those things feel like prison walls when you've spent your life as a nomad.
"You've never mentioned feeling trapped before," he says quietly.
Sofia never felt trapped. Sofia was content with the boundaries of her world. It made her feel safe. And I crave to feel alive.
"Maybe I never felt like I had the right to ask for more before," I say carefully. "We barely knew each other during the engagement. I was trying to be... appropriate."
"And now?"
"We're married and I'm supposed to build a life here." I meet his eyes, trying to make him understand without revealing too much. "And I can't build a life if I'm not allowed to live one."
He drains his espresso, while he’s weighing my words against whatever protocols he's supposed to follow. The silence stretches between us, and I hold my breath.
“What exactly are you asking for?”
"A car," I say finally. "Just a little car that doesn't scream 'mafia wife.' Something that lets me drive to the market or a café or just... around the block when I need air."
"With Paolo."
"Without Paolo. Why would I want to drive around in a compact car with him taking up all the space? If not a car, how about a scooter?"
"Hell no! Absolutely not. Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
The flat refusal makes something snap inside me. "Why? Because I might remember what it feels like to make my own choices?"
"Because you could get hurt. Because you could get taken. Because there are people in this city who would love nothing more than to get their hands on my wife. I can’t allow it and I won’t."
The genuine concern in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't about control - it's about fear. He's actually worried about losing me.
"Then teach me," I say impulsively. "Teach me how to protect myself. Give me the tools to be safe in this world instead of just hiding me away."
"You want me to teach you to fight? From the way you took down the pickpocket, you already know self-defense."
"I want you to teach me whatever I need to know to have some freedom in this life. Teach me how to use a gun if it makes you feel better."
He stares at me, wrestling with something. Fear, maybe, or protectiveness.
“You’re not getting a gun if that’s your next request.”
“I wasn’t planning to ask for one,” I reply.
"There's a meeting in Milan today," he says finally. "Business. You could come with me, see the city. Maybe you’ll feel better if you get out of the villa."
