Chapter 8: Society Debut

Two weeks into my new life, and I’ve learned the art of pretending.

Pretending the schedule doesn’t suffocate me. Pretending the locked doors are normal. Pretending I’m not plotting escape routes during my Italian lessons or memorizing guard rotations during my supervised walks through the garden.

Pretending I’m not drowning.

Signora Russo has upgraded my pronunciation from “common” to “acceptable,” which I suppose is progress. Maria still won’t meet my eyes but leaves small things in my room. A book I mentioned wanting. An extra pastry at breakfast. Tiny gestures that remind me there’s humanity left in this house, even if it’s buried under fear.

Luca and I have settled into a routine that feels like a cold war. Breakfast together, mostly silent. Dinner together, occasionally punctuated by his questions about my day and my careful, measured answers. He hasn’t come through the connecting door since that first night, and I should be grateful.

I’m not sure I am.

There’s something worse about the waiting. The knowing he could, whenever he wants, and there’s nothing I could do to stop him.

On Thursday morning, Luca breaks the routine.

“We have an event Saturday night,” he says over breakfast, not looking up from his phone. “Charity gala at the Palazzo Gangi. Black tie. Everyone who matters will be there.”

My coffee stops halfway to my mouth. “We?”

“Yes, we. You’re my wife. You’ll attend with me.”

“I thought I was supposed to stay locked up here.”

“You are.” He sets down his phone, finally looks at me. “But you’re also supposed to be seen. The families need to see the alliance is real, that you’re content in your new role. So we’ll go, we’ll smile, we’ll play the perfect couple. And you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Or?”

“Or Alessandro loses more than a finger.” He goes back to his phone. “I’ve had a dress delivered. It’s in your closet. Wear it.”

Not a request. Never a request.

“What kind of charity?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.

“Does it matter?”

“I’d like to know what I’m supporting.”

He studies me for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out if this is rebellion or genuine curiosity. “Palermo children’s hospital. Cancer wing. Very respectable, very public, very important for the family image.”

Children’s cancer. Of course. Can’t look like monsters if you’re saving sick kids.

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine,” he echoes, and something that might be amusing flickers across his face. “Your stylist arrives at two. Hair and makeup at four. We leave at six. Don’t be late.”

The dress is beautiful and I hate it.

Deep red silk, cut to fit perfectly, with a neckline that’s modest but somehow still suggestive. Elegant. Expensive. Exactly the kind of thing a mafia wife would wear to show off her husband’s wealth and power.

I stare at it hanging in the closet like it’s a costume for a play I never auditioned for.

The stylist is a petite woman named Francesca who talks constantly, filling the silence with chatter about fashion and trends and which designers are hot this season. I let her words wash over me while she pins my hair up, transforming it into something sophisticated and severe.

“Signor Valenti has excellent taste,” she says, applying lipstick with precision. “This color is perfect for your skin tone.”

“He picked the lipstick?”

“He picked everything.” She steps back, examines her work. “He was very specific about how he wanted you to look.”

Of course he was. Can’t have his possession looking anything less than perfect.

When she’s done, I barely recognize myself. The woman in the mirror is polished, elegant, untouchable. She looks like she belongs in Luca’s world.

She looks nothing like me.

At six exactly, there’s a knock on my door. Luca doesn’t wait for an answer before entering, and I hate that my breath catches when I see him.

He’s wearing a tuxedo, perfectly tailored, making him look like something out of a magazine. His hair is styled back, exposing the sharp angles of his face. A gold watch glints at his wrist, probably worth more than my family home.

He looks powerful. Dangerous. Exactly like what he is.

His eyes scan me from head to toe, assessing. “Turn around.”

I consider refusing. Consider telling him I’m not a doll he can pose. But I remember the deal. One month of obedience.

I turn slowly, feeling his gaze like a physical touch.

“Good,” he says when I face him again. “You’ll do it.”

“How flattering.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He pulls a jewelry box from his pocket, opens it. Inside is a necklace, diamonds and rubies set in platinum. It looks old, valuable, the kind of thing that comes with history. “This was my grandmother’s. You’ll wear it.”

He doesn’t wait for agreement, just steps behind me. I feel his fingers at my neck, warm against my skin as he fastens the clasp. The necklace settles heavy and cold between my collarbones.

A collar. That’s what it is. A beautiful, expensive collar to show everyone I belong to him.

“There.” His hands linger on my shoulders for a moment before he steps back. “Now you look like a Valenti.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be a fact.” He offers his arm. “Come. The car is waiting.”

The Palazzo Gangi is exactly what I expect. Opulent, historic, dripping with old money and older secrets. The entrance is lit with torches, casting flickering shadows across marble steps worn smooth by centuries of feet.

Cars line up to discharge their passengers. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes, all playing their parts in the grand theater of Palermo high society.

Our car pulls up and Luca gets out first, then offers his hand to help me. The moment my feet touch the ground, cameras flash. Photographers line the entrance, capturing every arrival.

I force a smile, let Luca’s hand find my waist. Possessive. Always possessive.

“Wave,” he murmurs against my ear.

I do. Small, elegant. The perfect wife greeting her public.

Inside, the palazzo is even more impressive. Frescoed ceilings, crystal chandeliers, marble everywhere. The ballroom is massive, already filled with hundreds of guests. Music plays, something classical and refined. Waiters glide through the crowd with champagne and canapés.

And everyone is staring at us.

“Smile,” Luca reminds me, his hand tightening on my waist. “Look happy.”

I arrange my face into what I hope passes for contentment. Loving wife, grateful to be here, blissfully unaware that she’s a prisoner playing dress-up.

The first person to approach is a man I recognize from the wedding. Older, silver-haired, with sharp eyes that miss nothing.

“Luca,” he greets warmly, shaking Luca’s hand. “And the beautiful bride. Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Thank you, Don Caruso.” Luca’s voice is smooth, respectful. “May I present my wife, Elena.”

“Enchanted.” Don Caruso takes my hand, kisses it with old-world courtesy. “You’re even lovelier than at the wedding. Marriage suits you.”

“You’re very kind,” I say, because what else is there to say?

“And brave.” His eyes sharpen. “It takes courage to bridge such a divide between families. Your father would be proud.”

Would he? The father who killed Luca’s brother and got himself murdered for it? That father?

“I hope so,” I manage.

Don Caruso and Luca talk business, words that sound innocuous but carry weight I’m starting to understand. Territory, shipments, percentages. All dressed up in polite conversation, but it’s negotiations happening right here in a charity gala.

I stand beside Luca, smile when appropriate, and study the room. Guards at every exit, casually dressed but clearly armed. Security cameras in the corners. Families clustered in groups, alliances visible in who stands with whom.

The Romano table is in the corner. What’s left of us, anyway. Aunt Giulia, some distant cousins, a few capos who stayed loyal. They look diminished, smaller than I remember. Without my father, without Alessandro’s presence, they’re just remnants.

They don’t look at me. Can’t, probably. I’m a Valenti now. The enemy.

“Elena.” Luca’s voice pulls me back. “Don Caruso asked you a question.”

I blink, refocus. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I asked how you’re finding married life.” Don Caruso’s smile is knowing. “Adjustment can be difficult.”

“It’s an adjustment,” I say carefully. “But Luca has been very… accommodating.”