Rejected; She Was Played For A Fool

4.

Montana's POV

*

*

I took the train to the Rossi estate.

I didn’t drive. Not because I couldn’t—Benedetto’s car keys were still hanging by the door, like nothing had changed—but because I needed to pass time, and to think.

I’d called the Rossi family ahead. They said come at three. It was already five past when I was shown into the drawing room. Gold trim, white upholstery, art that never meant anything to me. It looked like wealth had been poured into the house through a funnel and never touched again.

The drawing room hadn’t changed. Cold light spilling through tall windows, soft jazz playing somewhere in the distance, walls lined with paintings that never looked at you directly. This house didn’t feel like Benedetto. It never had.

I smoothed my blouse over my stomach. Barely a bump. But I felt exposed, all the same.

Then the doors opened, and every bone in my body locked still.

Lucia Rossi arrived first. Red dress, soft makeup, eyes like switchblades. She was Ben's almost twin sister.

“Montana,” she said, too brightly. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’ve been grieving your brother,” I replied.

She didn’t flinch. “He’s been buried now. Time moves forward, and you should too.”

Behind her came her husband, Marco. He didn’t speak. He never did. Just stood with his arms folded, as if he were waiting for someone to be dragged out.

Then the patriarch himself.

Vittorio Rossi. Slower now, but still looming. In a navy suit and the same diamond pin he wore at our wedding. He didn’t offer condolences. Didn’t even pretend.

“I wanted to speak with you all,” I said. My voice stayed steady, but my hands curled at my sides.

Lucia perched on the edge of a loveseat, already bored. “Speak, then.”

“I came to tell you I’m pregnant,” I said. “It’s Benedetto’s child. We weren’t planning, but it happened before… before all this.”

Vittorio’s face didn’t change, but Marco glanced at Lucia. A short flick of the eyes. Some internal agreement passed between them.

“I’m also caring for Signora Rossi,” I added. “She’s been living with me. At the house. She's had episodes… wandering, forgetting to eat. I’ve kept her safe. But currently, I don't know where she is. That day of the… of Ben's death, she never came home.”

“She belongs here,” Vittorio said. “That’s her home.”

I didn't quite understand his words. Did he hear the part where I said I can't find her?

“No one came to take her before,” I replied. “And she cried when I tried to bring her here before too. She doesn’t even recognize this place.”

But before any of them could speak on it, I state the other reasons I'm here…

“I didn’t come for a fight,” I said. “But Benedetto left debt. Substantial. Most of it tied to the business. Some are under my name. I came here… not to beg. Just to speak. To ask.”

“Ask what?” Vittorio said. “For money?”

“I’m not asking for your money. I’m asking for your accountability. You all knew about his spending. About the accounts in France. The gambling. I thought… maybe… you’d want to protect your family name. Or at least the child.”

Lucia stood up.

“Oh, Montana,” she said. “You married a Rossi. You didn’t become one.”

The words slapped harder than I expected.

She walked toward me slowly, heels silent on the marble. “You should’ve left when you had the chance. Instead you stayed. Played nurse. Wore the widow’s veil. And now you want a medal for it?”

I looked at Marco, but he looked right past me. I looked at Vittorio, but his silence was louder than hers.

“I didn’t want a medal,” I said. “I wanted decency.”

“You wanted an inheritance,” Lucia snapped. “And you got it—a bastard on the way.”

My breath caught.

I could’ve screamed at her. She dared call my child a bastard. But I didn’t.

I just turned.

And that’s when I saw her. Signora Rossi. My mother-in-law, the one I have been taking care of and have been looking for since the day of Benedetto's death.

In the doorway.

Perched in the wheelchair, her thin fingers wrapped around a bone-china teacup. Hair pinned neatly. Dressed in an expensive cardigan I’d never seen. Lipstick clean, not smeared like it always was at home when she forgot where the mirror was. Not a single tremble in her posture.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

She didn’t even look at me.

My voice finally cracked loose. “What is she doing here?”

Lucia raised an eyebrow. “She lives here. Where she belongs.”

“She didn’t even want to come here before. She cried when I brought her once. She… she said this place scared her.”

Vittorio stirred. “People change.”

My eyes locked on Signora. “Nonna?” I said quietly. “It’s me.”

She looked past me. Sipped her tea.

Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a twitch.

Lucia took a seat beside her like a daughter would, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “She’s better here. With routine. With family.”

“I am family,” I snapped.

“You were married,” Lucia said. “Now you’re something else.”

I swallowed hard. “I stood by your brother. I took care of your mother. I gave everything I had….”

“You were his wife, Montana,” Vittorio interrupted. “You don’t get rewarded for doing what’s expected.”

My knees weakened.

I turned back to Signora. She was right there. Flesh and blood. The woman who clung to my hand at night, whispering stories about Benedetto’s childhood. The woman who I took care of, bathed, fed, everything.

And now? She just blinked. A polite, distant blink. As if I were a stranger in her doctor’s waiting room.

I stepped forward, nearly to my mother-in-law's feet. “Say something. Please. Anything. Just tell them….”

“She doesn’t need to speak to you,” Lucia hissed, stepping between us. “You had your time. Now go.”

I looked at them all. Vittorio, a statue with a cold breath. Lucia, venomous and proud. Marco, silent and interested. Signora, perfectly still. And I understood what this was.

Her love as a mother-in-law was a lie. No wonder she always supported Benedetto on not having kids yet. Maybe she even knew Benedetto was seeing someone else. I believe that. And now, she and her whole family are treating me like I was never existent.

Benedetto was dust in the ground. And I, apparently, was never real.

I turned before they could see the tears. Before I shattered like porcelain in front of them.

As I reached the threshold, I heard Signora, Benedetto's mother, laugh.

A light, whimsical sound. Whether it was from memory or madness, I couldn’t tell.

But it didn’t matter.

Because she was theirs now.

And I was no one.

But who do I go to? How do I pay the debts to Mr. Scarpa? Who do I know in Italy aside from my late husband? Where do I get the money to return to America in shame?

The phone in my pocket suddenly vibrated and I took it out. It was a call, but from an unknown number.

I took the phone to my ears. “Hello?”