Gianna POV
Upon my arrival at the heavily guarded Family Estate, the soldiers nod in deference as I passed through the massive iron doors.
Within the grand dining room, the long mahogany table is already set.
Serena is seated right next to Dante, in the place that should have been mine.
He is expertly shelling a bowl of shrimp, carefully placing the pale meat onto her plate.
Serena looks up, offering me a bright, practiced smile.
"Gianna, you are here!" she says. "We have been waiting for you."
Dante turned back to shelling shrimp, and in the exact moment his attention shifted, Serena's smile held. But her eyes changed—a flicker of cool appraisal, the way a collector checks a rival's piece for flaws. Then it was gone, replaced by warmth before anyone else could see.
I let my gaze fall at her half-empty plate, knowing the lie for what it was.
I offered no reply to the charade, walking instead to the far end of the table to take an empty chair.
The entire feast spread before us was an homage to Serena's favorite seafood.
I picked up my fork, and quietly resigned myself to a plain side salad.
From the head of the table, Carmela's voice sliced through the room.
"Gianna," she announced. "About the Syndicate banquet menu next week. We need to add Australian lobster and baked crab."
"Why?" I ask, looking up from my greens.
"Because Serena loves them," Carmela states, as if it were a matter of state.
With a show of modesty, Serena dropped her gaze to her lap.
"Oh, Carmela, you do not have to do that," she murmured. "It is Gianna's wedding."
"Nonsense," Carmela replied firmly. "Keeping the Family's ward happy is our priority. You are true, blood-tied loyalty."
I turned my gaze to Dante.
He is methodically wiping his hands on a linen napkin, offering not a single word to defend my wedding menu.
Even my own bridal banquet is just another stage for Serena.
"Sure," I say, the word tasting of ash on my tongue.
The rest of the dinner passed in a tedious blur.
When the plates were finally cleared, Carmela stands.
"Gianna, come to the parlor with me," she commanded. "Serena, be a dear and help the staff clear the table."
As Serena starts to rise, Dante frowns and his hand shot out to gently catch her wrist.
"Sit down, Serena," he commands softly. "You are on your cycle. You should not touch cold water."
Then, his dark, impassive eyes snapped to me.
"Gianna, you do it," he orders.
The faceted crystal of the water glass dug into my palm, the sharp ridges leaving deep, bloodless indentations in my skin.
The man who commanded the New York Mafia meticulously tracked his ward's menstrual cycle, yet had consistently ignored the agony of my seafood allergy for five years.
Carmela pauses, then let out a sharp, dismissive laugh.
"Dante is right. A true Mafia wife must learn to serve her family," she decided coldly. "Gianna, you clear the table. Dante, you and your father go to the study to discuss the shipment."
Dante nods without a second thought and stands.
Serena trailed after them, leaning against the study doorframe to happily monopolize the Don's attention while I was left behind.
I was banished to the kitchen with the dirty plates, where I stood alone.
I felt like a stagehand in a play about my own life, forced to watch someone else live out the leading role.
It took an hour of this domestic torture before Serena finally let out a delicate yawn.
Instantly, Dante emerged from the study and snatched up his car keys.
"It is late," he declares. "We are leaving."
We all piled into Dante's armored SUV.
As expected, he drives to Serena's heavily fortified safehouse first.
It is located a mere three blocks from our own penthouse-a property Dante personally selected.
He had claimed he needed to be able to reach her instantly in case of a security threat.
Pulling up to her building, Serena hops out and offers a cheerful wave.
Dante shifted the car into park, his eyes fixed on her retreating figure until she passed through the biometric security doors.
He did not pull away until he was certain she is safely inside.
The silence in the car became a heavy, pressing thing.
"Dante," I say quietly, to break the tension. "Do you think your bond with Serena crosses a line?"
He was clearly still in a good mood from his evening, and he reaches over to stroke the back of my hand like I am a well-behaved pet.
"Are you feeling jealous, Gianna?" he asks, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
I pulled my hand away.
"Serena saved my life during a war," he explains smoothly, as if reciting a well-rehearsed speech. "If I wanted her, I would have taken her. You are the one getting the title of Mafia Queen. That should be enough for you."
I let out an exhausted sigh.
"We need to talk tomorrow, Dante," I said.
He instinctively frowns, opening his mouth to dismiss me and tell me to text his assistant.
But then, a flicker of memory crossed his features as he remembers I found out about the AI bot he used for my messages.
He snapped his mouth shut and gives a curt nod.
"Fine," he relented coldly. "I will make time for you tomorrow."
