Before we even reached the tailor's establishment on Via Montenapoleone, Giorgio's hand was already locked firmly at my waist—a gesture of possession, not affection. He leaned in too close, his breath carrying that self-assured confidence he believed to be charming, the cologne of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. I was almost ready to frown, to pull away, but the moment he lowered his head toward my ear, I suddenly smiled.
"You can't catch me."
As the words left my mouth, I slipped free and ran forward into the night. The cobblestone street was empty, gaslight scattering into broken reflections across the rain-soaked pavement. He chased after me, laughter easy and unrestrained, treating it like a harmless game between a man and his promised bride.
Only I knew it was not.
When he finally closed the distance, I suddenly slowed and turned back toward him. He froze for a split second, something flickering behind his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the faint irritation of a hunter whose prey had stopped fleeing. I reached out, as if absentmindedly straightening his cuff, my fingertips brushing lightly over the hand that Silvia had just held in the motorcar, leaving behind a faint trace of moisture from the evening mist.
"We're here," I said quietly.
The door of the tailor's shop was pushed open, warm light spilling out like honey across the threshold.
Then everything stopped.
The figure standing before the three-paneled mirror was not me.
Silvia was wearing the gown—my gown—its skirt spreading at her feet like spilled champagne. She turned slowly in front of the mirror, smiling without a trace of burden, as if this were the most natural arrangement in the world. As if she had always been meant to stand there, draped in silk that had been cut to my measurements, fitted to my frame.
That gown was meant to belong to me alone.
From the sketches to the cut, from the Venetian lace to every hand-stitched pearl, I had personally approved each detail with Signora Marchetti. The old seamstress had once said it was less a dress than an obsession—a bride's armor for the day she would seal a blood-bound alliance between two of the most powerful families in the territory. And now that obsession was draped over someone else, displayed like a trophy already claimed.
"You're finally here," Silvia said first, her tone gentle, almost considerate. "We've all been waiting for you."
"Waiting for me?" I stepped closer, slowly, my heels clicking against the marble floor like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. "Or waiting for this moment?"
She seemed not to understand, still studying herself in the mirror, turning her shoulder to catch the light. "I was just helping you check the effect. Time is tight before the union ceremony. Someone had to try it first."
I stared at the reflection—her face where mine should have been, her body wearing my future like borrowed skin. My voice came out unnaturally calm, the kind of calm that preceded violence in the world we inhabited.
"Take it off."
Only then did she turn, wearing that familiar innocent expression—the one that had fooled our father, our mother, every soldier and associate who had ever crossed the Ashford threshold. "You don't need to be so tense, Elena. It's just a dress."
"It's not your dress," I said.
She smiled, her tone light as poisoned wine. "But don't you think it suits me better?"
I did not answer right away. Emotion surged in my chest—rage, betrayal, the bitter taste of years spent watching her take everything I had ever been promised—but I forced it down. In our world, the one who lost control first lost everything.
"Now," I repeated. "Take it off."
Her gaze slipped past me to Giorgio, as if seeking permission from the man who was supposed to be my betrothed. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. I catalogued it. I filed it away with all the other evidence I had been gathering for months.
He stood there in the doorway, composed, even faintly appreciative as his eyes traced the lines of the gown against her body. "Don't make a scene," he said to me, his voice carrying the dismissive authority of a man who had already decided whose side he was on. "She's just having a bit of fun."
Then he looked at her, his tone softening in a way I had never heard directed at me. "What do you think, Silvia?"
She turned once more in front of the mirror, her smile growing bolder, more triumphant.
"It really does look good," Giorgio added quietly, stepping closer to her. "You've always been striking."
In that moment, every trace of hesitation vanished. Every doubt I had harbored about what I had seen, what I had suspected, what I had refused to believe—all of it crystallized into absolute certainty.
"Enough." I stepped forward and tore the gown from her hands.
Silvia laughed softly, a sound like breaking glass, as if she had expected this all along. As if she had wanted it. "All right, if you care that much about a piece of fabric." She stepped back leisurely, her eyes never leaving mine. "Then keep it."
I turned and left with the gown in my arms, without looking at anyone. The silk was still warm from her body, and the sensation made my skin crawl.
Behind me came their lowered laughter, intimate and conspiratorial, and Giorgio's deliberately gentle reassurance.
"She's been under a lot of pressure lately with the alliance preparations. Don't take it to heart."
That was exactly the answer I needed.
The confirmation. The proof. The final nail in the coffin of my old life.
Back in my chambers at the Ashford estate, I placed the gown in front of the fireplace. Firelight flickered across the fabric, shadows swaying like a farewell long delayed. The pearls caught the light and scattered it across the walls like fallen stars.
Low voices murmured outside the door—servants, or perhaps associates who had heard what happened at the tailor's shop. Word traveled fast in our world. Gossip was currency, and scandal was blood in the water.
"Did you see her in that dress?"
"Of course. It looked like it was made for her."
"It was like she was the bride. Like she was the one sealing the alliance with the Corleone heir."
I cleared my throat. The hallway fell silent at once, footsteps retreating quickly. Even the household staff knew better than to be caught speaking ill of the Don's daughter—even the overlooked one.
I looked down at the gown, my fingers trembling slightly. Not from grief. Not anymore.
From rage.
"You don't deserve it," I said softly, though I was not certain whether I was speaking to the dress, to Silvia, or to the naive girl I had been just hours ago. "You don't deserve anything I ever gave you."
The next second, I threw it into the fire.
The flames devoured the fabric hungrily, silk blackening and curling, pearls popping in the heat like gunshots. The Venetian lace that had taken Signora Marchetti three months to complete turned to ash in seconds.
And with it, the last of my illusions.
I watched until there was nothing left but embers and the faint smell of burned dreams. Then I turned away from the fireplace and walked to my writing desk, where a single envelope waited—cream-colored paper, no return address, sealed with gray wax.
Hector 'The Gray' Santini had promised me a way out.
Tonight, I would take it.
