I burned everything I had prepared for the union ceremony.
The silk ribbons, the embossed cards, the small careful things a bride collects when she still believes the bloodlines being joined will protect her. I fed them all to the trash, and then to the fire. This house had never carried my name above its door, never truly belonged to me, and now there was nothing of me left in it either. Only the worn rail tickets remained, the ones I had kept folded like pages of a diary, each stub a record of some night I had crossed the city to stand beside Lorenzo while he climbed. I held them a moment too long. Then I dropped them into the flames, one by one.
Each ticket curled and blackened, and with it went a piece of the woman who had loved him. The fire took ten years the way a debt is finally called in, without ceremony, without mercy. When the burning stopped there was only a heap of ash and the acrid sting of smoke hanging in the air. It looked exactly like what I had given him. Everything, reduced to soot you could brush off a marble floor.
The next morning the smell of breakfast pulled me up out of sleep.
"Adriana, hurry and get ready. I've already made breakfast."
"You eat. I'll take a plate up to Bianca so you don't have to."
"All right."
Lorenzo paused, the thermal container still in his hand, and something flickered behind his easy expression. "Don't feel guilty," he said. "Bianca doesn't blame you." He set the container down and reached for me with that practiced warmth. "After we eat, we'll go choose a new betrothal stone for the ceremony. The custom one ran into trouble. It won't be ready in time for the joining."
He enjoyed the role he was playing, the devoted promised man, the patient hand on the wheel of two families. So I gave him his scene. Sensing, perhaps, that I had stopped feeding him the reactions he wanted, he hesitated, then brought out the first aid kit and knelt to dab medicine on my knee, the one I had torn open the night before.
"Adriana, we've been bound to each other for years. Everything I've done has been for your good. I don't want you standing at your own union with no family at your side." His thumb moved gently over the scrape. "You said you couldn't find a maid of honor. So I took the liberty of asking Bianca to stand for you."
He spoke carefully, the way a man speaks when he expects resistance and is bracing for it. When my agreement came so quickly, disbelief crowded into his eyes. Then he took my hand and pressed a long, lingering kiss to it, the way he used to in the years I had mistaken performance for devotion.
He carried the breakfast up to Bianca and did not come back.
I was scrubbing at my palm, raking my own skin where his mouth had been, when his call came through.
"Adriana, finish eating and come down to the garage. I'm waiting in the car."
When I reached the garage I went, out of old habit, for the front passenger door. Bianca was already in the seat, the morning light catching the diamond at her throat. I said nothing. I opened the rear door and folded myself into the back. Lorenzo glanced at me in the mirror, more than once, and seemed pleased by how well I understood my place now.
"Adriana, Bianca designs jewelry," he said, as if I had not known that for fifteen years. "With her along, she'll be sure to help you find a stone you love."
I nodded and closed my eyes, pretending to rest.
When I opened them again, not meaning to, I saw his hand at Bianca's cheek, pinching it with a tenderness he had once saved for me. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and he started explaining before I had said a word.
"Bianca had something on her face. I was only wiping it off."
His laugh came a half-beat too soon, and two fingers rose to the knot of his tie to straighten what was already straight. I had spent ten years not knowing that gesture for what it was. I knew it now. I closed my eyes again and kept them shut until the car stopped.
The three of us walked into the jeweler together, the kind of polished front the Families use to launder stones into respectability. The associate behind the counter took one look at Bianca standing close against Lorenzo's side and smiled at them with warm assumption.
"What can I help you find today, sir? Something special for your loved one?"
Color rose in both their faces. Lorenzo pulled me to him quickly, an arm fastening at my waist for show. "Why are you standing all the way over there? Come pick out a ring."
The associate flushed and hurried to lay out a velvet tray. But Bianca took it from her, lifting each stone with a critic's disdain.
"Not big enough."
"The color's wrong on this one."
One by one she found them all wanting, because none of them could rival the diamond already winking on her own hand. The associate kept glancing at me, uncertain who she was meant to be serving. Bianca behaved as though she hadn't noticed and settled at last on a thin, modest band.
"Adriana, let's just take this one for now. It'll do for the ceremony. I'll design you something finer later," she said, generous as a queen tossing a coin.
The associate, plainly uncomfortable, mustered some strained praise for Bianca's exceptional eye. Bianca thrust her own hand out in front of me, pride curling at the corner of her mouth.
"It has to be beautiful," she said. "It was custom-designed by my fiancé." Her fingers drifted to the largest stone she wore and turned it inward against her palm, folding it out of sight, as if even now some part of her knew the word she had let slip needed hiding.
Lorenzo stood quietly at her side and let her flaunt the ring he had paid for with my father's money. He did not stop her. He did not so much as shift his weight in discomfort. His smile only opened wider, blooming like something fed by spring wind.
"Then we'll take the one Bianca chose," he said.
He skipped even the trying-on. He paid for it where it sat, then drew it out and slid it onto my finger with a face emptied of everything. No kneeling. No roses. No question asked and answered. Once, this man had knelt before a roomful of the Family and promised to stand between me and every monster in the dark. Now the band went cold and tight over my knuckle, small enough that it bit.
I knew, beyond any doubt, that Bianca had done it on purpose. A woman who fenced stones for half the territory could read a finger's measure at a glance. A mistake this large was not a mistake. I did not bother saying so. I simply worked the ring back off.
The associate, gentle about it, suggested I might prefer another style. I declined. I pressed my thumb against the bare strip of skin where the ring had sat, smoothed it once, then folded my hands in my lap.
"We'll take this one. No need to make it complicated."
