Of volume lineage

“Giova

We briefly embraced, kissing each other’s cheeks. Alessandro did not embrace me and Giova

“Congratulations,” the Don said. He didn’t have any of his wife’s charm, instead wearing a constant a

“Thank you,” I said robotically.

“I was just telling Alessandro what a striking pair you two make together,” Sophia laughed. “The dark hair, your beauty. Your Christmas card will make us all envious.”

I forced a smile, even if I had the fleeting thought that I wouldn’t be around for Christmas. And if everything went to plan, neither would Giova

Her eyes brightened in delight, like two little pe

Marzia skipped up to us in that moment, loose curls spilling out of her chignon. She sent a shy smile the Rocchettis way.

“I don’t think you’ve met my daughter, Marzia, yet.” Giova

“It’s lovely to meet you, Marzia,” Sophia cooed. “I love your dress. Where did you get it?”

She blushed and glanced to me for help.

“A local boutique,” I said. “I got my dress from there as well.”

“You’ll have to point me in their direction. Since the two prettiest dresses came from there.” She sent Marzia another showstopping grin.

“I wish to speak to you before you leave,” Giova

The Chicago Don nodded in agreement. “As do I.” He looked down at his wife, anger evaporating into softness.

Sophia nodded at his silent question. “It was lovely meeting you, Marzia. We’ll talk soon, Isabella?” I agreed and watched the attractive couple walk into the crowd, the patrons parting like the Red Sea.

Without guests and forced ma

It was time for Giova

“Shall we?” Giova

The rebellion in my blood heated at his demand. In front of my family and enemies, I almost refused him. It would be a scandal, a social faux pas, but the satisfaction I would get from denying Giova

Giova

I gave him a sour smile. “Of course, husband.”

Music twisted together in a classical waltz, each note speeding up my heart. Giova

“Who taught you to dance?” I asked.

Giova

“My brother taught me,” I offered, surprising myself. “He used to let me stand on his feet and together we would prance around the living room.” Junior was nine years older and very rarely hung out with me, but there had been a few times outside his rigorous schedule when my big brother had entertained me.

My husband didn’t react to my childhood anecdote, just continued to sweep me around the room.

“I only have a few more boxes left to move,” I said. I hadn’t been permitted to move the boxes myself, Giova

“The housekeeper has unpacked most of the boxes,” he finally replied.

“Even my paints?”

“You would have to ask her.”

I recalled the tipped over canvases and torn sketchbooks that had occurred under Giova

Giova

“I’m not the paparazzi–or FBI. I’m your wife.” The word wife rattled around my skull, but I didn’t let myself dwell on it.

“It does not matter.”

I thought about the sketch I had drawn of his face all those weeks ago. It was tucked beneath my mattress and bedframe with all my other notes. If Giova

“Fine, I won’t draw you anymore,” I said. “But I hope you know, there are thousands of men who would enjoy me painting them.”

Giova

He was right. Only a fool would pose for the wife of the Vigliano Don.

The crescendo grew louder and louder. Instead of minstrels and harps, I heard the pounding of the war drums. I was not an angel, twirling in my virginal dress with my new husband, but instead I was a soldier head-to-head with my enemy. Each step coincided with each plucked string, and I curved my palm around Giova

This was no first dance for the happy couple.

This was a battle.

A battle I very much intended to win.

“I know we’ve gotten off to a rocky start,” I said. “You, for example, invaded my privacy, destroyed my artwork and tore me away from my family. Whereas the only thing I have done is call you a fucking asshole.”

Giova

“And they call me Vigliano.” My tone was sharp.

He didn’t deny it. “What point are you trying to make?”

“I don’t want us to fight our entire marriage.”

“Interesting. I was under the impression you enjoyed fighting.”

I bit my cheek to keep my temper in check. “No one enjoys fighting.”

“That’s not true.”

We continued to dance, each footfall accompanied by applause from the bystanders. “I want us to respect each other,” I implored, followed by, “I want us to trust each other.”

Giova

Silence followed my words.

“I don’t trust you, Isabella,” he finally said. “You are the daughter of the enemy.”

“I’m a Vigliano.”

The song flowed to a stop, applause and celebration surrounding us as we stopped. I didn’t hear them. All my senses were focused on Giova