Chapter 6 Six

• POV Isabella:
• Matteo Castellano's last cigarette is consumed as he explains to me how to launder money through his casinos. I memorize every detail as if my life depended on it, because it probably does.
• "And that's how we turn a million into two without the feds being able to trace it," he concludes, stubbing out the cigarette butt in a glass ashtray. His eyes study me, searching for any sign of doubt or misunderstanding. "Any questions, Ricci?"
• "No, sir," I reply. "It's a flawless system."
• Castellano smiles, satisfied with my answer. These men's vanity has always been their weak point. "Your father should learn a thing or two. His methods are... somewhat antiquated."
• I keep my expression neutral. If he only knew how little I care about my father going broke, I only care about surviving another day. "Every family has its ways."
• "And some families do better than others," he replies with a mischievous grin. "You can leave now."
• I stand up with a controlled movement, neither too fast nor too slow. Each gesture calculated to project the masculinity expected of me. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Castellano."
• I leave his office and close the door behind me. The hallway is empty, so for a moment I allow my shoulders to relax. Three hours of listening to numbers, routes and contacts has left my head pounding.
• "Mr. Ricci?"
• The soft voice startles me. Sofia is standing by a window. She is wearing a simple cream-colored dress and her hair is in a braid. I immediately return to my rigid posture.
• "Miss Castellano," I greet with a small nod.
• "I hope I'm not interrupting," she says, approaching with small, measured steps. Typical of a woman raised to be seen and not heard. I know that invisible prison well.
• "Not at all. I just finished with your father."
• Sofia smiles shyly. "I thought you might like to take a walk in the gardens now. The sunset is especially beautiful from the gazebo."
• I want to refuse, the last thing I need is to spend more time pretending, especially with her. But refusing her would be suspicious. After all, I am her fiancé.
• "It will be my pleasure," I lie with a rehearsed smile.
• Sofia leads me to a side door that opens onto the gardens. I must admit they are impressive: perfectly trimmed shrubs, marble fountains and stone paths alternating among the rose bushes.
• "My mother was an architect before she was married, she designed these gardens herself," Sofia comments as we walk side by side. "Before she died."
• "They are beautiful," I reply sincerely. "I'm sorry for your loss."
• "It was a long time ago," she says with a sad smile. "I barely remember her."
• Another thing we have in common besides cruel and greedy fathers: we are both motherless. Empathy for her grows inside me without me being able to help it.
• We walk in silence for a few minutes. The sun begins to set on the horizon.
• Sofia seems to want to say something, but hesitates.
• "Is something wrong, Miss Castellano?" I ask.
• "Please," she says, stopping by a fountain, "if we're going to get married, could you just call me Sofia?"
• Her request is reasonable, but it makes me nervous. Familiarity creates closeness, and closeness increases my risk of exposure.
• "Of course, Sofia," I finally concede.
• "And I... what should I call you, is Mr. Ricci still appropriate?"
• The formality in her voice makes me feel guilty. This girl is marrying someone who doesn't even exist.
• "Isidro is fine," I reply, softening my tone. "There is no need for such formality between us."
• Sofia smiles, genuinely this time. It's a beautiful smile, lighting up her face and reaching her eyes.
• "Isidro," she repeats, as if testing how the name sounds on her lips.
• We continue walking and she shows me her favorite flowers. She also tells me little stories about growing up in this house. Her voice is melodious and she is impeccably educated, as you would expect from the daughter of a mafia boss, but I see in her an intelligence and sensitivity that goes beyond the lessons of etiquette.
• We arrive at the gazebo, a white stone structure that rises above a small pond. The view is indeed impressive.
• "Do you like it?" asks Sofia.
• "It's beautiful," I admit.
• Sofia moves a little closer to me, so much so that I can smell her perfume. My body instinctively tenses.
• "My father says the wedding will be in three months," she comments, looking toward the horizon. "There's barely time for preparations."
• "Marriages in our world are rarely planned in advance," I reply, taking a small step back to keep my distance.
• Sofia looks directly at me now. There is a question in her eyes. "Do you dislike the idea of marrying me, Isidro?"
• The question completely throws me off. What am I supposed to answer? That the problem is not her, but that the whole thing is a monumental farce?
• "It's not about disgust," I say carefully so as not to hurt her feelings. "Arranged marriages are... complicated for both parties."
• Sofia nods slowly. "I get it, none of us chose this."
• There is a resignation in her voice that is painfully familiar. We are pawns in the same game, though she doesn't fully know it.
• "If my father had another male child besides Marco," Sofia continues, "or if he hadn't had the accident, perhaps I would have more options. But as an only child, my destiny was always to be a bargaining chip."
• Her words hit me hard. If my father had a real son, I too would be just a daughter to trade. Isabella, not Isidro, and I would surely be engaged to some man chosen for his strategic usefulness.
• "We are all pieces on a larger board," I say, allowing a bit of my true feeling to seep into my words.
• Sofia takes a step towards me and, before I can react, takes my hand in hers. The contact paralyzes me. Her hands are soft and warm against my skin.
• "Maybe," she says quietly, "we could be allies instead of just pawns."
• My heart is pounding. I want to pull my hand away, but that would seem like a rejection. A normal man would be pleased with the attention of his beautiful fiancée.
• "Allies," I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady.
• "I know this marriage is a business arrangement," Sofia continues, "but that doesn't mean we should be unhappy. We could... get to know each other. Try to build something real inside this sham."
• The irony hits me like a slap in the face. She has no idea how deep the charade really goes.
• Gently, I remove my hand from hers. "Time will tell what we can build, Sofia. For now, I think we should head back, it's getting dark."
• A shadow of disappointment crosses her face, but she nods. "Of course, Isidro."
• The way back is silent. I feel guilty for her sadness, but what choice do I have? Any closeness between us is impossible as long as I maintain this lie. And revealing the truth would mean death for me.
• When we reach the entrance to the house, Sofia stops.
• "Thanks for the ride," she says formally.
• "Thank you," I reply. "Good evening."
• "Good evening, Isidro."
• I see her enter the house and disappear down the hall. Only then do I allow myself to let out the air I didn't know I was holding. My shoulders drop, releasing the accumulated tension.
• It's exhausting to pretend to be Isidro every minute of the day, but it's especially difficult with Sofia. There's something about her that awakens in me a dangerous honesty, a desire to let my guard down that I can't afford.
• I rub my face with my hands. It's three months until the wedding. How will I manage to resist if my father doesn't pay his debt?