I Paid for the Mafia House,He Made Me a Guest in It

When I listed the riverside marriage home—the one I'd put a $300K down payment on—on a resale site, the agent asked how I could bear to slash the price and take such a loss in such a hurry.

I tugged the corner of my mouth into something like a smile.

"Because of a cashmere throw."

Last night I worked into the small hours over the ledgers, and my stomach flared up. I broke into a cold sweat from the pain right there in the sitting room, so I went to push open the master bedroom door, just to lie down on the bed for a while.

But Lorenzo Marchetti clamped a hand over the door handle, frowning.

"Don't go in. That silk bedding and the cashmere throw are Bianca Russo's favorites. Last time you lay on them they smelled of your perfume, and her insomnia flared up. She was awake the whole night."

He pulled the door shut tight and lowered his voice to coax me.

"Just bear with it. Make do on the couch. Bianca's nerves—she only just came out of recovery. We should be more accommodating."

The sight of him standing guard over the master bedroom cut into me.

All at once this estate, the one I'd spent half a year chasing through warehouses and craftsmen to furnish, felt cold enough to make me shiver.

I didn't grill him the way I usually would. I just turned around in silence and walked toward that couch in the sitting room.

Lorenzo shot me a glance, assumed I was sulking, shook his head as if the matter were beneath him, and went back to his study.

Looking at the confirmation on my phone screen—the appointment to clear the debt-claim, booked—I closed my eyes and drifted off.

This walled house they meant me to enter as the Marchetti bride, I wasn't going to step into it after all.

——

When I woke, my stomach was still cramping.

The sitting room light was still on, and half a glass of cold water sat on the low table.

Lorenzo hadn't gotten me my medicine.

I propped myself up off the couch, the backs of my hands slick with cold sweat.

Light leaked through the gap under the master bedroom door, and white noise drifted out from inside.

It was the rainfall track Bianca always played before sleep.

I made my way over, one hand on the wall.

A little sign hung from the door handle.

Sleeping. Do Not Disturb.

The sign was new.

I'd never bought it.

I pushed the door.

It was locked from the inside.

Lorenzo's voice came from the study.

"Adriana Falcone, leave the door alone."

I turned to look at him.

He was in his pajamas, holding a cup of hot water.

He didn't hand the hot water to me.

He set the cup on the little cabinet outside the master bedroom door.

"Bianca wakes up at night and likes warm water."

I asked, "Where's my stomach medicine?"

He paused.

"I'll buy you some tomorrow."

I opened the medicine box in the entryway.

My stomach medicine was three months expired.

Bianca's sleep aids were sorted into little compartments, each label marked with the date and dosage.

Lorenzo walked over and pressed a hand down on the medicine box.

"Don't go messing with her medicine."

I closed the box.

"When did she put her medicine in here?"

"She just came out of recovery. She needs a stable environment."

"This is the estate meant to seal our union."

His brows knit together.

"Do you really have to nitpick over every little thing? She's only staying a few nights."

I walked toward the guest room.

The moment the door opened, there were the favors for the alliance ceremony, piled inside.

Bianca's easel stood against the wall, and her yoga mat lay on the floor.

"She's staying in the guest room too?"

Lorenzo avoided my eyes.

"Painting helps steady her mood."

I opened my phone.

The broker's quiet estimate popped up, well below what I'd paid to clear the title.

I sat back down on the couch and opened the ledger.

Remaining balance on the debt-claim, the early-clearance terms, the penalty owed—each one laid out clearly.

Lorenzo stood beside me.

"What are you making a fuss about now?"

I didn't look up.

"Checking the accounts."

He sighed.

"Adriana, be more mature. Bianca is sick, you're healthy. Don't fight her over a bed."

My fingers stopped.

Fight her over a bed.

I'd spent half a year chasing through warehouses and craftsmen, overseeing the carpentry, the plumbing and the wiring, the furnishings.

That bed was one I'd settled on only after trying seven different houses.

Under the table, my thumb turned the thin gold ring on my right hand a half-rotation, slow and quiet, the way a debt is decided long before it's collected.