The Consigliere Who Chose Everyone but Me

I woke up to an empty bed.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains. Rocco never came back.

I picked up my phone.

Livia had posted a new video.

She and Rocco were on a rooftop, sitting against a sky full of stars.

Her head was on his shoulder. "Thanks for being here, brother," she said softly. "You're the only one who listens when I can't sleep."

I watched the whole thing. Then I scrolled past. The alcohol was gone. The pain was still there, but it was a cold, hard thing now. Not a fire. And in that cold, a new thought took root. Let go.

An hour later, I was in my father’s, Antonio Marino’s, study. I told him I wanted to go to Venice.

"Venice?"

"To take over Mom's art foundation," I said, my voice steady. "I think it's time."

My father watched me, his eyes sharp. "Aurelia, you understand what this means. You'd be leaving New York. You'd be leaving Rocco."

I nodded. "I'm sure."

"Alright." He didn't ask any more questions. "I'll make the arrangements. Flight in three days, is that good?"

"It is."

Just then, the sound of engines rumbled outside. Not one car. A lot of them.

I walked to the window.

A fleet of black trucks choked the lane outside our gates. Men were unloading armfuls of black roses. Hundreds of them. A grotesque spectacle.

A crowd was gathering. Passersby were stopping, pulling out their phones, taking pictures.

My social anxiety hit me like a truck. My chest tightened. My palms started to sweat.

"Aurelia."

Rocco’s voice came from behind me.

I turned. He was standing in the living room doorway, still in last night’s suit, dark circles under his eyes.

"Do you like them?" He gestured to the window. "It took me all night to find them."

I looked at his exhausted face, and a wave of sadness washed over me.

"You forgot something, Rocco," I said, my voice flat. "I hate being the center of attention. I hate being a spectacle."

Rocco froze.

He glanced out the window, at the people with their phones held high.

"Dammit," he cursed under his breath. "I'm sorry, Aurelia, I forgot. I'll have them take it all down."

"Don't bother," I said, shaking my head. "The damage is done."

"I promise, next time I'll remember."

Next time.

Always next time.

I'd heard that promise a thousand times.

"Let's go." He reached for my hand. "I have a surprise for you."

"Rocco, I—"

"Trust me, okay?" His eyes pleaded. "Let me make up for last night."

When we arrived, I saw we were at a private airstrip. Before I could ask, Rocco was opening my door.

He pulled me into a run across the tarmac.

I was stunned.

The Rocco I knew was always a man in a suit, calm and in control. This boyish, frantic version of him? I'd only ever seen it on Livia's Instagram feed.

"Come on, Aurelia! The flight to Lake Como is waiting for us."

Once I was buckled into a leather seat, breathless, I finally had a chance to ask, "What is all this?"

Rocco, still catching his breath, tucked our passports away.

"I know you've always wanted to see where your mother grew up."

"You always wanted to go back to Lake Como, right? I'm on leave, so let me take you. Don't be mad at me anymore, okay?"

I realized then, in three years of being engaged, this was our first trip alone. Just the two of us.

Every other vacation he’d taken had been for Livia.

Or maybe, he only ever took vacations because of Livia.

He'd take Livia skiing in the Alps, to see the sunset in Santorini, to watch the races in Monaco.

But when I asked him to take me to the botanical gardens—right here in the city—he was always too busy with "family business."

And now? Now that I was finally ready to walk away, he was suddenly the man I'd always begged him to be?

The plane began to taxi.

Rocco stroked my hair. "Don't worry, my princess. I've taken care of everything."