Giana

The silence at the table was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of stale cigar smoke.

Franco's hand remained on Camilla's waist. His thumb moved in a familiar stroke against the thin fabric of her uniform.

It was muscle memory. Intimate. Unthinking. Devastating. He wasn't even aware he was doing it.

I stood up. The legs of my chair scraped against the floor with a harsh screech.

"Gia?" Franco looked up, blinking as if waking from a daze.

He pulled his hand away from Camilla.

"I'm going to the restroom," I said, my voice low and even.

I didn't wait for his response. I just turned and walked away.

I pushed open the door to the ladies' room. It was empty. I gripped the edge of the cold porcelain sink and stared at myself in the mirror.

Stay calm. Don't let him win.

The door opened.

Camilla walked in. She wasn't crying anymore.

She moved with a loose, clumsy gait, taking up more space than necessary. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest.

"Oops," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "Did I ruin your date night?"

I turned to face her, unhurried. "Camilla. You're playing with fire."

"You're a blind fool," she retorted, a certain venom in her voice. "He doesn't want you. He wants your last name. He tells me everything. Tells me how boring you are. Tells me he has to think about me to finish."

"If he wanted you," I said quietly, "you wouldn't be serving drinks while I'm wearing his ring."

Rage flickered in her eyes, twisting her features. "That ring is a copy! I have the real one!"

"I know," I said.

A flicker of disbelief crossed her face.

Before she could speak, the door handle rattled. Then a heavy knock shook the frame.

"Gia?" It was Franco.

Camilla's eyes lit up. She let out a calculated shriek.

"Get away from me!" she screamed, throwing herself heavily onto the tile floor.

She landed on her own ankle, twisting it with purpose.

Franco kicked the door open. The lock splintered, the door swinging inward.

He stormed in, his eyes wild with panic. He saw me standing by the sinks, arms at my sides, face expressionless. He saw Camilla on the floor, clutching her leg, sobbing.

"She pushed me!" Camilla wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She cornered me and pushed me!"

Franco looked at me. There was no question in his eyes. Just assessment.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"Franco, look at her," I said calmly. "She's acting."

"She's hurt!" He knelt beside Camilla, examining her ankle. It was red and already starting to swell. "Just because you're a Vitielo, you think you can push people around? You think you're above the law?"

He looked up at me, disgust in his eyes.

I was stunned by his stupidity.

The law? From a mafioso?

And I'd never seen it before.

"Gia, you're a spoiled princess. You've never had a real day of hardship in your life. This girl works for a living, and you assault her because of a little jealousy?"

"Jealous?" I laughed. "Of what?"

Of her getting Franco's worthless love?

"She's the victim here!" Franco shouted. He scooped Camilla up in his arms, cradling her like a bride.

She buried her face in his neck, hiding the smile on her lips.

"I'm taking her to the hospital," he spat at me. "Find your own way home."

He walked out. He walked out of the club carrying his mistress, past his friends, past my associates, leaving his fiancée alone in a bathroom with a broken lock.

Five minutes later, I walked out of the club. Xavier tried to stop me.

"Gia, wait, he's just... he's emotional," Xavier stammered.

"He's dead to me," I said.

I took a cab home.

I walked into the penthouse and went straight to the living room.

On the wall hung a calligraphy scroll Franco had made for our third anniversary. It read: Forever.

I tore it off the wall. I ripped it in half. Then into quarters.

I went to the closet and pulled out every bag, every pair of shoes, every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me. I piled them in the middle of the living room floor like an offering to the ghost of what he'd made me.

I picked up the heavy kitchen scissors and started cutting. The blades sliced through soft leather, tore through silk fabric, shredded velvet.

Three hours later, when Franco came home, the apartment was dark.

He tried the bedroom door. Locked.

"Gia?" he called.

"Gia, open up. The doctor said she's fine. I just... I overreacted." He was realizing, apparently, that he still needed me until the wedding.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Gia, please. If you don't let me in, I'll sleep in the hallway."

I didn't answer.

Let him sleep on the floor. It's where dogs belong.

Giana

At 3 AM, low voices drifted through the gap in the balcony door.

I lay in the bedroom, the air thick and stale in the darkness, tossing and turning, straining to hear.

Franco was outside. I heard the sharp metallic click of his lighter, then the smell of smoke.

"You screwed up, man," Xavier's voice was low, rough with exhaustion. "Leaving Gia at the club for a waitress?"

"She's not just a waitress," Franco's voice was thick with defensive justification. "She listens to me. She looks at me like I'm a god. Like I can hang the moon."

He paused, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "Gia? Gia looks at me like she's waiting for me to screw up. It's exhausting."

"Gia's the princess," Xavier said pragmatically. "You marry her, you own this city."

"I know!" Franco's voice was sharp, louder, but he quickly reined it in. "You think I'm still here for any other reason? I just need... I need an outlet. Camilla's my relief. Gia's my job."

My job.

I closed my eyes. In the silence of the room, I felt the last shred of patience drain away, leaving only hollow air.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled of rich espresso.

Franco stood at the counter, humming a tune, acting as if nothing had happened.

"I have a surprise," he said, turning to me with a bright smile. "The dress arrived from Milan."

He gestured to a large, pristine garment bag.

"Try it on. For me? To make up for last night?"

I didn't argue. I unzipped the bag.

It was a masterpiece of lace and silk, custom-made by the best atelier in Italy. It cost more than most people's houses.

I took it to the guest room and changed. The fabric was heavy, cool against my skin. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

I didn't look like a bride. I looked like a ghost.

I walked out. Franco's cup stopped halfway to his mouth. His jaw went slack.

"God, Gia," he breathed, his eyes raking over the vision.

His phone rang.

The shrill sound shattered the moment. He looked at the screen, his face paling.

"I have to go," he said, already moving, grabbing his keys from the counter.

"Franco. I'm wearing my wedding dress." My voice was flat.

"It's family business. An emergency at the docks with the shipment. I'll be right back."

He ran out the door.

He didn't kiss me goodbye.

I stood there, in the absolute silence, the heavy silk pooling around my feet like a shroud.

I moved slowly to my phone, opened Instagram, and went straight to Camilla's page.

A new post, uploaded one minute ago. The screen was black.

Caption: If I die, will the pain finally end? Goodbye.

He wasn't going to the docks. He was going to play hero.

I waited.

Two hours later, another post.

A video. Filmed on a windy beach, the shot shaky before settling on two figures.

Franco and Camilla.

She was alive. She was wrapped in his suit jacket.

He was kissing her forehead.

The wind carried his voice to the mic.

"I'm here, baby. I'm not leaving. Forget everyone else. You're all that matters to me."

The caption read: Real love gives up everything to save you.

A chilling calm settled over me.

I walked to the kitchen drawer and took out the heavy scissors.

I grabbed a fistful of the voluminous wedding dress skirt.

Snip.

The sound was satisfying. The sharp, clean tear of steel through silk.

I cut through the imported lace. I sliced through the silk bodice. I hacked at the skirt until the masterpiece lay in ruins, a heap of white trash.

I stepped out of the wreckage of white silk, standing in the rubble in just my underwear.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

I opened it.

A photo. Graphic. Franco and Camilla tangled in a mess of sheets. His face buried in her neck, eyes closed, an expression of pure rapture on his face.

Then, another text.

He likes that I need him. I make him feel alive.

I looked at the photo.

I waited for the jealousy. The heartbreak.

But I felt nothing. Only a wave of nausea.

I typed one reply.

Keep him.

Then I blocked the number.

I walked into the bathroom and turned the shower to its highest setting. I stepped in and scrubbed my skin until it was red and raw, trying to wash away the eight years of his presence, his lies, his 'job'.

When I finally got out and wrapped myself in a towel, I looked in the mirror.

The face staring back wasn't a bride's. It was a woman about to walk into a judgment hall. And she was the judge.

Giana

The lies hung in the air, thick and metallic, impossible to ignore.

Franco stood in the foyer, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon to get back to me. He held up his phone, the screen displaying a text I couldn't read from where I stood.

"It's Dante," he said, his voice laced with a calculated panic. "He got into an accident on the 95. I have to go deal with the cops before the media finds out."

I nodded. I didn't ask why his friend, a man who drove like a grandmother, was speeding down the interstate at midnight. I just watched Franco grab his keys.

"Go," I said. "Family first."

He kissed my forehead. His lips were dry. He smelled of expensive cologne, layered over a cloying, sweet vanilla scent. Her perfume.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, I grabbed my jacket.

I didn't take my own car. I took the nondescript sedan my father kept in the garage for the cleaners.

I knew where Franco was going. He wasn't heading for the highway. He was going to the safe house in Queens. The one my father had left us for emergencies.

I parked two blocks away and walked. The night air was biting cold against my skin, but I didn't feel it. My blood was boiling too fiercely.

The lights were on in the living room. The curtains were drawn, but not completely.

I stood in the shadow of an alleyway and looked through the gap in the glass.

Franco was in the leather armchair. Camilla was straddling his lap.

She wasn't crying anymore. She was laughing, head thrown back, her hands tangled in his hair. His face was buried in her neck, his hands gripping her waist with a desperation I'd never seen in him, a hunger that bordered on manic.

This safe house, he'd told me, was for business. For the war.

It was, I realized. Just not the war I'd imagined.

A wave of nausea hit me. Not heartbreak. Disgust. A physical, visceral revulsion.

The man I was supposed to marry brought his mistress to the house meant for our future children.

I turned away and almost vomited.

The next morning, news broke. Not about the accident. About a brawl outside a restaurant in Queens. A made man had knocked another man unconscious.

I drove to the hospital. Franco was in a private room, his knuckles wrapped in bandages.

He looked up as I entered, his eyes widening.

"Gia," he started, trying to sit up.

Then I heard the sobbing.

Camilla was sitting in a chair in the corner, holding an ice pack to her cheek. She looked small and fragile.

"A drunk got handsy with her," Franco said quickly, his voice laced with false righteousness. "I had to step in. It was a matter of honor."

I didn't look at him. I looked at her.

She lowered the ice pack, her tear-filled eyes meeting mine, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

She raised a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face.

Sunlight glinted off the jade.

I gasped.

On her wrist was the Vitielo jade bracelet. A single piece of ancient jade, so green it was almost painful. It was an heirloom. My grandmother had worn it. My mother had worn it. I was supposed to wear it on my wedding day. Franco had asked to have it cleaned just last week.

He didn't have it cleaned. He took a piece of my history and gave it to his whore.

My nails dug into my palms. Hard enough to break the skin, to draw blood.

The pain was a lifeline, a brief reprieve from the ocean of rage.

It reminded me to breathe. To wait. This humiliation was a spark compared to the bonfire I was building for our wedding day.

I looked at Franco. He saw where my gaze had landed. His face went pale. He moved to her, blocking my view.

"Gia, wait," he stammered.

I looked at him. Really looked. I didn't see a mafioso. I saw a common thief. A coward who robbed his own house to adorn another woman.

"I'm tired, Franco," I said.

I turned and walked out.

"Gia!" he called after me.

I didn't stop. I walked out of the hospital and into the grey morning light.

For the first time in eight years, I didn't look back to see if he was following.

Had I loved him? Yes. I had.

But don't underestimate my resolve. I was going to make him weep.