Blood and Sorrow

Sofia Lorenzo's scent envelops me before he even enters the room. A mix of leather, cigar, and that sharp cologne that clings to my skin even in his absence. I'm in front of my vanity mirror, a diamond earring trembling between my fingers. My hands refuse to stay still. He appears in the reflection, immense, filling the doorframe. His dark gaze settles on me, the appraisal of an owner. "You are magnificent, Sofia." His voice is a low rasp, caressing and dangerous. He approaches, his hands landing on my bare shoulders. I feel the contained strength in his fingers, the same strength that can snap a vertebra as easily as it caresses me. A shiver runs down my spine. For a long time now, I haven't known if it's born of desire or fear. "The reception at Mancini's is important. I want you by my side the entire time." It's not a request. It's an order. In his world, I am both queen and hostage. I nod, unable to find my voice. His thumb traces an arc on my skin, then he leans in, placing a kiss on my neck. A gesture that smells of possession, not tenderness. "I love you, mia moglie." The words resonate like a sentence. I close my eyes, forcing a smile. "I love you too, Lorenzo." The lie tastes like blood on my tongue. I bit it too hard. --- The evening is a dizzying blur of lights, laughter that's too loud, and glances that slide over me with masked pity. Everyone knows. Everyone knows who Lorenzo is, and what I've become: a luxury accessory, a living trophy. I cling to my husband's arm, a frozen smile plastered on my lips. I feel the stares of other men, a mix of lust and fear. No one dares meet my gaze for too long. No one, except him. A man, near the bar. He's not wearing a tuxedo, but a sober suit. He's different. His gaze is frank, direct. He looks at me, not at Lorenzo Rossi's wife. And in his eyes, I see neither fear nor lust. I see curiosity. And a strange sadness. Lorenzo, sensing my hesitation, follows my gaze. His arm stiffens under my hand. "Who is that?" he murmurs, his voice suddenly a knife. "I don't know." "Luca Conti. A prosecutor," he spits. "A dog who thinks he can bite. He doesn't deserve your attention." He pulls me away to the other side of the room, but it's too late. The image of the stranger, of Luca, is already etched behind my eyelids. His gaze pierced through me, like the first breath of air in a windowless room. Later, while Lorenzo is engrossed in an animated conversation with a man sporting tattooed hands, I find myself alone for a moment near the terraces. The night chill bites my bare arms. "Enjoying the evening, Signora Rossi?" The voice makes me jump. I turn around. Luca Conti is there, a few steps away, a glass of water in his hand. He doesn't smile. His eyes scrutinize mine, as if searching for a flaw, a clue. "It's... like all the others." "I imagine. It must be exhausting." His words are simple, but they strike me right in the heart. No one had ever told me that. No one had ever seen the exhaustion behind the diamonds. "Exhausting?" "Playing a role. All the time."