MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

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**Meanwhile in Italy**

It is two in the morning at Villa Bianchi on Lake Como, and the house is quiet in the way only old money houses get quiet. There is no television and no staff moving around, just the low hum of the Sub-Zero fridge and the ticking of the antique clock above the stove.

Isabella Bianchi sits alone at the cold marble island. She is still wearing the navy dinner dress from earlier in the evening. The silk is wrinkled at her waist where she has been sitting for hours, and her heels are kicked off under the stool with one lying on its side. Her phone is in her hand, and its screen is the only light in the room, painting her face pale blue.

She has been texting the same number for three nights.

*Ximena, please answer me.*

*Baby, where are you?*

*Please, your father will be home tomorrow.*

There is no answer, only two small grey ticks under each message. Delivered, not read.

Her hands are shaking so badly that she keeps hitting the wrong letters. She types, deletes, and types again, then sets the phone down on the marble. When the screen goes black the silence feels worse, so she picks it up again a second later. Her leg bounces under the island and her chest feels tight.

She hears footsteps behind her on the marble floor. They are soft but heavy, and she jumps so hard that the barstool scrapes loudly against the stone.

It is Anthony.

He is Don Bianchi's right-hand man and has been with the family since Ximena was five years old and still wore pigtails to Sunday mass. He is tall and broad-shouldered, and his black suit is still perfect even at two in the morning. His hair is cut short with grey at the temples. He never raises his voice because he never has to.

He stops in the doorway and looks first at her face, then at the phone clutched in her shaking hand, then at the untouched glass of water in front of her.

"Mrs. Bianchi," he says quietly. "You're up late."

She tries to smile and it does not work. Her mouth trembles. "Couldn't sleep."

He walks past her to the sink and pours himself a glass of water from the tap. He does not rush, because Anthony never rushes.

"The Don called from Rome," he says, turning around and leaning his hip against the counter. "His flight lands at eight. He wants Ximena at breakfast with the wedding planner."

Isabella feels her stomach drop straight to the floor.

"The wedding planner?" she repeats, as if she did not hear him correctly.

Anthony nods once. "First dress fitting. Matteo's mother is flying in too. One month, Mrs. Bianchi."

One month. The words hit her harder than a slap. One month until her only daughter is forced to walk down the aisle and marry Matteo Moretti.

"She's sleeping," Isabella says, and the words come out too fast. "She has a headache. She went to bed early."

Anthony takes a slow sip of water and watches her over the rim of the glass. He has known this woman for twenty years and watched her plan her own wedding in this same house. He knows every one of her tells.

"She didn't come down for dinner," he says. It is not a question.

"She ate in her room," Isabella answers quickly, too quickly. "You know how she is before the wedding. Stressed."

Anthony sets the glass down on the marble with a soft click. "I knocked on her door an hour ago to check the security cameras on her wing. She didn't answer."

Isabella's breath catches in her throat and she grips the edge of the counter until her knuckles turn white.

"She's a heavy sleeper," she whispers.

Anthony is quiet for a long time while the fridge hums and the clock ticks and the lake laps against the dock outside.

"Mrs. Bianchi," he says finally, his voice dropping lower. "Where is she?"

Tears fill her eyes instantly and she blinks hard, trying to push them back. She cannot cry in front of him.

"I don't know," she says, and it is the honest truth.

Anthony does not move. He just waits.

"I swear to God, Anthony, I don't know where she went," she says, and her voice breaks in the middle. "She left a note on her pillow three days ago. It just said 'I'm sorry, Mama. I have to go.' She called me once from the airport and then nothing. Her phone has been off for three days."

Anthony's face does not change. That is why the Don trusts him with everything.

"Three days ago?" he asks.

She nods, wiping at her eyes fast with the back of her hand and smearing mascara she forgot she was wearing. "She said she was going to Chloe's to study that morning. I covered for her at dinner that night, and last night, and tonight. I thought she'd be back by now. I thought she was just scared, Anthony. I thought she needed to breathe."

Anthony nods slowly, thinking.

"Does the Don know?" he asks.

"No!" Isabella stands up so fast her barstool rocks back and almost falls over. "No, please. You can't tell him. Not yet. Please, Anthony. I'm begging you."

She is not just nervous now, she is terrified, and her whole body is shaking under the thin silk of her dress.

"If he finds out she ran before the wedding," she whispers, and she has to stop because her throat closes, "he won't shout, Anthony. You know him better than I do. He won't hit me. He'll just go cold. And when Lorenzo goes cold, people disappear."

Anthony looks down at the phone on the counter where the screen has lit up again with her unsent messages.

"I won't tell him tonight," he says.

Isabella lets out a breath she did not know she was holding. "Thank you."

"But," Anthony says, and that one word stops her heart again, "he will know tomorrow at breakfast when she's not there. I can only cover for so long. Matteo's mother is landing at nine. The planner is bringing the first dress. I cannot hide an empty chair at that table."

Isabella reaches out and grabs his forearm with both hands. Her fingers are ice cold. "Then I'll tell him myself. I'll confess at breakfast. I'll tell him she's having a breakdown. We can postpone the wedding, Anthony. Just one week. One month becomes five weeks. That gives us time to find her before the Morettis find out."

Anthony looks at her hands but does not pull away yet.

"Mrs. Bianchi—"

"No, listen to me," she says, the words rushing out desperate now. "I could tell him she's sick, that she needs a doctor in Switzerland. That we need to postpone."

"Postpone?" Anthony says quietly, and there is something almost sad in his voice. "The Morettis have already sent the save-the-dates. Three hundred people. Cardinals and politicians. The first dress is upstairs in its bag. The priest is booked. You think Don Bianchi will pick up the phone and tell Matteo Moretti to wait because his bride got scared and ran away?"

Isabella starts crying for real now, the tears she has held for three days spilling over and running down her face. "Then what do we do, Anthony? Let him find out from someone else? He'll kill me for lying."

"We find her first," Anthony says simply, like it is the only logical option. "Before he does. Before the Morettis do. We bring her home quietly."

He pulls his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Do you have any idea where she would go?" he asks, his voice all business now. "Any friends outside Chloe? Any place she talked about?"

Isabella shakes her head, wiping her face with her sleeve. "No. She never talked about running. After the engagement dinner with Matteo last week, she came to my room and cried in my lap for an hour like she was five again. She said she couldn't breathe in this house anymore, Anthony. She said she felt like she was already dead and we were just dressing the body for the wedding."

Anthony puts his phone away without unlocking it. "I'll check the airports. Milan Linate, Malpensa, Rome, Paris. I'll check her cards quietly through our man at the bank. I'll check Chloe's family house in Como. No flags. No noise."

"Please," Isabella grabs his arm again, tighter this time. "Please don't tell him she ran. Tell him she's sick. Tell him she went to a spa. Just give me time to find my baby."

Anthony looks down at her hand, then gently pulls his arm free.

"I've known Ximena since she was five years old, Mrs. Bianchi," he says, his voice softer than she has ever heard it. "I carried her on my shoulders at your wedding. I taught her how to drive the boat on the lake. I will find her."

He turns to leave.

"Anthony," Isabella calls after him, her voice tiny and broken.

He stops in the dark doorway and half turns back.

"Don't bring her back if she doesn't want to come," she whispers. "Please. Even if you find her tomorrow. Don't drag her back here to marry him. Promise me."

He doesn't answer for a long time.

Then he says, "If the Don finds out she has been gone three days, he won't send me to bring her home, Mrs. Bianchi. He will travel himself. And Lorenzo Bianchi does not ask his daughter if she wants to come home."

Isabella's face goes completely white.

Anthony walks out, his footsteps fading down the long hallway.

Isabella sits back down alone in the dark kitchen. The marble is cold through her dress. She picks up her phone again with both shaking hands.

*Ximena, baby please. Where are you?*

Still no answer. Just the two grey ticks.

Outside the tall windows, Lake Como is black and still as glass. Inside, the big house is quiet, holding its breath.

The first dress fitting is in six hours. The wedding is in one month. And no one in Italy knows where Ximena Bianchi is.