THE ITALIAN HUSBAND'S LIE

Chapter 5:Gold Steak , Empty Heart

My hands were shaking when I saw his message.

_WHERE ARE YOU._

The restaurant suddenly felt too open. Too small. The fresh air that was so sweet ten minutes ago now felt cold on my skin. The people eating pasta around me were laughing, but their laugh sounded far away.

I paid fast with Luca's dollars. The waiter's eyes widened when he saw dollars. I left the rest on the table and ran. My small handbag from Accra was hitting my leg as I ran.

When I turned into Marco's street, I saw it. His black car was already parked in front of the house. The big black gates were open. And the three girls were standing outside on the porch, holding wine glasses, watching the street like they were waiting for a show. When they saw me running, they smiled.

Marco was standing in the doorway.

He was not wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His face — God, his face was so angry. Not the cold business angry from our honeymoon morning. This was hot angry. Fire angry. The veins on his forehead were showing.

I stopped in front of him, breathing hard.

"Where were you?" he said. His voice was low, so the neighbors wouldn't hear, but I could hear every word shaking with anger.

"I... I just went for a walk," I said. My voice was so small. I was holding my bag tight with both hands. "I needed fresh air. Inside was... I was suffocating, Marco. I couldn't breathe in that room."

"Fresh air?" He laughed, but there was no laugh in his eyes. "Fresh air with a full plate of pasta and chicken? Fresh air in a restaurant? With whose money, Ama? Who gave you money?"

"I... I found it... I saved —"

He didn't let me finish.

He grabbed my arm, hard, and pulled me inside the house, past the three girls. The blonde one laughed loud, "Oooh la moglie is in trouble!"

He pushed me into the big living room and slammed the door shut. The music was still loud inside, but I could still hear the girls whispering outside the door.

"You think you can lie to me in my own house?" he said, his hand still tight on my arm. His fingers were digging into my skin. "You think you are smart? You think you can take money from my brother and run away to eat outside like a street girl?"

"No! I wasn't running!" I cried. Tears started coming. "I just needed to breathe! You lock me every day!"

That made him more angry.

His hand moved from my arm to my neck. He didn't squeeze too hard to hurt me too much, but he held it firm, enough to make me freeze, enough to make me understand that he could end me if he wanted. His face came so close to mine I could smell his cologne and wine.

"Listen to me, Ama. Listen very well because I will say this only once," he whispered, his voice now ice cold. " No one has ever survived when they tried to be smart. Do you understand me?"

I tried to nod but his hand was on my neck.

"If you ever try to play smart with me, if you ever tell anyone about us, about the house, about the business, about anything you see here... they will find you. Not me. _They. And they will kill you. You will die like the others. Like the girls before you. Do you want to die in Italy, far from your mother in Accra?"

My whole body went cold.

"I won't," I cried, tears falling on his hand. "I won't tell anyone. I swear on my mother. Please, Marco, please."

He looked into my eyes for a long time, to see if I was lying. Then he let go of my neck like I was nothing. Like I was dirty. He wiped his hand on his trousers.

"Good girl," he said, fixing his sleeves, cold again, business again. "Go upstairs. Change. We have work tomorrow."

"Work?" My voice was hoarse. My neck was burning.

He looked at me like I was stupid. "You are Ama Rossi now. My wife. My model. Do you know you have 200k followers since our wedding photos? Two hundred thousand! African girls want to be like you. Pure, innocent, small-town girl married to an Italian billionaire. The world loves you. You are already famous."

I didn't even know I had i********:.

"Michael will come tomorrow," he continued. "My manager. He will take you on vacation. Dubai. Five-star hotel. Private beach. Private yacht. You will wear expensive bikinis, expensive dresses. You will post pictures. You will smile. You will show the world you have a wonderful, luxurious life. A dream life. Do you understand? The fans must see you are happy. The brands must see you are happy. That is how we make money."

My neck was still burning where he held me. He wanted me to smile for the world tomorrow while I was dying inside today.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes what?

"Yes, Mr. Rossi."

He smiled. For the first time that whole day, he smiled. That fake handsome smile that made my aunties in Accra think he was a good man.

"Good. Now go. And Luca — don't worry about Luca. I will tell him thank you for the lunch money.

My blood froze.

So he knew. He knew Luca gave me money.

I went upstairs to my room. This time I locked the door from the inside and sat on the cold floor. I touched my neck. It was red.

I cried without sound, so the girls downstairs wouldn't hear me and laugh.

Tomorrow I would be on a plane to Dubai. In luxury. In first class. For photos where I would pretend to be the happiest woman on earth.

But tonight, I was still the prisoner with the beautiful closet full of clothes that were not mine.

And I was scared that in Dubai, with all that luxury, I would still be locked.

The next morning I didn't sleep. My neck was still red.

At 6 a.m., a knock on my door. It was Michael, Marco's manager. Tall, Italian, sunglasses even inside the house. Cold like Marco but with a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Mrs. Rossi, ready? Car is waiting. Dubai is waiting."

I had a small handbag. Nothing else. Marco was standing downstairs in the living room, drinking black coffee, in his suit. He didn't look at my neck.

"Have fun, my love," he said loud enough for Michael to hear. "Buy everything you want. Post everything. Make them jealous."

His eyes said something else. _I am watching you._

The private car took me to the airport. First class. I had never entered an airplane in my life before coming to Italy. Now I was in a seat that turned into a bed.

Michael sat two seats behind me. He never slept. Every time I turned, he was looking at his phone, then at me.

Dubai was like another planet.

The hotel was so tall I had to bend my neck to see the top. The man at the reception called me "Mrs. Rossi" and gave me a gold key card. The room was bigger than our whole house in Accra. A bed the size of a boat. A bathtub with bubbles already inside. A balcony where you could see the whole city glittering, and the sea.

On the bed were ten shopping bags already. Tags still on them. Bikinis that cost more than my mother's rent for a year. Long dresses that shone like water. Gold sandals. Sunglasses with diamonds on the side.

Michael knocked. "One hour, Ama. We start content."

Content. That's what he called my life.

He took me everywhere.

Morning - private beach. The sand was so white it hurt my eyes. The water was so blue it looked fake. Michael told a photographer, "Make her laugh. Make her throw her hair." I laughed. I threw my hair. The photographer said "Perfetto!" I posted it with caption: _Thank you my husband for this dream life. #blessed #dubailife_

In 10 minutes - 12,000 likes. Comments: _You are so lucky! Goals! Queen!_

No one saw Michael standing just outside the camera frame, watching.

Lunch - the most luxurious restaurant on the 122nd floor. I had never seen food like that. Gold on top of steak. Small cakes that looked like flowers. I ate two bites. I had to smile and take a video of me eating, saying "Mmm so yummy." I posted.

People commented: _Eat for us queen!_

I wanted to vomit.

Afternoon - Dubai Mall. The biggest mall in the world. Michael gave me a black card. "Marco said buy anything." I walked into shops where the salesgirls bowed. I tried on dresses I would never wear in Accra. I bought bags I would never carry. Michael filmed everything. I had to smile, hold the bags up, say "Shopping day with love from my husband!"

Every video, I was smiling. My teeth were white. My hair was perfect. My new bikinis showed my body and people wrote _Body goals!_

No one saw that under the dress, my arm still had finger marks from Marco. No one saw that after every store, I went to the bathroom and sat on the floor for five minutes just to breathe.

Night - private yacht. Just me, Michael, the photographer, and the driver. The sea was black, the city lights were dancing on it. They made me wear the red bikini and sit at the front of the yacht with a glass of wine I didn't drink. Wind in my hair. Michael shouted, "Now look back and smile like you are in love!"

I looked back and smiled like I was in love with the wind.

I posted: _Nights in Dubai with my love in my heart._

200k followers became 245k in two days.

On the third day, I thought maybe I could run. Maybe I could just stay in Dubai, go to the Ghana embassy. I even googled it on the hotel iPad and quickly deleted it.

But Michael came into my room that evening with a new plane ticket printed.

"Tomorrow 9 a.m., we go home," he said. "Mr. Rossi booked it. He misses his wife."

He put the ticket on my gold table. He looked at me over his sunglasses.

"And Ama, Mr. Rossi said to tell you he loved your pasta post. And your beach post. And your mall post. He saw everything. He was very happy you didn't try anything funny. He said Dubai has many cameras, but Accra only has one mother. Be smart."

My blood went cold again, just like that night in Italy.

So he had eyes everywhere. Even here. Even when Marco wasn't here.

I went to the big balcony that night. Dubai was glittering below, like a box full of diamonds. Everyone down there thought I was the luckiest African girl alive.

I stood there in my expensive dress, with my expensive phone with 245k people loving me, and I cried with no sound, so Michael in the next room wouldn't hear.

Tomorrow I would be back in that big house with the black gates and the three girls on the porch.

The vacation was over. The prison flight was booked.