THE ITALIAN HUSBAND'S LIE

Chapter 3:The Rossi Wedding

I signed because I had no choice.

One signature. _Ama Asantewaa._

The ink bled.

Marco closed the folder like he was trapping something inside it. He didn't say thank you. He just knocked on the partition and the car moved.

That night I didn't sleep in the guest room anymore.

He took me to the other wing. A bigger room. A bigger bed. A closet full of dresses that were not mine.

I was trapped.

In the morning, the house was too quiet. No Dottore Russo. No gelato at 4 p.m.

At 10 a.m., Marco came in without knocking. He had a small white box in his hand.

He placed it on the bed.

"For you," he said.

I opened it. A new phone. iPhone 15. Still sealed. And a new SIM card, Italian number.

"Your old phone is gone," he said. "This is better. For your image."

He took the old SIM from my old phone and snapped it in front of me. Two pieces.

"Your mother?" I asked, my voice small.

"We will call her. I fixed her number inside. You can talk to her."

My hands were shaking when I turned it on. The phone was already set up. My mother's number was saved as _MAMMA - GHANA._

I pressed call. My heart was beating so fast.

It rang. Once. Twice.

Then her voice. Loud, happy, crying.

"AMA? AMA! IS IT YOU? MY DAUGHTER!"

"Mama," I whispered. Tears came immediately.

"AMA! WE SAW YOU! WE SAW YOU ON TV! ON TV! THE RED DRESS! MY DAUGHTER! THE WHOLE TOWN SAW YOU!"

In the background I could hear people shouting. My aunties. My cousins. Music.

"Mama, you saw me?" I was crying now.

"YES! ON DSTV! FASHION IN ITALY! EVERYBODY IS HERE! YOUR UNCLE BROUGHT A BIG TV TO THE COMPOUND! THEY SAID YOUR NAME! AMA ASANTEWAA. THEY SAID MARCO BIANCHI'S NEW MUSE! MY DAUGHTER IS FAMOUS! I TOLD THEM ALL - THAT IS MY DAUGHTER! THAT IS MY DAUGHTER FROM ACCRA!"

She was so happy. So proud. I could hear her laughing and crying at the same time.

"Mr. Joseph from the market said he will put your picture on his shop! The pastor prayed for you on Sunday! Ama, are you happy? Are you eating well?"

I wanted to tell her everything. About the ankle. About Dottore Russo's midnight visits. About the contract I signed in the car in the rain. About how Marco snapped my old SIM.

But Marco was still standing in the room. Leaning against the wall. Watching me. His arms crossed.

The new phone... everything I do on this phone, he can see it. I felt it. The way he gave it to me. The way he snapped the old one.

I couldn't tell her.

"Mama, I'm... I'm happy," I lied, my voice breaking. "I'm very happy."

"GOOD! GOOD! I hope your been talking care of properly".

I looked at Marco. He was looking at me too. His face had no expression.

"Yes, Mama," I whispered. "I am very much well".

"WHEN IS THE WEDDING? YOUR AUNTY SAID SHE SAW ON THE INTERNET THAT YOU ARE GETTING MARRIED! IS IT TRUE? ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TO THE ITALIAN MAN? TELL ME!"

My hand went cold around the phone.

How did she know about the marriage already? The internet? We signed only last night in the rain.

I looked at Marco again. He gave a small nod, like _tell her yes._

"Mama... yes," I said, choking on the word. "Yes, we are... we are getting married."

A scream from her side. Pure joy.

"WEDDING! MY DAUGHTER IS MARRYING A BILLIONAIRE! AMA! GOD HAS ANSWERED OUR PRAYERS! I AM COOKING FOR THE WHOLE STREET TONIGHT! WE WILL KILL TWO GOATS!"

Everyone in the background was cheering. I could hear drums.

I was crying silently now, tears falling onto the new white phone.

"Mama, I have to go," I said quickly. "The show... the next show..."

"GO, GO! MY FAMOUS DAUGHTER! CALL ME TOMORROW! I LOVE YOU!"

The line cut.

I sat on the big bed in the red dress from yesterday, holding the new phone, tears everywhere.

Marco walked over and took the phone gently from my hand. He put it on the table.

"You did well," he said quietly.

I didn't answer.

That afternoon, Luca came.

I was sitting by the window, still in yesterday's dress, looking at the garden. The door opened.

Luca didn't knock either. He came in, hands in his pockets.

He had heard. Everyone had heard. Ama signed. The contract was done. She is now Signora Bianchi.

He stopped in the middle of the room and looked at me. Long. Silent.

I thought he would say something. Shout. Say _why did you sign?_

He said nothing.

His eyes... they were different today. Not hard like before. Sad. Deep sad.

He walked to the table where my new phone was. He looked at it, then at me.

"You called home?" he asked, voice low.

I nodded, wiping my tears.

"Was she happy?" he asked.

"Very happy," I whispered. "She saw me on TV. She is proud. She told the whole town."

Luca nodded slowly. He sat in the chair opposite me. For a long time, he just sat there, silent.

"I told Marco not to give you that phone," he said finally, so quietly only I could hear. "I told him the old one was better."

Then he stood up. He wanted to touch my shoulder. His hand lifted, then dropped.

He walked to the door, stopped, and looked back at me once. That same long staring from before, but now it was different. It was not curiosity. It was pain.

He opened the door and left without another word.

I was alone again in the big room with the gold plate on the door, with the new phone that watched everything I did, with a mother back in Accra cooking for the whole street, proud of a daughter who was trapped and couldn't even tell her.

Outside, I heard Marco's voice downstairs talking to the lawyers.

My wedding was tomorrow at 9 a.m.

My wedding was at 9 a.m. but nobody told me until 8 a.m.

A woman I had never seen came in with a white box. Inside was a dress. Not the puffy wedding dress from TV. Simple, silk, expensive. It cost more than my mother's house.

"Marco said no veil," she said. "He wants everyone to see your face."

Downstairs, the garden had been changed overnight. White chairs. White flowers. Only 20 people. All Italian. All rich. Old men in suits, old women with diamonds. No music. Just quiet talking.

It was not a wedding. It was a business meeting with a wedding dress.

My mother was not there. My aunties were not there. Nobody from Accra was there.

I walked down the small stairs alone. No father to hold my hand.

Marco was waiting at the end, in a black suit. He looked handsome and cold, like a statue. Next to him, a priest reading from a book.

And behind him, Luca.

Luca was in a dark blue suit. His hands were in his pockets. He was looking at the ground, then at me, then at the ground again. He had not slept. I could see it under his eyes.

When I reached Marco, Marco took my hand. His hand was cold.

The priest spoke in Italian, fast. I didn't understand everything. Only "Ama... Marco Rossi... moglie e marito..."

"Wife and husband," Marco whispered to me, translating.

"Say yes," he said.

"Yes," I whispered.

Marco said "Yes" too. Loud. Clear.

The priest closed the book. "You may kiss."

It was quick. Marco leaned, kissed my cheek, not my lips. For the people watching.

Everyone clapped. Quiet claps. Like at the end of a fashion show.

A woman took photos. Flash, flash, flash.

Then it was over.

Champagne was served. People came to say "Congratulazioni" to me, touching my dress, looking at my skin like I was a new thing Marco bought.

I looked for Luca. He was at the far end of the garden, alone, holding a glass he wasn't drinking. He was watching me.

Our eyes met. He tried to smile for me. It was a painful smile. He lifted his glass a little, like "congratulations."

He was jealous. So jealous. But he was trying so hard to hide it. His jaw was tight. His hand holding the glass was shaking. He turned away quickly and walked inside the house.

Marco's hand was on my back. "We leave now," he said.

"Where?"

"Honeymoon."

A black car was waiting. The driver put my small bag — I didn't even pack it, someone else packed it — in the trunk.

Luca came out of the house as we were leaving. He stood on the steps.

Marco opened the car door for me. Before I entered, I looked at Luca one last time.

Luca's eyes were red.

"Have a safe trip," he said to Marco, his voice low and tired.

The car drove away.

The hotel was not in Milan. It was two hours away, on Lake Como. Secret. Huge. Like a palace on the water. Only rich people. The staff all knew Marco's name. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi."

The suite was bigger than our whole compound in Accra. A huge bed with white sheets. Flowers everywhere. A view of the lake.

I was scared. Standing in my wedding dress in that huge room, holding my hands.

Marco closed the door behind us.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The enormous suite suddenly felt too quiet. Outside, the lights from Lake Como shimmered across the dark water, but inside, all I could hear was the nervous pounding of my own heart

.

Marco slowly removed his jacket and loosened his tie.

His eyes found mine.

“You’re afraid,” he said quietly.

I swallowed. “Shouldn’t I be?”

He walked toward me, slowly enough for me to step away if I wanted to. When he reached me, he gently touched my face.

“You’re my wife now, Ama,” he murmured.

His fingers moved carefully through my braids, removing the pins one by one. My hair fell over my shoulders.

I felt so nervous and sad.

I had married a man I barely knew. My family was thousands of miles away.

Marco leaned closer, giving me time to pull away.

I didn’t.

His lips finally met mine.

The kiss was slow at first, almost cautious. Then his hand slipped around my waist, drawing me closer.

My fingers curled against his shirt as the distance between us disappeared.

That night, behind the closed doors of that beautiful suite, Marco and I shared our first night together as husband and wife.

By morning, pale sunlight poured through the windows, dancing across the white sheets.

I opened my eyes slowly.

.

Then I saw the wedding dress lying quietly on the floor.

And Marco sleeping beside me.

I turned toward the window, staring at the calm water of Lake Como.

Yesterday, I had been Ama.

Today, I was Ama Rossi.

Marco’s wife.