Three days later, Enzo informed her they would attend a gathering of the Moretti family and their allies. He delivered the news at breakfast with his characteristic stillness, setting down his espresso cup and fixing his dark eyes on her face.
"You will sit beside me. You will observe. And you will tell me what you see," Enzo said.
It was the first time he had publicly positioned her as his partner, not his weapon. The distinction mattered. A weapon was aimed. A partner stood beside. She dressed carefully in a dark blue gown, simple but elegant, the fabric cool against her skin. Signora Esposito had brought it without comment, laying it across the bed like an offering. The flour under Alessia's nails had finally faded, scrubbed away by weeks of villa life. She missed it. It had been her anchor, her reminder of who she was before the black envelope arrived.
The gathering was held at a sprawling estate an hour from the villa. Cars lined the gravel drive like polished beetles. Men in dark suits stood at attention, their faces blank. Women in silk and diamonds glided through the entrance, their laughter high and practiced. Alessia felt their eyes on her as she walked beside Enzo, his hand resting on her lower back. Possessive. Claiming. A statement to everyone watching.
The main hall was cavernous, filled with round tables draped in white linen, candlelight flickering against crystal glasses, and the low murmur of conversation that hushed slightly as they entered. Enzo led her to the head table, where an older woman with sharp eyes and silver hair was already seated. His aunt, Zia Rosaria. The matriarch of the family's elder branch. Her gaze could cut glass.
"So this is the debt-bound bride," Zia Rosaria said, her voice cool as marble. "I have heard much about you."
Alessia met her gaze steadily, refusing to flinch. "I am sure you have," she replied.
"She has a tongue," Zia Rosaria said, turning to Enzo.
"She has a mind. That is rarer," Enzo replied.
Zia Rosaria's eyes flickered with something that might have been interest. Then she turned away, dismissing them both with the casual authority of a woman who had outlived three dons and intended to outlive a fourth.
Alessia spent the evening observing. She catalogued who deferred to whom, who avoided whose gaze, who drank too much and who did not drink at all. She noted the subtle shift in posture when Enzo walked past certain men, the way some women's smiles tightened when they looked at her. The room was a map of power and resentment, and she was learning to read it.
She noticed a young woman watching Enzo with barely concealed hunger. Carlotta De Santis. She had been introduced briefly, her smile sharp as a blade, her eyes cold as winter water. Her gown was cream silk, her diamonds real, and her posture radiated entitlement. When Carlotta approached the table, she leaned close to Enzo, her hand brushing his arm with practiced intimacy.
"It has been too long, Enzo. You never visit anymore," Carlotta said.
"I have been occupied," Enzo replied, his voice flat as stone.
Carlotta's gaze slid to Alessia. "Yes. I can see that." Her smile did not reach her eyes. "You must be very clever. To catch his attention. Most women try and fail," she said.
Alessia smiled back, equally cold. "I did not try. I observed. Perhaps that is the difference," she said.
Carlotta's smile faltered. Just for a moment. Then she recovered and drifted away, but not before Alessia caught the flash of fury in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who had been denied something she believed was rightfully hers.
Enzo leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "You handled that well," he murmured.
"She wants you," Alessia said quietly.
"She wants the Moretti name. There is a difference." His hand found hers under the table, his fingers lacing through hers. "I want neither. I want the woman who sees," Enzo said.
Her chest tightened, a familiar pressure that was no longer only fear. She squeezed his hand and did not let go.
That night, in the car back to the villa, she rested her head against his shoulder. The leather seats were cool, the engine a low purr beneath them. The Bay of Naples glittered in the darkness beyond the window.
"Carlotta will be a problem," Alessia said.
"I know," Enzo replied.
"She is not just jealous. She is strategic. She was watching who spoke to me, who deferred, who did not. She is mapping alliances," Alessia said.
Enzo was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke. "You see more than anyone in that room," he said.
"That is why you brought me."
"That is why I keep you." He pressed a kiss to her hair, gentle and deliberate. "Not the only reason," Enzo said.
She closed her eyes. Matteo's offer echoed in her mind. Three days had passed. She had not given him an answer. The weight of the choice pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat. She did not know if she could choose at all.
The car swept through the villa gates, and the familiar walls rose around her. Home, or something like it. She was no longer sure of the difference.