"My wife." The word feels strange in my mouth. "She needs something to wear tonight. For the gathering."
Giulia's expression shifts. Understanding dawns.
"She brought two suitcases." I remember watching the guards carry them to her room. Two suitcases for her entire life. "I doubt she owns anything appropriate for tonight."
"We've already handled it," Giulia says. A small smile crosses her face. "Vittoria arranged everything yesterday. Personal shoppers. Designer pieces. Her wardrobe is full."
I knew this. Vittoria mentioned it. My sister has always been the one who remembers the details the rest of us forget.
But knowing Antonella's wardrobe is full and believing she'll actually wear any of it are two different things.
"She won't touch them."
Giulia's smile falters. "Pardon?"
"The clothes." I grip my wheels, feeling the familiar ache in my palms. "She won't wear them. They're not hers."
"She brought her own things," I continue. "Two suitcases. Whatever she packed—that's what she'll reach for."
Giulia studies me. I can see the question forming behind her eyes. The obvious one.
Why don't you tell her yourself?
"You want me to convince her to wear something from the new wardrobe," she says instead. "Or ensure whatever she chooses from her own things is... appropriate."
"Yes."
The word hangs between us. Giulia's gaze lingers on my face a moment too long. She's trying to read me. Trying to understand why I care what my wife wears to a gathering I've made clear means nothing to me.
I don't care.
That's the truth. Antonella could walk into that room wearing a burlap sack and it wouldn't matter to me.
But the people coming tonight?
They'll care.
Salvatore Benedetti will be there with his wife, a woman who catalogs every piece of jewelry in the room and reports back to her social circle. Marco Vitale will bring his mistress disguised as his assistant, and she'll spend the eveningwhispering observations to anyone who'll listen. The Corellis, the Castellanos, the dozen other families who've done business with us for generations—they'll all be watching.
Not me. They've already made their judgments about me.
But Antonella is new. Unknown. And they'll pick her apart like vultures on a carcass.
Every thread of her clothing. Every strand of hair out of place. Every nervous gesture, every uncertain glance. They'll whisper about it in corners. They'll use it to measure the Sartori family's strength.
I don't give a damn what they think of me. I've stopped caring about their whispers, their pitying glances, their careful avoidance of my eyes. Let them think I'm broken. Let them underestimate me.
But Antonella walked into this marriage to save her family. She didn't ask for the scrutiny. Didn't ask to be paraded in front of Chicago's most vicious gossips like a prize at auction.
She's my wife to them. My responsibility to me.
And I won't let them tear her apart.
"Make sure she's ready," I tell Giulia. "Whatever it takes. If she won't wear what Vittoria bought, find something in her own things that works. Help her with her hair, her makeup—whatever she needs."
Giulia nods slowly. "And if she refuses my help entirely?"
The question stops me.