I held it together for as long as I could. Then the wall cracked, and I let the tears come, sobbing against my mother's shoulder the way I hadn't since I was a girl. They'd never thought highly of Simone. They were a minor family, the Ferrantes, respected but small, and they'd seen the marriage for what it was from the beginning: a transaction dressed up in white lace and Sunday blessings. They were convinced he didn't truly love me.
And they were right.
I had chased Simone Valente for seven years. Seven years of showing up at the social club functions, of being the girl from the old neighborhood who wouldn't stop looking at the Valente heir like he'd hung the moon over the waterfront. When he finally agreed to be with me, I ignored everyone's warnings, thinking I could eventually make him love me. That if I was patient enough, loyal enough, quiet enough, the warmth would come.
It didn't. And here we were, facing the dissolution of an alliance that had been built on nothing but my stubbornness and his indifference.
I learned the hard way that you can't force a bond. A decade of my youth taught me that lesson. I waited and waited, but Simone still hadn't signed the papers. Just after I threatened to take the matter before a judge, to drag the Valente name into a public courtroom where the Feds would be watching and the other Families would be whispering, he finally texted me.
I'll come by tomorrow to pick you up and let Rocco and the others apologize. Stop making a fuss. I'm exhausted. Don't make me pick between you and Silvana.
Then, a second message:
I'm sorry, but can't you see my perspective? I said I'd distance myself from her, but she's carrying a child and needs support. You see, her husband's never around.
He acted like he was torn between Silvana and me just because she was with child, but time and again, he proved he always chose her.