When he looked at her, his tone softened, his gaze carrying an unmistakable bias—the kind of tenderness that should have been reserved for the woman he was sworn to marry. She responded naturally, as if long accustomed to this kind of protection, this unspoken devotion.
I did not look at them again.
I had seen the evidence. The documents hidden in the concealed cabinet in his private study, carefully backed up in a safe I was never meant to find. Every letter, every record, pointed to the same person. Her name was written again and again, with devotion that bordered on worship. And I did not even qualify as a footnote in his heart.
What we called a betrothal was closer to an approved arrangement—a blood-bound alliance between the Ashford and Corleone Families. As long as it kept Don Ettore steady, as long as it reassured the Commission that the old alliances held firm, Giorgio was willing to play any role.
And he played it well.
At the sit-downs, he was the most reliable executor. In the gray zones where legitimate business bled into darker dealings, he never hesitated. The Family's expansion, the formation of alliances, the intimidation of rival syndicates—all depended on him. Don Ettore trusted him. The Council of Capos relied on him.
And I was merely an attached condition—a clause in a contract I never signed.
"Sit properly."
Margaret finally spoke, her tone cool and restrained, her eyes never quite meeting mine. "You should understand that having someone willing to honor this alliance with you is your good fortune."
The word fortune sounded especially ironic in my mind.
I glanced sideways at Giorgio. He was receiving praise from one of the Capos, his expression confident and composed—the face of a man who knew exactly where he stood in the hierarchy and intended to climb higher still. That face no longer overlapped with the version of him that had once made me waver, that had once made me believe this arrangement might become something more.
At that moment, Silvia smoothly took the seat on his other side. Her movement was not fast, but precise—calculated with the same cold efficiency she brought to everything. I was forced to shift half an inch outward, almost pressed against the edge of the table like an afterthought.
Under the table, there was a slight touch—her fingers brushing against his.