Afterward, Colino brought us into the Marconi compound, against his parents' furious objections. Carmela Marconi looked at us like we were stray dogs he'd dragged in from the gutter. But her son—her precious heir—insisted. He said he owed us a blood debt.
Mom turned down his offer to support us as dependents. She had too much pride for charity. Instead, she worked as a household servant in the Marconi estate, earning her keep with honest labor. I transferred to Colino's private academy. Day after day, I watched that sweet, kind boy—the one who brought my mother flowers when she was recovering, who sat by her bedside reading to her—grow into someone I couldn't help falling for.
He loved me back. On my twentieth birthday, in front of my mother and the entire household staff, he knelt and took my hand. His voice was steady, his eyes bright with sincerity.
"I swear on my family's honor," he said, "I'll spend the rest of my life protecting you. You'll want for nothing. You'll fear nothing. This I promise."
But all that started changing a year ago.
He went out one night—some gathering at one of the Family's social clubs, drinks with associates. When he got back, something was different. He started talking about Piper… differently.
"She's not who I thought she was," he said one night, loosening his tie as he paced our bedroom. "She's working three jobs to pay for her education. Can you believe that? The daughter of a man like Filippo, scraping by like a common street girl."
"And get this—" His eyes lit up with something I didn't recognize. "Some connected guy tried to proposition her, said he'd set her up as his comare, shower her with gifts. She stood up and slapped him across the face in front of everyone. What a feisty woman."
Then he added, his tone shifting to something almost accusatory, "I know you two never really got along. But maybe it's because you never gave her a real chance. If you just spent some time with her, maybe you'd see how lovable she is."
My gut was screaming at me that something was off. That the sister who'd smirked at my downfall was playing a long game. But I brushed it aside. Told myself I was just being paranoid. That the old wounds were making me see enemies where there were none.