At the doorway, I paused. The woman who had raised me—who had chosen Silvia over me at every turn, who had looked through me as though I were made of glass—stood exactly where I had left her.
"Goodbye," I said.
She did not respond.
She did not even lift her eyes.
By the time I returned to Giorgio's residence, the night had settled into its deepest silence.
He stood in the living room as though nothing had transpired—as though the rain and the revelation and the quiet death of whatever had existed between us were merely inconveniences to be forgotten.
In his hands, he held a gown.
Brand new. Exquisite. The color of fresh blood.
"I had it commissioned for you," he said, his voice carrying that practiced smoothness I had once mistaken for affection. "You'll find it suitable."
I regarded the gown where it lay across the velvet settee. The cut was impeccable—the work of a master tailor who understood how fabric should fall against a woman's form. The color was the deep crimson of old blood, the shade favored by Corleone brides for three generations. Every stitch spoke of wealth, of power, of a legacy I was meant to embody.
Yet it had nothing to do with me.