Chapter 4 Four

POV Isabella

Dinner is on time: eight o'clock. There are no bells or announcements, just a maid poking her head out and waving her hand.

The dining room is larger than the one in my house. The table has a white tablecloth and the china they use is French. Nobody smiles when they enter.

Castellano occupies the head of the table. He doesn't invite me to sit down, just indicates my place with a tilt of the eyebrow. I sit down and feel the cold leather of the chair through the fabric of my pants.

Marco Castellano, the eldest son, places his wheelchair to my right. His visit to my room came as quite a surprise. I knew immediately that he was the ghost son because of his physical resemblance to his father and sister. However, the reason for his absence from all formal and business events was quite shocking to me.

He is a handicapped boy, whether from birth or something that happened to him, I don't know. And, like women, the rest of the "flawed children" have no place in our world either. I don't know if I should feel more sorry for him or for myself. At least he doesn't have to constantly pretend or be in the spotlight like me.

He doesn't look at the plate, he looks at me. He watches me as if calculating how much weight my skeleton could support before breaking. He has made no secret of how much my presence intrigues him, and the watchful eye of others is something that someone like me, full of secrets, cannot afford.

In front of me is the girl: the pretty trophy. She wears a blue wool dress, demure and collared to her chin. Her hands are still on her lap. She doesn't look up until she's asked a question.

I keep thinking that if my father had had any other children before me, my place might very well be the one she occupies. In that case I would be the "flower vase" bride.

The first half hour is pure choreography, the maids come and go, Castellano cuts the meat into exact pieces. Marco asks business questions, almost automatic, to make it sound routine.

But his eyes don't move from my face. What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Have you tasted this before?" Castellano asks me, pointing to the meat.

"No, sir."

"What do you think?"

"It's tender."

It's not an answer, but it's not a lie either. I don't want the war to start today.

"My daughter cooks better," he adds, without smiling.

The girl lowers her head and Castellano allows her to do so. I already feel ashamed that I don't even know her name.

Marco wipes the wine from his lips, still looking at me.

"I heard you lived on the coast for a couple of years. Did you like life there?" he asks.

It's true, my father had some important business there and for practical reasons we had to move. Actually, I couldn't say if I liked living there or not, my life has always been the same suffocating prison.

"There wasn't much free time," I tell him and continue cutting the meat.

"No bars, no girls?"

I don't move.

"No."

"That's what they all say," he answers, as if he already knows the end of the story.

I don't know if he's trying to provoke me or just gauge my reaction. The questions continue, more and more personal. My home schedule, the names of my former teachers, what brands of cigarettes the Ricci smoke. I feel it's a game of chess, but he plays with pieces from another board.

Castellano does not intervene. He just eats in silence, as if he's just waiting for one of us two to give in first.

"Is it true that you broke your hand hitting a guy with your head?" Marco asks.

"No."

"What happened to you then?"

"I had an accident in a warehouse. We were in a hurry."

Actually, my father broke my arm because I made a mistake and one of his associates almost discovered my true identity.

Marco nods, although I know he doesn't believe me. But he doesn't accuse me either, and it's worse that way.

Castellano finishes his wine and wipes his mouth with his napkin.

"Come with me," he says.

It's not an order, but it's not an option either, so I get up and follow him down a hallway full of display cases with antique weapons. There's a Belgian shotgun, identical to the one my grandfather had hanging in the study, but I don't mention it.

We stop in a windowless office. He sits behind a polished desk, me in a hard chair.

"My son thinks you're dangerous," he tells me, bluntly.

I don't respond. I know he doesn't expect a reply.

"I don't like loose ends. If you're going to stay here, you'd better be transparent with me."

I nod.

"Any secrets I should know?"

Secrets? A lot of them. Any he should know about? None that won't cost me my life.

"None, sir," I answer almost mechanically.

"I don't think so. But I don't care either. All I ask is that you respect my house rules."

I nod again.

"There are cameras in every hallway. Don't try anything stupid."

I don't need him to say it. I knew that before I walked through the door.

"Can I leave?" I ask.

"Yes."

I walk back down the hallway, not looking back. Marco is no longer at the table. The girl picks up the dishes, although there are maids for that. I follow her into the kitchen, where I see her alone. She's not crying, but her eyes are red. She pretends to wash something, but only wets her fingers.

"What's your name?" I say, trying not to make my voice sound threatening. She has enough with her father and brother, she doesn't need another tyrant in her life. "If we're going to get married, that's the least I need to know about you."

"Sofia," she says in a whisper and without looking at me.

I nod and turn around.

My room is the same as when I arrived: spotless bed, window closed, backpack unpacked. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out a small notebook I brought along with the books. I make a list of the house routines, the changing of the guard schedules, the names of the servants. Anything I can use to escape if the facade falls.

I think of Marco, the way he looks at me. He knows something is wrong. I fear it's only a matter of time before he figures it out.

I lie back with my arms crossed and listen to the silence of the house. Here I can't take off my disguise for even a second, and that hurts more than I ever thought it would.

I know I'll be questioned again tomorrow. I know I have to hold on.

I go to sleep late. How long will I manage to resist before I break?