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He nods, dismisses the maid, and helps me finish dressing.

The drive to the main villa is silent, our hands laced together on the console. My stomach won’t stop flipping.

“Nervous?” Enzo asks without looking at me.

“Terrified,” I admit. “Is it obvious?”

“Only to me.” His thumb traces a circle on my knuckle. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t let them smell fear.”

“Great. Very comforting.”

The Benedetti estate is a circus of blinding chandeliers, weeping violins, and laughter too big for the space. The smell of flowers, whiskey, and expensive Italian cuisine fills the air. I’ve never seen this many Benedettis in one place, including the Benedetti dinner. The wealth, the noise, the sharp undercurrent of power beneath the celebration overwhelms me.

Nonna Rosa swoops in first, regal in navy silk, her eyes keen enough to cut diamonds. She grabs my hands and kisses my cheeks. “Ah, finally, the wife of Enzo Ricci honors us.”

The room shifts. Conversations pause. Every eye in the place finds me to measure and assess. I feel like a transfer student walking into a cafeteria where everyone already knows each other’s secrets.

Dinner is a performance, and I’m learning my lines in real time. Nodding yes or no, laughing at jokes I don’t understand. The women cluster at one end of the table, heavy perfume choking the air. I recognize a few faces from my brief encounters around the compound, but most are strangers.

Izzy holds court at the center, draped in silk, a wine glass dangling from her fingers like a dare. When her eyes land on me, her grin sharpens.

“Well, well. She actually showed up.” Izzy’s voice carries just enough to turn heads. “Enzo’s temporary girls tend to have a short shelf life.”

People around the table chuckle. Heat climbs my neck, but I school my face into the polite smile I use—used to use—on stubborn children. “Some things expire, yes. But quality comes with a longer shelf life.”

A few women hide their smirks behind napkins. Izzy’s eyes flash, cold and beautiful, like knives sculpted from ice.

Nonna Rosa taps her fork against her plate, commanding silence. “Enough. This is a christening, not a sparring ring.” Still, amusement glints in her gaze when she regards me. Approval, maybe.

Conversation drifts lighter as the women discuss their children, husbands, and the constant tug between duty and survival. I stay quiet at first, just listening, similar to the way I used to listen to parents at school conferences, always catching what they can’t say out loud. These women love fiercely, but they’re terrified of what this life will make of their kids.

Clara mentions the latest tutor quit after two weeks. “They never stay.” Lucia complains about the local schools not understanding “their situation.” Francesca claims her son’s too smart for his own good and asks too many questions.

Recognition clicks in my chest. This is my world. This is what I know.

“There could be a school.” My announcement tumbles out on its own.

Clara leans forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. “On the compound?”

“Why not?” I straighten. “These children need more than tutors who don’t grasp their lives. They need teachers who can give them a real education…history, art, ethics, critical thinking…while knowing the world they come from.”

Francesca snorts while adjusting the pearls at her throat. “What’s next, Sophia? Yoga classes for the soldiers?”

A few women laugh, nervous and uncertain.

Izzy opens her mouth, but Nonna Rosa lifts a hand. “Explain, Sophia.”

My pulse races. What am I doing, proposing a school in a place I once swore to escape? But escape feels like a word from another life now. Once I start, though, the words find their rhythm. “If you want them strong, you have to give them more than power. They need choices. Teach them things that will help them comprehend the world, commerce, and the ideas behind what happens here. More than what typical kids learn in a regular school.”

Silence settles like dust. Lucia taps one manicured nail against her glass. Clara’s smile widens. Even Francesca appears thoughtful, her head tilted.

The old matriarch offers a small but genuine smile. “Perhaps there’s more Benedetti in you than blood allows.”

Izzy’s smirk falters. The others nod politely. Even Enzo, who’s across the room speaking with Gabi, has turned toward us.

As the conversation shifts, Lucia materializes at my elbow with a fresh glass of wine. Her voice drops, meant only for me.

“You did well. But now you need a better sense of how things work here.” She glances around, checking who’s listening. “Protect your children from staff gossip. Teach them not to ask questions. Never leave a diary unlocked.” Her dark eyes hold mine. “Never assume the nanny won’t sell your secrets.”