Untouched Vows

Continued…

My father sets down his glass without drinking. Chairs scrape. Men rise on both sides of the table, some quickly enough to betray themselves.

I stay seated.

Dante crosses the room without hurrying. He gives each family the same shallow nod. No apology.

The first thing I register is his size: not simply height, but reach, the breadth of his shoulders beneath a dark suit. Men ease back as he passes, although he never comes close enough to touch them.

The room stills with him. Waiting.

He reaches the head of the table before he looks at me.

His attention goes first to the contract in front of me, then to the pen next to it. He reads the table before he reads my face. When his gaze finally lifts to mine, my breath shortens.

Only once. Enough to irritate me.

There is nothing inviting in his face.

Heat moves beneath the neckline of my dress anyway, quick and unwelcome. He hasn’t touched me. My body is apparently willing to be imprecise about that distinction.

He notices I didn’t rise. The only sign is a pause.

Dante turns to the room.

“Sit.”

They do.

He takes his chair. I’m abruptly aware of the exact distance between us and how little it would take him to close it.

My father performs the introduction. “Dante Serafini. My eldest daughter, Livia.”

“I know who Livia Vitale is.”

“That puts you ahead of several people here,” my father says.

Dante’s expression does not soften. His attention holds.

My father leans forward. “She understands what this agreement guarantees. She is grateful for what it means for Sofia.”

My choice, laundered and returned as his mercy.

Dante does not look at him. “Are you?”

“Grateful? For being selected after every cheaper solution failed?” I let the pause sharpen. “Immeasurably.”

My father’s fingers close around the stem of his glass.

Dante’s gaze stays on me. He does not rescue the room from the silence. “Afraid?” His voice is low, stripped of anything I could dismiss as charm.

I keep my hand flat beside the pen. “My signature is in the agreement. My fear isn’t.”

“Good.” One quiet word. No reassurance in it. Something below my ribs draws tight before I can stop it.

He glances at the contract. “You chose.”

“I chose so Sofia wouldn’t have to.”

“I see.”

The words land cold and exact. He reaches for his copy, and I watch his hand close over the pages a beat longer than the movement requires. My mouth goes dry.

I look back at his face.

Dante uncaps his pen.

“Read it,” he tells the lawyers. “All of it.”

Pages turn. The provisions proceed one by one: territory, revenue, access, penalties. Three years of funerals reduced to language neat enough for paper.

No one interrupts.

When the lawyer reaches the rider behind the final page, his voice changes. Only slightly, but this table has been listening for weakness all night.

“The marriage is to remain unconsummated for one year. If the truce collapses during that period, either spouse may seek an immediate annulment.”

“The church can annul the marriage under those terms,” the lawyer continues. “A petition to Rome, no divorce, no division of property, and no stain on either house. If the truce holds for the full year, the two of you must choose: annul it or make it permanent. Consummate it before then, and the marriage is permanent at once.”

Divorce would require someone to lose. Annulment lets both houses pretend nothing was ever taken.

The word unconsummated passes over the table. Men who have ordered killings and slept soundly afterward become fascinated by their water glasses.

Dante’s hand stills beside his uncapped pen.

He does not look at the rider.

He looks at me.

The rider is meant to preserve an exit. Dante holds my gaze across the page.

Heat drops low and fast. Beneath the table, my knees draw together before I can stop them.

He’s still half a table length away. His hand hasn’t moved toward me. That’s the humiliation: For one treacherous second, I want to know what would happen if it did.