Matteo’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something like pity crossing his face before it vanished.

“Your father made his own choices, Emily.”

“Did he?” I muttered, feeling the heat of anger rise in my chest.

Sofia finished tying the corset, smoothing the heavy skirt around my feet.

“Beautiful,” the old woman whispered, though her eyes remained sad.

A heavy knock sounded on the open door frame.

Don Alessandro stood there, holding a silver-headed cane.

He wore a dark gray suit, looking every bit the patriarch, though his steps were slow and heavy.

“Leave us,” Alessandro said.

His voice was quiet but commanding.

Sofia bowed her head immediately and hurried out of the room.

Matteo hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking between his uncle and me.

“Go, Matteo,” Alessandro repeated. “Secure the perimeter for the evening.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Matteo said.

He bowed slightly before exiting and closing the heavy oak door behind him.

The room felt suddenly much smaller.

The Don walked slowly toward me, the tip of his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone floor.

He stopped and looked at me, his gaze sweeping over the white gown.