Chapter 4 - AFTER THE MAFIA BOSS WENT TO PRISON, GIANA REFUSED HIS MONEY AND BUILT AN EMPIRE OF HER OWN—THEN THE MAN WHO ONCE “WON” HER CAME HOME WITH NOTHING TO OFFER BUT A CHOICE
Tomaso served thirty-two months.
Giana did not wait.
She lived.
There was a difference.
She founded a forensic financial consultancy with Isabella.
They called it IR Analytics.
Isabella Richie.
Giana Richie.
Mother and daughter.
Their first clients were banks attempting to understand how Regina’s fraudulent network had evaded internal controls.
Then law firms called.
Then federal contractors.
Within two years, IR Analytics employed thirty-one people.
Giana became wealthy.
Not Bellini wealthy.
Not private-army wealthy.
But independently, legitimately wealthy.
The first time she earned a million dollars in a year, she printed the financial statement.
Then mailed Marco a copy.
She regretted it five minutes later.
Not because he did not deserve the insult.
Because she no longer wanted her achievements to be conversations with her father.
She called the prison mailroom.
Too late.
Isabella laughed for twenty minutes.
“You’re terrible.”
“I learned from you.”
“No. I taught mathematics.”
“Same thing.”
Her relationship with Isabella required work.
Twelve stolen years could not be replaced.
Sometimes Isabella became overprotective.
Sometimes Giana became angry about childhood memories her mother could not explain.
They attended therapy.
Together.
Separately.
Healing proved less cinematic than revenge.
Mostly it involved conversations nobody wanted to have.
Tomaso wrote letters.
Not every week.
He did not demand replies.
Giana answered when she wanted.
He told her about prison.
She told him about work.
He never called her his queen.
Never called her his prize.
Occasionally:
Tesoro.
She allowed that.
Marco wrote too.
Giana ignored him for a year.
Eventually she opened one letter.
He apologized.
Poorly.
Explained too much.
Blamed addiction.
Regina.
Anthony.
Fear.
Then one sentence mattered.
I spent your entire childhood insulting the things in you that reminded me I was smaller than your mother.
Giana read it repeatedly.
That, she believed.
Marco had resented Isabella’s intelligence.
Then Giana’s.
Her body had simply been the easiest target.
If he convinced Giana she was undesirable, perhaps she would never discover how formidable she was.
Giana answered:
Understanding why you hurt me does not require me to let you hurt me again.
She did not visit.
Tomaso was released on a cold February morning.
Giana was not outside.
His mother had died when he was young.
Anthony was imprisoned.
Most of his former organization had dissolved.
Lorenzo waited.
Tomaso stepped into freedom.
Then saw an ordinary black SUV.
Giana was driving.
He smiled.
She lowered the window.
“You need a ride?”
“I was expecting a Maybach.”
“Get in or walk.”
He got in.
She took him to breakfast.
A diner.
Tomaso stared at the laminated menu.
“You planned this specifically to hurt me.”
“Coffee is three dollars.”
“Barbaric.”
“You’ll survive.”
He did.
Barely.
They began dating again.
Slowly.
Tomaso rented an apartment.
He did not move into Giana’s.
He accepted a compliance position at a legitimate logistics firm.
The irony pleased Giana enormously.
“You’re compliance?”
“Stop laughing.”
“I physically can’t.”
Their first serious argument happened six months later.
Tomaso discovered someone had insulted Giana online.
He had the man investigated.
Giana found out.
“You ran a background check?”
“He threatened you.”
“He called me a whale.”
“Threatening.”
“To your emotional stability, apparently.”
“I wanted to know who he was.”
“Why?”
Tomaso had no good answer.
Giana crossed her arms.
“You don’t need to destroy every person who hurts my feelings.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He exhaled.
“No.”
They worked through it.
Tomaso learned that protecting Giana sometimes meant trusting her ability to protect herself.
Giana learned that independence did not require refusing all help.
Two people accustomed to extremes discovered partnership in the middle.
Three years after his release, Tomaso proposed.
At the Onyx Club.
Or what used to be the Onyx Club.
The underground casino had been seized.
Giana purchased it at auction.
She transformed it into headquarters for IR Analytics.
The poker room remained.
Not because she romanticized what happened.
Because she wanted the room to belong to something different.
Tomaso stood beside the old table.
Giana entered.
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m usually weird.”
“True.”
He held no ring.
That surprised her.
“Giana.”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to marry me?”
She stared.
“No ring?”
“If you say yes, you choose it.”
Her eyes filled.
Of course.
The man who once participated in a wager involving her had learned the only proposal worth making contained no assumption.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Definitely?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“Now buy me an enormous ring.”
Tomaso laughed.
“I knew it.”
They married eight months later.
Giana wore emerald instead of white.
Isabella walked with her.
Halfway down the aisle, Giana stopped.
Tomaso waited.
She looked around.
People she chose.
Family she chose.
A life she chose.
Then continued.
Their vows contained no ownership.
No protection promises.
No “you are mine.”
Tomaso said:
“I choose you when you need nothing from me.”
Giana answered:
“I choose you because I need nothing from you.”
Then smiled.
“And because I want everything with you.”
Years earlier, Regina had called her worthless.
Marco had called her a burden.
Tomaso once called her a prize.
Now she understood something better.
She was none of those things.
May you like
She was a person.
And being loved as a person was far more powerful than being worshiped as an object.
