Pressure Points

The days settled into a pattern neither of them questioned out loud.

Obedience has a rhythm. Once you fall back into it, the body remembers faster than the heart does.

For Bella, mornings returned to structure. Breakfasts at the Valenti estate where conversation stayed polite and strategic, where nothing personal survived long enough to breathe. Alessandro sat beside her, attentive in the way men are when they sense something slipping and respond by tightening their grip instead of loosening it.

She smiled when expected.
Nodded at the right moments.
Answered questions about venues, guest lists, timing.

The wedding was discussed like a business merger. No sentiment. No hesitation. Just alignment.

Bella played her role perfectly.

She wore the correct dresses. Sat straight. Let Alessandro’s hand rest over hers in public. Allowed the cheek kisses at dinners, at meetings, under the careful eyes of men who measured loyalty in visible gestures.

At night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, cataloging anything except memory.

Not the garage.
Not Luca’s voice.
Not the way choosing duty now felt heavier than defiance ever had.

She called it survival.
She told herself she had been raised for this.
She would adapt.

Luca fell into the same rhythm, just behind different walls.

Life at the Santoro estate resumed with brutal efficiency. Meetings. Calls. Territory inspections. His father’s calm authority threading through every decision. Alessia at his side, composed and precise, already moving through arrangements as if she were stepping back into a life she believed had merely paused.

She spoke about flowers.
Menus.
Guest accommodations.

She spoke as if the first wedding had not ended in blood, gunfire, and sirens.

Luca listened. Agreed. Signed where needed.

In public, he was the Santoro heir again. Controlled. Polished. Untouchable.

He walked beside Alessia through vendor meetings and tastings, let her loop her arm through his, let cameras catch them when cameras were meant to. He did not pull away. He did not hesitate.

He told himself the same lie Bella did.

This is the role.
This is the cost.
This is how you live.

They did not see each other.

Not at meetings.
Not at gatherings.
Not even in places where coincidence used to exist.

Both families ensured that distance stayed enforced, maintained through schedules, handlers, and quiet warnings that didn’t need repeating.

So Luca focused on work. On territory. On keeping the peace long enough for appearances to hold.

Bella focused on charity events, on family obligations, on being visible where visibility mattered.

They became experts at not saying a name.

Marco noticed first.

Not because Bella cried. She didn’t.

Because she grew quiet in a way that carried weight. Because her laughter came a second too late. Because she stopped correcting Alessandro when he spoke for her and started letting it pass, as if resistance had become inefficient.

She moved like someone walking through water.

“You’re doing the thing,” Marco said one evening, casual but precise.

“What thing?” Bella asked.

“The one where you pretend you’re fine so convincingly you forget to breathe.”

She gave him the practiced smile. “I am fine.”

Marco didn’t argue. He just watched.

Luca’s people noticed too.

Not Alessia. She was too focused on control.

But Don Vittorio saw it. The longer hours. The way Luca avoided stillness. The way he agreed too quickly, as if friction itself had become intolerable.

“You are compliant,” his father observed one night. Not praise. Assessment.

“I’m focused,” Luca replied.

“Good,” Don Vittorio said. “Focus keeps men alive.”

Alive. Not whole.

Weeks passed.

They learned how to stand beside the wrong person without flinching. How to let futures be discussed as if already sealed. How to fold themselves into quieter, smaller versions that were easier to manage.

They almost succeeded at not thinking about each other.

Almost.

Because suppression isn’t absence.
It’s pressure.

And pressure waits.

They filled the empty hours with things that didn’t ask questions.

For Luca, it was books.

Not decorative volumes meant to signal intelligence, but worn paperbacks kept in his private study. History. Strategy. Philosophy he pretended not to remember. He read late, when the estate went silent and no one needed him to perform.

Pages gave him order without judgment. Problems already solved by men long dead.

When his thoughts drifted toward Bella, he read faster. When that failed, slower. Until the words blurred and the noise dulled enough for sleep.

It wasn’t peace.
It was containment.

Bella found hers in motion.

She ignored most of the Valenti gym and went straight for the heavy bag in the corner, wrapping her hands with mechanical precision.

No music.
No audience.

Just impact.

Her fists struck in sharp, controlled bursts. Again. Again. Again. Each hit carried something she refused to name. Anger. Fear. Want. The frustration of standing still everywhere else.

She trained until her shoulders burned and her breath tore at her chest. Until thought collapsed into instinct. Until only rhythm remained.

Afterward, she sat on the floor, back against the wall, sweat cooling, pulse slowing.

The only quiet she trusted.

Two different escapes.
Same purpose.

To keep from breaking.
To keep from wanting.
To keep from reaching for something already forbidden.

Books and bruises.
Silence and impact.

Small, private rebellions.

And still, the truth pressed in from opposite sides of the city.

You can distract the mind.
You can discipline the body.

You cannot erase what has already taken root.

Late one morning, the florist occupied a quiet corner of the city, all glass and marble and money disguised as restraint. White orchids lined the windows. The air smelled expensive, controlled, the kind of place where violence felt theoretical.

Bella entered first. Marco followed half a step behind. Not hovering. Never hovering. Just present.

Alessandro came in already irritated, by traffic, by delays, by the persistent sense that something was slipping and refusing to be named.

“Let’s be quick,” he said. “Flowers don’t require philosophy.”

Bella didn’t respond.

The bell chimed again.

Marco felt it before he saw it.

Santoro.

Luca entered with Alessia at his side. Alessia immediately began speaking to the florist, tone sharp and familiar, irritated by repetition.

“We’ll need the same arrangements,” she said. “White roses. Gardenias. Minimal. Nothing sentimental.”

Luca nodded, gaze already elsewhere.

Bella froze. Just a fraction.

Luca looked up.

Recognition hit, quiet and brutal. Not surprise. Not shock. Memory.

Marco shifted forward, already preparing to contain the damage.

Alessandro followed Bella’s gaze and stiffened. He knew. He had always known. That didn’t make it easier to swallow. “You have got to be joking.”

Alessia turned, eyes locking onto Bella. Her expression sharpened instantly. Not curiosity. Not confusion.

Assessment.

“Well,” Alessia said smoothly, jealousy slipping through the polish like a blade, “this is unfortunate. I didn’t realize shared vendors were still… acceptable.”

Bella straightened, composure snapping into place. “Luxury overlaps,” she replied calmly. “Especially when people repeat choices.”

Alessandro bristled, stepping closer to Bella without touching her. “Careful.”

Alessia’s smile thinned. “Oh, I am.”

Marco cleared his throat. “We’re all here for flowers, not a firing squad.”

Luca said nothing. Saying anything would betray him.

As catalogs appeared, Bella and Luca drifted toward the same counter from opposite sides. Not intentional. Not preventable.

Their hands hovered near the same page.

Neither touched.

Both remembered the garage. The dust. The silence after gunfire. The moment before they walked back to their families and sealed their own cages.

Alessia leaned into Luca, possessive now, fingers tightening on his arm. “These,” she said sharply. “Exactly like before.”

“Before,” Bella echoed quietly.

Alessandro snapped, “Bella.”

She inclined her head once. Obedience, perfectly performed.

“We’ll take them,” Luca said abruptly.

“So will we,” Alessandro replied, voice level, eyes locked on Luca. “Same date.”

The florist went pale.

Marco stepped fully between them. “Deliveries will be staggered.”

End of discussion.

As the Santoros turned to leave, Alessia paused, eyes lingering on Bella with open hostility now. “Planning can be very revealing,” she said sweetly.

Bella met her gaze. Calm. Unmoved. “So can repetition.”

Luca paused at the door. Didn’t turn.

“Take care,” he said.

Bella closed her eyes for half a breath. The garage flickered behind her eyelids. “You too.”

They left.

The bell chimed. Silence rushed back in.

Marco exhaled. “That was catastrophic.”

Bella laughed once. Hollow.

Alessandro remained still. For a moment too long.

Then he stepped closer to Bella. Not touching her. Not raising his voice. Just enough to remind her where she stood.

“You handled yourself well,” he said quietly. Not praise. Confirmation. “You didn’t embarrass us.”

Bella met his gaze. Steady.

“But don’t confuse control with freedom,” Alessandro continued evenly. “What you feel is irrelevant. What you are is not.”

A pause. Calculated.

“You belong here,” he said. “With me. With this family. That has not changed, no matter how familiar certain ghosts feel.”

Marco shifted, uneasy, but stayed silent.

Bella inclined her head once. Acceptance, not surrender. “I know where I stand.”

Alessandro studied her another second, then turned away.

Outside, Luca stood beside Alessia, her hand tight on his arm, her jealousy sharp and unhidden now. His heart hammered like he’d escaped something worse than gunfire.

Same flowers.
Same dates.
Different war.

And Marco already knew.

Whatever this was between them hadn’t faded.

It had sharpened.