Chapter 7: Heirs and Hollow Promises
The corridor stretched before her like a throat.
Emma walked it with her spine straight and her hands clasped in front of her, the way she'd learned to walk through her father's apartment after a bad night—quiet, small, invisible. The torn lace of her underwear had shifted, the ruined edge of it scraping against her thigh with every step, and she could feel the wetness between her legs cooling in the air-conditioned draft. Her cheeks burned. Her pulse hadn't slowed. Somewhere behind her, she could sense Craig following at a distance, giving her space, and she didn't dare turn around.
The dining room swallowed her whole.
The chandelier dripped its cold light over the table. Candles guttered in their silver holders, their flames leaning sideways in a draft she couldn't feel. The smell of roast lamb and rosemary and old money hit her all at once, and her stomach turned over. Salvatore sat at the head of the table, his hands folded, his expression unreadable. Marco was on his left, nursing a glass of wine. Aunt Rosalia, flushed and bright-eyed from too much chianti, was mid-laugh at something the man beside her had said. And Dominic—
Dominic was back.
He sat with his phone face-down beside his plate, his shoulders squared, his eyes finding her the second she crossed the threshold. His gaze swept over her—quick, clinical, cataloguing—and something flickered in his expression. Not suspicion. Not yet. But a question.
"You took your time," he said.
"The hallway was dark." Emma slid into her chair, careful to keep her movements smooth and unhurried. "I got turned around."
Dominic's hand found her knee immediately, his fingers clamping down with a possessiveness that made her skin crawl. "You should have asked for an escort."
"I'll remember that."
The answer satisfied him. He turned back to his conversation with Marco, something about a shipment delay, and Emma exhaled slowly through her nose. She reached for her water glass, hoping the condensation on the crystal would cool the heat still radiating from her face.
It didn't.
She could still feel him.
Craig. The weight of him, the stretch of him, the way his breath had hitched against her throat when he came. She could still taste the whiskey on his tongue, still feel the ghost of his fingers on her clit, still hear the ragged whisper of her name in his voice. The evidence of it was everywhere—in the tenderness between her legs, in the ache in her thighs, in the damp ruin of her underwear pressed against her skin like a brand.
Craig entered the room.
She didn't look at him. She couldn't. But she felt him—the shift in the air, the weight of his presence settling into the room like a stone dropped into still water. He walked past her chair without pausing, without glancing her way, and took his seat across the table with the kind of controlled violence that made the silverware tremble.
Marco noticed. Marco always noticed. He shot Craig a look—sharp, questioning—and Craig answered with a flat stare that said nothing at all.
"So!" Aunt Rosalia's voice cut through the tension like a knife through butter. She leaned forward, her florid face bright with wine and curiosity, and fixed her gaze on Emma. "The happy couple. When's the wedding?"
Emma's throat closed.
"Soon," Dominic said.
"Define soon." Rosalia waggled a finger at him. "I'm not getting any younger, and I want to dance at the reception. These old bones need a reason to celebrate."
"Two months," Salvatore said from the head of the table. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "We'll have the ceremony in the garden. Small.Private. Family only."
Small. Private. Family only. No escape.
Emma's fingers tightened around her water glass. The cold seeped into her palms, grounded her, kept her tethered to the moment.
"And children?" Rosalia pressed, her smile widening. "I want to see little Morettis running through these halls before I die. You're not getting any younger either, Dominic."
The table laughed. Someone—the man beside Rosalia—clapped.
Emma didn't move.
Dominic set his fork down with a precise click. He wiped his lips with his napkin, folded it neatly beside his plate, and turned to face his aunt with the calm of a man reading a balance sheet.
"I expect a son," he said. "The first one, at least. After that, we'll see."
Rosalia clapped her hands. "A son! Salvatore, did you hear? A grandson."
"I heard."
Dominic's hand squeezed Emma's knee. A warning. A reminder. "She's young. Healthy. There's no reason it shouldn't take quickly."
"And if it doesn't?" someone asked. Marco, maybe. His voice was carefully neutral.
Dominic shrugged. "Then we keep trying. She'll stay pregnant until I get what I want. That's how it works."
The words landed like stones in her chest.
Emma stared at her plate. The lamb had gone cold. The rosemary sprigs had withered against the porcelain. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, in her temples, in the hollow place behind her ribs where her future used to be.
She'll stay pregnant until I get what I want.
Like she was a machine. A vessel. A thing to be used and discarded once it had served its purpose.
"You're quiet," Dominic observed. His thumb traced a circle on her knee. "Something wrong?"
"No." The word came out steady. She didn't know how. "Just tired."
"Tired." He said it like a diagnosis. "You've been tired all day. Maybe you should see a doctor."
"Maybe."
"After the wedding. We'll get you checked out."
The implication hung in the air—that her body was now his to manage, his to inspect, his to approve or deny. Emma's fork trembled above her plate. She set it down before anyone could notice.
Across the table, Craig picked up his whiskey glass.
He didn't drink. He just held it, his fingers wrapped around the crystal, and stared at Dominic with an expression that made the hair on Emma's arms stand up. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His knuckles had gone white.
"Something to say, cousin?" Dominic asked.
Craig's chair scraped back an inch.
Marco's hand landed on his forearm—a manacle, a warning. "Craig."
"Just thinking," Craig said, his voice light and terrible, "about how romantic it is. You, announcing your breeding plans at the dinner table. Really sweeps a girl off her feet."
Dominic's eyes narrowed. "It's a family matter. She's going to be my wife. She should know what's expected."
"Expected." Craig's lip curled. "Right. Because nothing says 'I love you' like 'stay pregnant until you give me a son.'"
The table went still.
Salvatore watched from the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Rosalia's smile had frozen on her face. Marco's hand tightened on Craig's arm, a clear warning, but Craig didn't look at him. He didn't look at anyone but Dominic.
"You have a problem?" Dominic asked.
"I have a lot of problems." Craig's voice was quiet, almost pleasant. "But right now, I'm just curious. What happens if she can't? What if she gives you three daughters and no son? Do you keep her barefoot and pregnant until she dies of exhaustion, or do you find someone else to do the job?"
Emma's stomach dropped.
"Craig," Marco said, his voice low. "Shut up."
"No. I want to hear him say it." Craig leaned back in his chair, his arm draped over the back, the picture of casual cruelty. "Tell me, Dominic. What's the plan? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're buying a uterus, not a wife."
Dominic's face went dark. "You're out of line."
"I'm the only one at this table who's in line." Craig's eyes flicked to Emma—just for a second, just long enough to make her heart stutter—then back to his cousin. "She's a person. Not a breeding stock. Not a reward for good behavior. A person. And you're sitting here talking about her like she's a prize cow you won at auction."
The silence stretched, thin and brittle.
Salvatore cleared his throat.
"Enough," he said. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a command. "Craig, you're drunk. Go home."
"I'm not drunk."
"Go home anyway."
Craig didn't move. His knuckles were still white around his glass, his eyes still fixed on Dominic, and for a moment Emma thought he might actually do something—something reckless, something that would get him hurt.
Then his gaze slid to her.
She shook her head. Barely a movement—just a tiny, desperate gesture that said please, please don't, please don't make this worse.
Craig's jaw tightened. His hand relaxed around the glass.
"Fine," he said. He stood, his chair scraping against the marble floor, and tossed his napkin onto the table. "I'm going."
He didn't look at her again.
He walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hallway, and the silence he left behind was worse than any shouting.
Emma sat frozen in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, her heart pounding against her ribs. Dominic's fingers dug into her knee—a warning, a promise, a brand—and she didn't flinch. She couldn't afford to.
"Well," Rosalia said, her voice brittle with forced cheer, "that was dramatic."
"Let's not." Salvatore's voice was cold. "Eat."
The table obeyed. Forks scraped against plates. Wine was poured. Conversation resumed, stilted and careful, avoiding the empty chair across from Emma like a hole in the floor.
Emma reached for her water glass.
Her hand was shaking.
Dominic's grip tightened on her knee. "You're trembling," he said.
"I'm cold."
"Liar."
The word was soft enough that no one else could hear, but it cut through her like a blade. Emma didn't respond. She didn't know how.
Later—hours later—when dinner was over and the guests were gone, when Dominic had kissed her cheek and Salvatore had given her a look that said everything and nothing, Emma would remember the way Craig's voice cracked when he said her name. She would remember the weight of his hand on her face, the warmth of his body, the way he'd whispered, I'm going to get you out.
She would remember, and she would hold onto it.
Because it was the only thing keeping her upright.
The car ride back to the apartment was silent.
Dominic drove with one hand on the wheel, his face illuminated in flashes by the streetlights. His jaw was set, his fingers drumming against the leather, and Emma sat as far from him as the seat allowed, her body pressed against the door.
"You embarrassed me tonight," he said finally.
"I didn't do anything."
"You didn't have to." His voice was flat. "You let him speak for you. You let him make a scene, and you sat there like a victim, and now my aunt thinks I'm a monster."
"Aren't you?"
The words were out before she could stop them.
The car swerved.
Emma grabbed the door handle, her heart lurching, but Dominic brought the car back under control with a jerk of the wheel. His jaw was so tight she could see the muscles bunching beneath his skin.
"You don't get to talk to me like that," he said. "Not ever. Do you understand?"
She didn't answer.
"Emma." His voice sharpened. "Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it properly."
"Yes, Dominic."
The car pulled into the underground garage. The lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. Dominic killed the engine and sat for a moment, his hands still on the wheel.
"You're going to be my wife," he said. "You're going to do what I say, when I say it. And if you ever—ever—embarrass me like that again, you're going to regret it."
Emma's hand found the door handle. She didn't look at him. "Are we done?"
He grabbed her arm.
His fingers dug into her wrist, hard enough to bruise, and he jerked her back into the seat. His face was close now—close enough that she could smell the garlic on his breath, the sweat on his skin.
"I asked you a question," he said.
"No." Her voice was steady. She didn't know how. "You didn't. You gave me a warning. I heard it."
Dominic's eyes narrowed. His fingers tightened on her wrist, hard enough to make her wince.
Then he let go.
"Get upstairs," he said. "I'm not finished with you."
Emma didn't wait for him to change his mind.
She pushed open the door and walked into the dark.