The morning after your wedding begins surprisingly unremarkably.
No reception. No congratulations. No staging of a happy marriage.
When you enter the dining hall, Clemente is already seated at the head of the long table. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a cup of espresso beside his hand. In front of him lies a tablet with business figures open.
Rosaria sits to his left.
Of course. As if yesterday's wedding had changed nothing about eleven shared ledgers. Three weeks ago, she had still been Clemente Ottaviani's wife. Now she no longer is, on paper or off it.
Apparently, nothing else has changed.
Ciro sits several seats away, flipping through a newspaper. When Rosaria says something to Clemente, he briefly looks up.
—
"I thought you'd be uptown this morning."
—
"Later."
—
"Regrettable. I was hoping for a quiet morning."
Rosaria's gaze slides coolly to him.
—
"You could have one. No one is forcing you to sit here."
—
"And miss these charming conversations? Never."
Clemente ignores them both.
Only now does he look up at you. No warmth. No uncertainty. Not even a trace of guilt over the fact that yesterday he married a woman who had explicitly told him beforehand what she wanted out of it and what she would not do.
His gaze briefly moves to the clock.
—
"Sit down."
He gestures to the seat to his right.
—
"After breakfast, we need to discuss some things."
A brief pause.
—
"Among them, the rules you agreed to from today."