Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
VIVIANA
The huge-ass diamond feels like a boulder on my left hand, and I itch to rip it off my finger and toss it from the car window. Instead, I huff and cross my arms even tighter against my chest, contorting Van Gogh’s forehead on my tits.
I sit in the backseat of Luciano Venturi’s town car—my husband’s town car—a bit nauseous and plenty pissed off.
We left my family’s house just over an hour ago and still haven’t arrived at the Venturi estate. We’re no longer in the city, and I don’t recognize most of the highway exit signs that pass in a blur. For all I know, the man could be taking me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me. Shotgun wedding, literally.
I huff again.
Again, Luciano ignores me.
My beloved husband hasn’t looked up from his damn phone since we got in the car. His big, busy fingers simply continue to scroll and swipe and type.
Once or twice, I dare a glance at the screen, half-expecting to find him swiping left and right on a dating app. It wouldn’t surprise me, since, apparently, his relationship with my sister was strictly business. A man who looks like Luciano is bound to have a long line of lovers waiting at his beck and call.
The thought doesn’t bother me. They can have him.
Instead, it looks like he’s scrolling through miniature charts and Excel sheets. He’s working.
Somehow, that makes me feel worse.
“You should’ve let me stay at my parent’s house,” I clip. My voice sounds obscenely loud after sitting in silence for so long.
“That’s not how marriage works,” he mumbles, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Oh my God, will you stop playing on your phone?” My request comes out shriller than I anticipated, undoubtedly breaching the partition that separates us from the driver and guard in the front seat.
He looks up from his phone, slate eyes nearly black in the dim lighting. There’s a pause, and, for a moment, I wonder if I’ve angered him. But anger would mean emotion, and his gaze is too blank. Too impassive.
Finally, he sighs and decides to humor me. He shoves his phone in the pocket at the back of the seat in front of him and, when he sits upright again, stares directly at me, broad shoulders angled in my direction.
“You’re right,” he amends, the words carefully measured. “I’m sorry.”
I blink back my surprise. I wasn’t expecting an apology. At least, not without a fight. Luciano doesn’t strike me as the ‘I’m sorry’ type.
“How do those words taste in your mouth? Like vinegar?” I muse, lifting my brows. It’s childish and snide, I know, but the way I see it, Luciano doesn’t deserve my good behavior. I’m still hoping he’ll send me away.
His brow furrows, those full lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not above admitting when I’m wrong, Viviana.”
He’s chastising me. Refusing to take the bait and stoop to my level, while my father would already be rubbing at his temples and groaning for me to leave him alone. My husband, it seems, will be a tougher nut to crack.
“Now, you wanted to tell me why I should’ve let you stay at your childhood home?” He folds his hands in his lap, his thumbs sliding casually against one another. I don’t know him well-enough yet to gauge whether the movement is born of annoyance or interest.
“I’m mourning my sister,” I state, matter-of-fact. “I should be with my family.”
“I’m your family now,” he retorts, just as quick. “Why else?”
I clear my throat and study him for one long moment before trying again, fidgeting with my ring. “Because I’ll have to go back home for my clothes and things anyway. You could’ve just sent a car in the morning and I would’ve had my suitcases packed.”
“And give you the chance to board the first bus out of the city?” One corner of his lips curls in a wicked smirk. “I told your father, I’ve already lost one key to the Chicago Outfit. I won’t lose another.”
Key to the Chicago Outfit. That’s all I am to this man. He forced me to marry him for the sole purpose of infiltrating my mother’s kin.
I swallow the strange lump that forms in my throat and conjure my own, too-sweet smile. “Then I hope you won’t mind escorting me back to the city again tomorrow so I can retrieve my clothes?”
He considers this then shakes his head. “You won’t be needing your old clothing.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head to the side and flutter my lashes. “I suppose you’ll want to keep me naked? Warming your bed like a good little wife—legs spread and ready for you?”
The words spill out before I can stop them. They’re filled with venomous sarcasm—provoking. Meant to paint an obscene reality that I’d rather die than bring to fruition. And yet…
A muscle in his jaw ticks, and I swear his eyes darken as they drift down, trailing from my face to my chest to my legging-clad thighs. I’m not exactly wearing the most enticing outfit, but he still looks at me like I’m prey he could devour in one bite, maybe two.
A shiver skitters down my spine, stirring liquid heat that sends my body into disarray. My nipples pebble. My thighs press together to satiate the small tingle between them.
No one has ever looked at me like this.
Of course, I’ve read about it in my favorite romance novels—the ones that made every girl in my book club want to marry a fae prince or shadow lord or whatever new creature donned the cover of that month’s book. But I’ve never experienced it first hand. Never felt the burn of a man’s gaze as he admires the parts of me that blossomed so much later than other girls my age. I’ve never felt sexy, like any man would actually want me in their bed.
That was never me. I’m not that girl.
Elenora was that girl. The girl with the killer curves and shiny black hair, who wore her confidence like a second-skin and could bring a man to his knees with a single smile.
I hold my breath as Luciano’s gaze travels back up my body, my heart a battering ram against my chest. And then…
The heat in his eyes vanishes, and I wonder if it ever existed in the first place.
He shrugs, nonchalant and indifferent. “No. I simply want to make sure you don’t bring another t-shirt with a dead artist’s face on it inside my house.”
I blink. What. An. Asshole.
Rather than stew in the humiliation bubbling like lava up my neck, I tighten my arms against Van Gogh’s faded face protectively. “You’re not touching Vincent.”
“You’re allowed to keep one of the tacky t-shirts.”
Narrowing my eyes, I study him for one long moment—all hard lines and angular features. Handsome, yet cold. At first, I don’t think he’s being serious. Then, I realize this man probably doesn’t know how to joke.
“ Two,” I counter.
“One.” He doesn’t budge, a master negotiator.
I have no doubt in my mind that Luciano Venturi is the sort of man accustomed to the groveling and sniveling of his inferiors. He expects submission. He doesn’t lose.
But, neither do I. And he’s about to figure out why my father shipped me off to Italy.
“T-w-o,” I drawl the word, annunciating it like he’s a toddler learning to speak. “Vincent and Artemisia.”
His nostrils flare, but he responds with a simple raised brow. “Artemisia?”
“Gentileschi,” I explain, always eager for an excuse to talk about my favorite artist. “Well, she’s not on the shirt. It’s a rendition of her most famous painting.”
He considers this before waving his hand in dismissal, dark hair dusting his wrists and forearms. “As long as it’s better than the ‘Van Gogh Away’ rags you wore for our wedding.”
I smirk, turning my head to the window and the shadows passing in blurs beyond it. “It’s a painting of a beheading.”
A deep sigh. He’s losing his patience. “A beheading? On a t-shirt?”
My reflection grins back at me from the darkened window, anticipating victory.
“It’s the story of Judith and Holofernes. Judith is a beautiful widow who saves her home from the general of the Assyrians, Holofernes. Overcome by her beauty, Holofernes welcomes her into his tent. She cuts his head off while he sleeps. The bastard had it coming.”
I’ve written one too many essays during my studies on the painting, but I give him the watered-down version. In any other circumstance with any other person, I’d delve into Artemisia’s use of chiaroscuro and shocking realism—the spurts of blood, Holofernes’ struggle as a woman saws through his thick neck…
From the other side of the town car, Luciano emits a low hum, and the sound stirs something traitorous inside me. “I know the story. And the painting. I just can’t understand why anyone would want it on a t-shirt.”
I whip my head back to him and scoff. “It’s an incredible painting! And badass. A young, powerful woman saving her people from certain destruction. Sacrificing herself by seducing a killer, fooling him—it’s empowering!”
His bearded cheek twitches, the smallest hint of amusement. “Ah, I understand now. You see yourself in the painting.”
“What? Of course not,” I counter, too fast.
“You want to be like Judith,” he practically purrs, infuriatingly confident. “Want to slip into my bed and slit my throat?”
I hate the mockery in his voice. The way his teeth flash in the shadows like a wolf.
My teeth grind. “What if I do? You know nothing about me. It’s foolish of you to marry a woman that you know nothing about.”
He emits a chuckle that I feel in my core. “Actually, I know quite a lot about you. In fact, I’ve spent the last week learning everything there is to know about Viviana Russo. ”
A pit forms in my stomach. I shouldn’t be surprised that he researched me before binding himself to me, but it still feels like an invasion of privacy.Surely he doesn’t know everything. My father likely gave him a short rundown, a professional resume of sorts that highlighted whatever redeeming qualities I possessed that he thought might impress the Venturi family.
Luciano continues like he’s reciting a monotonous monologue. “You were a relatively well-behaved child that performed well enough in school. Your transcripts and teachers’ remarks don’t come close to rivaling Elenora’s, but you never needed extra tutoring. Except in eleventh grade physics.”
What the fuck? He pulled my grade school transcripts?
“You tried gymnastics when you were six but fell off the balance beam and somehow managed to break your wrist, even though it was only a foot off the ground. You auditioned for the role of Cosette in your academy’s production of Les Miserables but were cast as one of the prostitutes instead. The year prior, you auditioned for Annie and were cast as the dog.”
“I—” My mouth hangs open. “The dog’s name is Sandy! I was cast as Sandy. ”
Oh my God. This is humiliating. My cheeks flame. My ears burn. He’s dredging up years worth of therapy appointments. It took months for me to move on from my failures in the school’s drama department.
I glance toward the partition and pray to anything that it’s soundproofed.
“You’ve received all of your vaccines on time and have no known ailments.” Luciano doesn’t stop, but I’m prepared to beg him to. “You proved to be a… difficult adolescent for your parents, who sent you to Italy at seventeen to live with distant relatives rather than discipline you themselves.”
A pang twists in my gut at the reminder, which is strange because I’ve convinced myself that I don’t care about their choice to ship me overseas.
If he senses my dejection, he doesn’t care. The list rattles on. “You’re an art student who spent the last three years galavanting around Europe and living at your aunt’s villa, without responsibility or accountability. On Saturdays, you visited the local market. You attended a book club on Thursday evenings. Your only friends in Italy were your aunt and another American in the book club—”
“Are you done?” I interject, unable to stand another word.
“All of that to say,” he drawls, rolling his neck as if listing my ineptitudes had worn on him. “That, no, I don’t think you are a risk to me.”
The fire dwindles from my body like a dousing bucket of ice water over my head. He’s wrong, I try to convince myself, and yet… Where was the lie? He listed my attributes and history. Even the moments I’m proud of, such as my involvement in my high school’s drama department, he managed to make sound unimpressive and foolish.
I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on the nothingness beyond my window once more. I hate the emotion he stirred within me.
“You’re wrong,” I murmur at last, my voice traitorously thick.
“What?” he asks, distracted. When I glance in his direction, he’s on his phone again.
“You’re wrong .” I clear my throat and take a deep breath, mustering my strength. I won’t let this man belittle me. I won’t cower and bend.“I’m not an art student. I’m an art history student. I was studying art history in Italy. Michelangelo, to be specific.”
“You’re not an artist?”
“No. I love art, but I’m not very good at it. So I study its history instead.”
For the first time since we entered the car, Luciano appears daunted. He watches me for a moment, eyes narrowed, then pinches the bridge of his nose and releases a long sigh, as if the situation has just gone from bad to worse.
Suddenly, I’m overcome by the sense that this man—my husband —is gravely disappointed in me. It… stings.
My eyes start to water, but I quickly turn back to the window before any tears dare to fall.
You and me both, Luciano.