Defiant Vows

Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

VIVIANA

I lied. I’m a liar.

But I’m a liar who bought herself two extra months of safety.

The knowledge consoled me as I tossed and turned in bed last night. Luciano bought my story about a recent birth control shot easily enough. Of course, my father never would’ve actually allowed me to touch anything resembling birth control, but I learned about the shot from a friend in Italy who swore it worked better than any pill or IUD.

Because of that little white lie, my darling husband agreed to give me a two-month reprieve before consummating our sham of a marriage. Before forcing himself on me.

Last night, I managed to hold my shit together long enough to kick Luciano out of my bedroom. As soon as the door clicked shut, though, my mask crumbled.

My eyes still sting from the tears I shed. Mascara smudges stain the silk pillowcase I slept on, and my wedding rings lie somewhere on the floor where I threw them against the wall. I’ll search for them later.

Unable to sleep a second longer in this exquisitely furnished prison, I rise from the bed. With the sun streaming through gold-spun curtains, I let myself admire the bedroom that my sister designed.

It screams Elenora. Espresso-tinted furniture with polished brass hardware. Golden photo frames that glisten against the emerald green walls, accented with subtle floral designs. Textbooks for her various foreign affairs courses and self-help books about meditation and being a ‘boss bitch.’ Dark and sophisticated and classy.

Not my style in the slightest, but I won’t change it.

Elenora and I weren’t close growing up, but her signature style throughout the room comforts me. It makes me feel less alone.

With puffy eyes and surprisingly stiff muscles, I crawl from the safety of the sheets. There’s a closed door across the room, which I assume leads to a bathroom, and a half-open door beside it. A closet?

Careful not to make too much noise, I creep to the closet. To my relief, a small collection of Elenora-sized clothing rests amongst the shelves and hangers. It all still has the tags attached, and I wonder if Luciano bought the outfits as a wedding gift for Elenora.

I sort through an assortment of dresses and pantsuits until I find a casual-enough black blouse and the one pair of jeans in the closet. Not my style or size, but better than my stinky ‘Van Gogh Away’ t-shirt. At least until I find a washing machine.

I rip the tags off and shimmy inside the jeans first—I’ll find fresh underwear later—and frown at the fit. They sag around my ass, where my sister’s stunning curves would’ve filled them out like a model. I don’t care enough to find a belt and roll the jeans into cuffs at my ankles.

With clothing secured, I can no longer ignore the mounting pressure in my bladder.

I eye the daunting bathroom door. Do I risk it?

My bedroom connects to Luciano’s through that shared bath. Frankly, after our conversation last night, the thought of peeing my pants sounds more appealing than facing him again.

But this house is humongous. I doubt I’ll find another toilet in a timely manner.

I edge closer to the bathroom door, grateful for the thick Persian rug that dampens my footsteps against the hardwood. When I arrive at the door, I press my ear to its center and hold my breath.

Nothing. No running water or footsteps. Closing my eyes, I pray that Luciano is a very deep sleeper or a very early riser, and we won’t encounter each other in our ensuite.

Quietly entering the bathroom, I don’t take the time to admire the immaculate space—clean and chic and polished. My eyes sweep over white marble and porcelain, a spa-like shower, and something that resembles a towel warmer before they land on a private toilet nook.

Thank God.

After that’s settled, I venture toward the double vanity to wash my hands and contend with morning-breath and bedhead. As I rinse the lavender-scented soap from my hands, I admire a vase filled with a dozen roses that separates the two sinks.

At first, I figure they’re just decorations.

Then, as I wipe my wet hands on the front of Elenora’s jeans, my gaze snags on a little note nestled within the roses.

Eyes narrowed, I step closer and see my name scribbled in cursive across the top.

“He didn’t,” I murmur to no one but myself, immediately snatching the little piece of card stock.

He did.

He scrawled a short note beneath my name in black ink. I have half-a-mind to toss the note in the trash, but my traitorously curious eyes start decoding his cursive before I can stop myself.

Viviana,

I wanted to apologize for what I said last night. I hoped I could do it in person but was called back to the city. I won’t be back for a few days. Make yourself at home and ask Mrs. Ajello if you need anything.

Apologetically,

Luc

I frown and read the note again, as if I could’ve missed anything in those four short sentences. My attention lingers on the last line.

Luc. Not ‘Luciano.’ Somehow, that shortened nickname feels too intimate. Like only friends and family should be using it. Not me. Even so, I find myself studying the three letters, written in beautiful script with sloping curves and a diagonal slant.

“Luc,” I whisper, testing the name on my tongue and deciding I don’t hate the way it feels.

Realizing this, I hastily tuck the note in the back pocket of my jeans and study the roses again. Knowing that Luciano—or his alter-ego Luc— picked them out for me somehow makes them more interesting to look at.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Ah!” I yelp and spin away from the vanity.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”An older woman stands in the doorway leading to my bedroom. She extends two wrinkled hands toward me, as if calming a frightened animal. “I thought you heard me come in. I called out twice.”

A lethal amount of adrenaline still pumps through my veins, but I try to conjure an easy smile for the woman, whose eyes crinkle with decades of laughter and joy.

“Sorry, no. I was…” I eye the dozen roses and scowl. “Distracted.”

She smiles. “I’ve always loved roses.”

“They were my sister’s favorite.” I tuck a rogue, kinked wave of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of my haggard appearance. Black circles of mascara still mar my under-eye, and my already too-round cheeks feel swollen.

“And yours?” This woman, a complete stranger, asks, and I think it’s the first time someone has ever asked me my favorite flower. “Are they your favorite?”

“No,” I admit and dare a small smile. “They’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve always liked sunflowers. And peonies. God, I love peonies. Sunflowers because the first Van Gogh painting I ever saw in person was Three Sunflowers. Peonies because, well, they’re just beautiful.”

I stop myself before rambling any more. Although my Aunt Elisa in Florence loved to hear me gush about my passions and interests, I’ve yet to meet someone similar in the United States.

And yet, to my surprise, this woman does not appear bored or annoyed. Her thin brows lift and she nods. “Van Gogh and sunflowers. Yes, I think I’ve heard about that painting before.”

“There are actually eleven paintings in the series.” My smile grows. “With eighty-seven sunflowers total.”

Her brow lifts, three lines stretch across her forehead. “That’s quite a few sunflowers. I take it you like art?”

“Love it.” I think back on that abominable Jackson Pollock hanging front-and-center in the foyer of this manor and reconsider. “Well, most of it.”

A knowing look gleams in her eyes and she lowers her voice. “You saw the chicken scratch and paint splatter monstrosity in the foyer, didn’t you?”

I almost bark a laugh, choking on my own saliva instead. “If my professors heard you say that about a Jackson Pollock, they’d drop dead. Between you and me, I couldn’t agree more.”

She chuckles, a warm, rasping sound that loosens some of the tightness in my gut. “I’m Emilia Ajello, Mr. Venturi’s housekeeper.”

“Oh, yes! Mrs. Ajello,” I echo, stepping forward to shake her hand. “Luciano mentioned that I’d be meeting you. He said you’re my go-to girl for any questions I might have.”

Mrs. Ajello blinks, momentarily taken aback by my enthusiastic handshake. For a moment, I worry that I’ve overstepped, but she recovers with a genuine grin. “Anything you need at all, dear. Including breakfast, which is waiting for you downstairs.”

As if on cue, my stomach growls. “Oh God, I could eat a horse.”

In Italy, I delighted in large, hearty breakfasts with my extended family every morning, but, since returning to New York, my mother warned me against eating too many carbs so early in the day. She told me that she and Elenora fasted until their eleven AM pilates class, which sounds like a form of torture.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Ajello seems genuinely pleased. “I’ll have Carlo start cooking the spread while you finish getting ready. You should find everything you need in the cabinets beneath the sink.”

She bustles over to the vanity, bends at her plump waist, and opens one of the cabinets to reveal row after row of organized bins. There’s makeup, hair products, skincare, and other hygiene necessities lined up like a drug store. I don’t know what to do with half of the products, but I zero-in on a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. That’s all I’ll need.

With that, Mrs. Ajello leaves me to finish, but I watch where she disappeared for several long moments, the ghost of a smile lingering on my lips. If the rest of the estate’s occupants are anything like her, perhaps my marriage won’t be such a prison sentence after all.

Hope sparks in my chest.

I meet the rest of the manor’s employees and take a tour of the property before noon. Just as I expected, the house is over-the-top beautiful and way too big for two people, but Carlo, the chef, and Alonso, the groundskeeper, are just as kind as Mrs. Ajello.

Mrs. Ajello introduces me to Carlo as Mrs. Venturi, which nearly makes me puke in my mouth.

After insisting that they both call me Viviana or Viv, we settle into an easy conversation, getting to know one another over oat milk cappuccinos and freshly baked croissants. Carlo is a twenty-something chef with black hair knotted in a bun atop his head, piercings covering various orifices on his body, and a charming gap between his two front teeth.

He’s sweet and speaks with an accent, having moved to New York from Italy at the Venturi family’s request. Apparently, Luciano took a liking to his cooking when visiting Milan.

I break off a piece of toast and nibble on it. “Carlo, do you know any good vegan recipes?”

“Vegan?” he echoes, pausing his chopping of cilantro for an upcoming meal. “It’s not something I’ve cooked since arriving in New York, but I’ll be happy to accommodate and try new things. Are you vegan?”

I nod and smile. “Four years and counting. It killed my father that I wouldn’t eat meat or dairy. I think that’s half the reason he sent me to Italy.” Not really, but they don’t have to know that.

Mrs. Ajello chuckles and shakes her head. “I’m afraid Luciano might agree with your father.”

“Most people who hate vegan food have never tried it,” I counter, taking another bite of toast. “They think we just eat salads for three meals a day. But, if it’ll cause problems for you, Carlo, I’d be happy to cook for myself. I don’t want you to get in trouble with Luciano.”

He immediately waves his hand, dismissing my offer. “No, no. It will be fun to try new recipes. Besides, Luciano isn’t home for dinner most days.”

That catches my attention.

I set my napkin aside and cross my arms on the marble bar top, feigning disinterest. “Really? Why?”

Carlo gives a little shrug. “He spends most of his time in his penthouse in the city. I used to follow and cook for him there, but I’ll be staying in Bedford full-time for you now.”

My brows arch in surprise, and I try to hide the grin that instinctively pulls on my lips. Music to my ears. The less I see of my husband, the better.

“Of course,” Mrs. Ajello interjects, “he might prefer to spend more time at home now that you’re here, my dear.”

Not likely. I bite back the words and manage to nod agreeably instead.

She must not know the details surrounding our pitiful nuptials, or she’d never assume that Luciano would make special trips to Bedford for me. Except to get his dick wet in two months, I suppose.

I wonder if he’ll spend the upcoming weeks in the arms of a lover in the city. I assume a man like Luciano has a long line of women eager to warm his bed.

Good. They can have him. I’ll just need to make sure he’s clean before we perform our duty . Or, better yet, maybe we can use artificial insemination to conceive his spawn. I make a mental note to discuss my newfound preferences the next time Lucian shows his face, then flash my best attempt at a hopeful smile to Mrs. Ajello.

“That would be nice.” The lie tastes bitter.

“I’ll order ingredients for new recipes today, signora,” Carlo announces, excitement twinkling in his eyes.

“I’d be happy to help if you want. Just let me know the time you typically start dinner. I love cooking.” I sheepishly add the last part.

“Yes?” Carlo cocks a brow. “I’ll start at six this evening.”

“I’ll be here,” I chirp, sliding off my barstool. I have nowhere else to be, after all.

He shares a glance with Mrs. Ajello and gestures toward me with a cutting knife. “I think I like her.”

I giggle, and the weight pressing down on my shoulders lightens for the first time since boarding the plane in Italy. “I think I might like it here, too.”

I don’t finish the rest of that statement though. Not aloud. Not until I know the extent of their loyalty to Luciano.

I think I might like it here, too. As long as my dreaded husband stays far, far away.