Defiant Vows

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

VIVIANA

Viviana,

Mrs. Ajello informed me that your favorite flowers are peonies and sunflowers. I hope you’ll enjoy this new bouquet as you continue to settle into our home.

Cordially,

Luc

Viviana,

This bouquet has a Crimson Heart peony, which I’m told is rare. Work continues to keep me in the city. I’m giving you my credit card, so please use it to purchase anything you might need (clothes, furniture, etc.).

Thoughtfully,

Luc

Viviana,

Last night, I saw a charge on my credit card account for an “I HEART ART TEE SHOP.” Does this mean you purchased another Van Gogh shirt?

Disconcertedly,

Luc

Viviana,

I’ll be home tonight. Please be prepared for supper with my parents at 7 o’clock.

Luc

I stare at the note that accompanied my most recent bouquet of sunflowers and feel sick to my stomach. Clutching at my belly, I lean against the wall and slide down, groaning all the way.

“Why couldn’t you just stay in the city?” I moan, reading the terse correspondence again.

Over the last four days, I’d grown accustomed to receiving these gorgeous flower arrangements every morning. Someone, either Mrs. Ajello or a guard, left the bouquets and handwritten notes outside of my door. Although I knew that Luciano sent the flowers out of guilt or obligation, after the first set of peonies and sunflowers, I found myself looking forward to them.

That is, until this morning.

Now, I can’t even enjoy the pretty golden petals. Dread curdles deep in my gut, reminiscent of the stomach flu. I’m not thrilled that Luc is returning tonight, but our dinner with his parents is the cherry on top of the cake. A shitty, flaming-heap-of-garbage cake.

A knock on my door interrupts my wallowing.

Mrs. Ajello pokes her head into the room. “Viviana, the boxes from—What the devil are you doing on the floor?”

Amusement dances behind her eyes, but I frown and push to my feet.

“Did you know my husband’s returning tonight?” I complain, making no effort to conceal my dread. Over the past few days, I’ve lamented my situation to Mrs. Ajello more than once. I extend his note away from my body like a snotty tissue. “He wants to have dinner with his parents!”

She chuckles. “He informed me of his plans this morning.”

That’s it. She doesn’t offer any consolation or words of encouragement. Then again, she rarely does anything more than smile and shake her head when I take to bashing Luciano. As far as I can tell, he’s earned her loyalty, and she likes him as an employer and friend.

I pout, tossing the note on my bedside table, where I’ve been storing the others. “Carlo and I were going to make fresh pesto tonight.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to postpone and wait for you,” she hums, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. “I’ve already informed the chef at the main house of your diet.”

The main house. The head-honcho’s house. Girardo Venturi, my father-in-law.

I’ve taken a handful of walks around the property since arriving and always give the mansion a wide berth. I didn’t want to risk Girardo or Allegra— especially Allegra—spotting me, since, according to Mrs. Ajello, the pair stay at home most days. Girardo effectively retired several years ago, leaving Luciano to handle every business affair.

“Thank you,” I murmur, perching on the edge of the mattress.

Her thoughtfulness takes me off-guard, softens the hard edges of my unease. I can’t remember the last time someone cared for me like this, and emotion swells in my throat. I swallow it down and try to smile.

“It’s nothing.” She waves off my thanks. “I know the night will be difficult enough. I didn’t want you to be staring down at a bloody steak on top of it.”

She’s trying to cheer me up, and it works. I chuckle and shake my head. “I don’t think my mother-in-law would appreciate my spiel on the horrors of the meat industry. She’d probably throw her steak knife at my head.”

“Of course she wouldn’t.” Mrs. Ajello is quick to jump to her former employer’s defense, then a mischievous smirk pulls on her lips as she takes a seat beside me on the bed. “Knives aren’t Allegra’s style. She’s much more likely to poison you.”

I choke on a laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Allegra is a nasty woman,” Mrs. Ajello grumbles, patting the back of my hand and pulling it into her lap. “But you’ll be fine, dear.”

I sigh. “If it’s not going well, I’m not above faking an illness. I used to do it all the time at school before a test.” The academy’s nurse absolutely hated me.

“I might have some news to cheer you up.”

“Yeah?” I seriously doubt it but am willing to give her a shot.

“The boxes from your parent’s house arrived. They’re downstairs. I asked Carlo and Dante to help carry them upstairs.”

Thank goodness! I’ve spent the last week in Elenora’s clothes, and, while my sister had impeccable taste, I feel horribly uncomfortable in her getups. My sister didn’t own a single t-shirt. Her clothing squeezes and cinches in all the wrong places.

I’m on my feet in an instant, suddenly desperate to get my hands on my favorite pair of sweatpants. “Good news, at last!”

“Where are you going? I told Carlo and Dante to bring them up here,” she clucks, blowing out a puff of air as she pushes herself off the edge of the bed. I’ve noticed that going up and down the grand staircase tires her out.

“I’m going to help them, but you stay here.” My fingers curl around the doorknob, but I pause to wiggle my brows. “I have a collection of tacky t-shirts that I want to show you. You can help me decide which ones will annoy Luciano the most.”

Mrs. Ajello’s laughter follows me out of the room as I hurry down the stairs. Just as she said, Carlo and Dante, one of the guards, are carrying box after box over the front door’s threshold. Somehow, I manage to pass the Jackson Pollock painting without a shudder and drop to my knees by the first box in the foyer.

“I feel like a kid on Christmas morning,” I squeal, tugging at the tape strapping one of the packages shut.

“I didn’t know one girl could have so many boxes of clothes,” Carlo teases, placing two small boxes beside me.

I roll my eyes, but, as Dante carries in another large package, my suspicion rises.

Carlo is right. There are too many boxes. With half of my clothes still in Italy, my remaining inventory should’ve fit in four boxes— max. At least a dozen boxes litter the foyer, and Dante carries two more in his arms.

Frowning, I scramble to read the label on one of the cardboard boxes. My heart sinks.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, shoving the box aside to check another. This label reads the same thing. Some French designer’s name stares back at me.

I only know one woman who shops French designers. My mother.

I called her several days ago to ask her to mail my clothes and other personal items. She promised to help, and I should’ve suspected her then. She hates my style. She would’ve jumped at the chance to buy me an entirely new wardrobe instead.

“Please tell me she didn’t!” I whimper, and my gaze lands pleadingly on Dante. “Do you have a knife I can borrow?”

His brow crunches together, but he pulls a pocket knife from his jeans and hands it to me. I slide the blade into the nearest box, slicing through packing tape until pristine tissue paper awaits me. I discard the knife on the floor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” With a grumble, I peel back the tissue paper.

Definitely not my clothing .

A collection of lacy, frilly scraps of cloth sit inside. Black silk. Red gauze. Pretty little bodysuits made entirely of lace… Lingerie. My mother bought me lingerie.

Kill. Me. Now.

Resisting the urge to pick up the pocketknife and plunge it into the pile of silk, I pluck the first item from the top of the pile and lift it from the box. It’s a black lace bodysuit, with little lilies sewn into the mesh along the stomach, but the fabric for the bust seems to have disappeared, leaving gaping holes where my breasts would fit. Similarly, the mesh parts at the crotch, creating a perfect slit right where—

“It’s very pretty, no?” Carlo dares to speak, piercing through my horror-induced silence. He and Dante watch me from a healthy distance away.

“This,” I shake the bodysuit at them for emphasis, “is not mine! My mother—”

“Has exquisite taste,” Carlo teases with a wink. In our time cooking together, he’s always been a shameless flirt, though ultimately harmless. This is no different.

Dante, who I’ve found to be a man of few words during our short interactions, rubs at the back of his neck and stares at the crotchless part of the bodysuit. A flush darkens his cheeks. It seems I’m the only one horrified by my mother’s purchase.

For the life of me, I can’t understand why any woman with a shred of maternal instincts would buy something like this for her daughter. Then again, she’s never been Mother of the Year. I really shouldn’t be surprised.

I huff and shove the bodysuit back into the box, only to pull out another equally terrifying garter-set. “None of this is mine. I would never buy anything so…”

“Scarce?” Dante offers, his deep voice a tad hoarse.

“ Ostentatious,” I bite back.

I’m about to offer the lingerie to the men to give to their girlfriends or wives or lovers as a gift, since they clearly appreciate the scraps of lace more than me, when a new voice rises from the doorway. I recognize it immediately, and ice creeps down my spine.

“What is going on here?”

Shit.

Luciano stands in the doorway, casting an ominous shadow through the foyer like an eclipse, but I don’t turn to look at him. I only shove the gaudy little garter number back inside the box with the rest of the designer-dumpster-fire.

“Nothing.” The word sounds traitorously tight. “Just sorting through some things that my mother sent.”

I thought I had at least a few more hours until he arrived! His note said he’d be home tonight.

“What did you just put in the box?” Luciano practically purrs, but I can hear the frown in his voice. He sounds closer, which sets my heart racing.

Blood rushes to my cheeks, but I stay kneeling in the opposite direction and close the package’s flaps once more. I won’t let him intimidate me or embarrass me in front of Carlo and Dante, who became still as statues as soon as Luciano stepped in the room.

When I’ve finished concealing the contents of the box, I finally glance over my shoulder, wielding a sweet smirk. “Nothing that you are ever going to see, I can promise you that.”

His graphite eyes darken, and I have the common sense to fear him. Somehow, I manage to maintain my composure. I swallow. “Carlo and Dante, will you please finish taking the rest of these boxes up to my bedroom?”

“Carlo and Dante,” Luciano interrupts, and the command in his voice could bring a person to their knees. I’m already on mine. “You may be excused. Go find somewhere else to be.”

My blood runs cold, and my eyes flash to the two men in search of help. They simply nod their heads and scatter from the foyer without a glance in my direction. Traitors.

In a matter of seconds, I’m alone with my husband for the first time in days, and he’s pissed. I push to my feet.

Luciano looks like he left for Bedford directly from a meeting. He wears dress pants and a simple white button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal chords of muscle beneath rich olive skin. The stubble adorning his sharp jawline has grown out since the last time I saw him, bordering on a full beard. Exhaustion lingers beneath the anger bubbling in his dark eyes.

I cross my arms against my chest, suddenly feeling inadequate in comparison to this man.

I’m wearing one of my sister’s white, calf-length skirts and a matching crop-top, both of which are baggy in all the wrong places, but they’re more comfortable than the other options in my closet. I resemble a frumpy tourist visiting Rimini Beach for the first time.

“Great, now I’m going to have to carry the boxes upstairs myself,” I grumble and shoot Luciano a glare, even as my fingers tremble. I ball them into fists.

“You shouldn’t be worried about these boxes right now,” he threatens, taking lazy steps closer. He kicks one of the packages as he walks, moving it out of his path. “Do you remember ground rule number two, Viviana?”

My throat goes dry. Of course, I remember the damned ground rules—the last conversation we shared before he disappeared for days on end.

“Rule number two,” I croak. “Behave respectfully in public. Uphold the Venturi name.”

I try to step backward as he advances, desperate to put a bit of space between us. My foot catches on a box, and I barely manage to catch my balance. He reminds me of a panther, all feline grace and lithe muscles.

He nods, seemingly pleased by my recitation, but that satisfaction doesn’t reach his eyes. “Do you think it was respectful to reveal what was in that box to two of my men? To any man, for that matter.”

The words are a cold, hard challenge. There’s only one answer he will accept.

“I didn’t know what was in the box when I opened it,” I defend myself, holding his gaze despite every instinct screaming at me to run.

If Luciano hears me, he makes no show of it. He arrives in front of me, leaving half a foot between our bodies, and the space between us crackles with intensity.

“And then to try to embarrass me in front of them? Undermining my right as a husband,” he murmurs, and his cool, minty breath fans my cheeks. My blood warms.

I shiver. “I didn’t mean to undermine you.” It’s a blatant lie. “I only meant that I planned on returning the entire box to the store—”

“Do not lie to me,” he growls, and anger seeps into his words for the first time.

My confidence wavers, and, despite myself, my gaze drops to the sliver of skin beneath his collarbone. The top buttons of his shirt are unfastened, revealing a dusting of dark hair across his broad chest.

“It won’t happen again,” I whisper, but the words taste like poison on my tongue.

It’s a foolish promise, and not one that I could ever pretend to keep. It’s not in my blood. But, right now, swearing to behave feels like the quickest way to escape.

Then, he lifts his hand, and I flinch, steeling myself for the bite of reprimanding pain. I’ve been slapped before. By my father. The priests and nuns at the Catholic academy. Even Elenora, when I was eleven and an utter nuisance.

And yet, the familiar sting doesn’t come.

Instead, warm fingertips find my chin, tilting my head up until I have no choice but to meet Luciano’s gaze once more. He stares down at me with a gentleness I never could’ve expected.

“I don’t believe you.” His thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip, just the ghost of a touch, but my skin tingles in its wake. “But know this, wife . This is your first and only warning. The next time you embarrass me, you will be punished.”