Chapter 33
VALENTINA
The dining room of the Caruso manor glows like an amphitheater dressed for the opera.
Crystal chandeliers scatter rainbow hues across polished floors, and the long table covered with used silverware and smeared porcelain plates gleams beneath them.
My mother’s laughter rings across the room like a gentle melody, and for the first time tonight, I let myself breathe.
My mother’s birthday celebration is going better than I’d hoped.
Even Valeria arrived early and has played the role of family friend and Caruso business associate to perfection.
Her sophistication and graciousness have had my aunt searching the many gilded frames on these walls numerous times this evening, seeking her portrait.
Her amicable nature wasn’t what I pictured when I confessed to Giovanni that I’d invited her. I had hoped the extension of an olive branch would free her from the mud the IVF clinic threw on us, but I didn’t think it would actually work.
Valeria has far more at stake than I do. She’s already clutching at straws to keep the interest of a man who doesn’t look at her the way he does me, and in eight cruel months, the final thread may unravel.
I hate myself for saying this, but god, I hope Giovanni is right.
This pregnancy was unexpected, and I offered to have a termination when I thought of it as more of an object than a living thing, but the thought of carrying a child for nine months and then handing it to someone else to take care of is worse than a knife to the heart.
I won’t survive it.
That’s why I’m trying to build a relationship with Valeria. It would be easier if Giovanni were on board with my plans. I knew he’d oppose, so I prepared for an argument. Mercifully, I was saved… No. Rescued from reneging on my invitation when his father appeared at our door.
Giuseppe is the head of the Caruso family. When he requested permission to escort me to the dining room, Giovanni didn’t argue. It makes me wonder if his father’s influence is resolute enough to tug Giovanni toward an amicable playing field instead of one shrouded in darkness.
I cling to that thought like a lifeline while straying my eyes across the guests enjoying an after-dinner drink.
Mom is radiant tonight. Happiness paints her cheeks with more color than they’ve had in months, and when Giovanni’s father greeted her by taking her hand and pressing his lips to her skin, the hue stretched to her chest.
Several times tonight, I’ve caught her eyes sparkling as brightly as the chandeliers, and her breath has hitched more than once. I know my aunt sees it too. Her grin is wicked, and her gaze forever darts between Giuseppe and Mom like a gossip reporter hunting for its next scoop.
She’ll corner Mom later, I’m certain.
She lives for gossip like this.
I lean back in my chair and then angle my body closer to Giovanni.
He sits beside me with his hand resting on my thigh.
Every time his thumb brushes my skin, warmth blooms through me.
He’s quiet tonight, but I don’t question it.
We’ve never had a discussion with our clothes on, and I’d rather not test out how much I’ll hate our first one while in the presence of our parents.
“They’re getting along well,” I whisper in Giovanni’s ear before nudging my head across the table to my mother and his father across from us.
The table is a masterpiece. White linen is stretched across a setting that can seat fifty, and hundreds of candles flicker on the faces of those dearest to my mother.
I invited only my aunt and Valeria, but it appears Giuseppe took this celebration as an excuse for a Palermo reunion.
There are over thirty guests I’ve yet to meet.
Giovanni’s nod causes his pricey aftershave to overpower the scent of the roasted meats and jeweled salads we consumed. “I haven’t seen him like this since Mamma passed.”
There’s no malice in his tone. No anger. Still, I can’t help but ask, “Does that bother you?”
His lazy smile as he shakes his head sends a low, steady pulse throughout my body and makes this gathering feel more like a funeral than a party.
It’s been hours since I’ve been beneath him, but it seems more like a lifetime.
I’ve never been so eager to be the first to leave.
Earlier, I made out that I hate how well his attention pinches my smarts.
I lied. I love how carefree his doting has made me, and that the world doesn’t seem as scary as it once did.
I guess this is where I’m meant to say it was the hormones talking during our argument.
I would if I didn’t think it was the cheat’s way out.
Eager to fix my rights, I ask, “Should we do the cake?” Even though I’m asking a question, I don’t give Giovanni a chance to respond. “We should do the cake.”
With a quick adjustment of his position, which announces he’s aware of the cause of my eagerness, Giovanni signals to the head butler to fetch the cake.
I’m not solely requesting we tick off the last item on our agenda tonight because I’m a horny wench endeavoring to make up for years of abstinence in a month. My mother also looks tired. She’s putting on a brave front, but the more the festivities continue, the wobblier her steps become.
I brush my lips against the edge of Giovanni’s mouth before gathering my mother from across the room and placing her at the king’s spot, as per Giuseppe’s silent offer when he pulls out his chair for her.
Although Mom’s relieved sigh is silent, I still hear it. I was right. She’s exhausted.
“Just a few more minutes, Mamma. The cake is the last item on the agenda. Then you’re free to go. I promise.”
She pats my hand and smiles up at me. “Thank you, tesoro. Tonight has been wonderful, but I am exhausted.”
“Don’t thank me. I only told him your approved date.”
Her eyes gleam with a sparkle I haven’t seen before when she follows the direction of my gaze. As if he can sense my mother’s presence as well as Giovanni can mine, Giuseppe cranks his neck to face us the second Mom’s eyes land on him.
When she mouths her thanks, he dips his chin, bowing out of a shower of praise with a gratitude I’m certain my mother has never witnessed.
The cake arrives like a crown jewel, carried on a silver tray by a butler dressed in a tuxedo, and everyone moves in close.
Tears prick my eyes when the attendees break into the familiar melody of “Happy Birthday.” I’m not being emotional solely because they sing it in Italian.
It’s because this time last year I was told it would be Mom’s last birthday.
I’m so glad she proved the doctors wrong.
My mother must be feeling the same heavy sentiment. After brushing a tear off her cheek, she blows out the candles in one graceful breath and then giggles as if she’s years younger when the guests cheer, “Hip hip hooray!”
I glance at Giovanni when his father warns my mother of the consequences of the knife hitting the base of the cake tray, while drifting closer. “You have to kiss the closest boy. That is the rule, Concetta. And we both know how much you love following the rules.”
Giovanni’s smile is there, but it’s tight, like a mask stretched too far. That is, until he spots my gawk. Then his smile turns genuine, and it makes my pussy ache.
I’m about to join him, craving his closeness, but Aunt Maria cozies up to my side, thwarting my wish.
“Tell me you see that too, tesoro?” Her eyes snap to my mother, who’s glowing like a woman half her age and in love.
How do I know this? She looks exactly how I did while putting on makeup hours ago.
“I swear, Valentina, if Giuseppe isn’t careful, she’ll faint from excitement before he gets anything good from her. ”
“Stop.” I gag to hide my grin, but my lips curve anyway. It’s good to tease and gossip. It feels normal. “Her cheeks are heated because she’s tired—”
“Of sidestepping all the duds who chased her after she let that god go.”
Absentmindedly, I accept a dessert plate from someone on my right. My mind is too fogged trying to decipher my aunt’s riddle to offer my thanks, let alone name the person who handed me a slice of my mom’s favorite dessert.
The chocolate fudge cake with raspberry filling and ganache frosting smells so divine that I pick at it while prying for more information. “What do you mean? They were only friends, right? Giuseppe is years older than Mom.”
“With age comes experience,” my aunt practically croons. “And who are you to talk? Giovanni is ten years older than you.”
I talk around swirls of chocolate frosting melting on my tongue.
“How do you know that?” I’ve shared many things with her and Mom during our daily visits to the hospital, but since Giovanni is in attendance with us, I keep most of the conversations centered on Mom’s prognosis and upcoming radiation schedule. “I’ve never mentioned his age.”
“The walls in this town whisper.” I slap her hand away when she snatches a raspberry drizzled with a sweet nectar and crushed almonds off my plate and pops it into her mouth. “And I’m always listening.”
After bumping me with her hip, she shadows closely behind Mom and Giuseppe when he guides her out of the dining room.
They can’t be leaving. Since we’re not guaranteed a set amount of time, my mother never leaves without first saying goodbye.
Giuseppe is most likely directing her to the closest bathroom since most guests washed down their meal with half a dozen glasses of wine.
Even though my heart sings a happy serenade when it detects Giovanni’s closeness a second before his torso warms my back and his lips find my neck, my tone sounds firm when I say, “If you eat a single morsel of my dessert, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.
” Unladylike, I shove a forkful of cake into my mouth and talk around it.
“There are plenty of leftovers”—I nudge my head to the table housing more slices of cake than there are guests hovering in close to collect a slice—“over there.”