Chapter 9
Willow
As a child, I daydreamed of a wedding in the Collegiate Church of Santa Maria Maddalena, a historic church with views of the coast. In my dream, I wore a splendid, ornate gown with a long train befitting royalty. In my childhood fantasy, friends and family packed the pews.
Five family members are present for our nuptials. My father, mother, brother, Scarlet, and my aunt. One person is present for my groom, a man I’ve never met.
When I pitched Orlando’s crazy idea, desperation drove me. I believed the arrangement would be mutually beneficial. But what if there is no benefit for my groom? He claims he’s straight. He’s not a politician. No one cares that he’s not married. And if he wanted to marry for love, he’s handsome. He could easily find someone to marry for love, which begs the question: At his age, why is he single? Has he been married before? I don’t have any idea. I didn’t even think of asking when we walked along the beach because “have you ever been married before” isn’t something my friends and I ask each other.
My nerves are haywire over the unknown. If growing up in the Lupi Grigi famiglia has taught me anything, it’s that in every negotiation, each party gains. Otherwise, it’s a poor deal. Pessimo affare . Not to be trusted. He gets nothing from our arrangement.
The twinkling of piano keys breaks through the quiet, my legs tremble, and light-headedness forces me to lean on my father.
My heart thumps so hard my ribs vibrate and light perspiration coats my skin. I risk a glance at Papa, wondering if he can hear my heart thundering. Does he care?
“ Tesoro mio , are you ready?”
No.
My feet are lead, rooted to the spot. I should’ve asked more questions last night. I shouldn’t have done this. My father shouldn’t have put me in this position. He should have stood up to the famiglia and said his daughter would not be forced to marry, tradition be damned.
My papa’s palm smothers the back of my hand, and I’m tugged forward. A fog blankets me as I am handed off to an American I barely know, and the nuptial mass begins. Words spoken by a priest I’ve known my whole life echo against the ancient walls. Father Francisco never asked if I wanted this. He never inquired if I’m prepared to take on this commitment because he knows I have no choice. He understands our world. This is my destiny.
Scarlet stands to my back, holding my flowers. There is no train, but the gown Mamma chose skims the floor and Scarlet adjusted it with the care one would give to a lengthy train. If I need her, Scarlet will help me.
“Do you promise to be faithful, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to love and to honor him, all the days of your life?”
This is what the priest asks me. My throat closes, and my tongue thickens in my dry mouth.
Pressure on my hands calms my erratic heartbeat, and I lift my gaze to soothing, golden, deep-set brown eyes. Kindness. That’s what I see. A gentle kindness beneath a fierce, predatory exterior.
“I do.” Because this is my best option. I have no choice.
He hears my unspoken words.
As we stand before the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I don’t comprehend my groom’s unspoken words. He has a choice. By virtue of being a member of the syndicate, he already possesses connections to Titan Shipping. Why is he helping me? Why is he being kind? What does he want?
“Are you tired?”
He’s being nice, or at least his tone sounds amiable, but I can’t bear to look at the man I married, so I keep my gaze focused on the passing scenery. “Where are we going?”
We’re in the back of a limousine, and the dress digs into my hips and itches.
The car turned onto the autostrada a while ago, leaving my town and life behind.
“Rome. Flying home tomorrow.”
“Your best man, what was his name?”
“Nick.”
“He refused my father’s limousine. Nick had him move my luggage into the car he provided. Why? Does he not trust my father?”
The man I am contractually bound to glances away from his phone. From what I glimpsed, he’s reading a news article. “Honestly, I’m not sure what that was about. The next time I speak to Nick, I’ll ask him. It might’ve been his insistence that he perform his best man duties, or there might’ve been something more to it.”
His eyes narrow and he pushes a button that raises a felt divider between us and the uniformed driver. I had assumed the driver could hear anything we said, but perhaps that’s not how the syndicate operates. My father trusts the men in the family. Growing up, it was assumed he trusted anyone, man or woman, he employed.
After the divider meets the ceiling, sealing us in privacy, Leo adds, “This car features bulletproof glass. That might have been a reason he insisted we take it. We’ve got several hours’ drive in front of us. If you want to get some sleep, you’re safe.”
“Why wouldn’t I be safe?”
He lifts a glass water bottle and twists the top off. A chilled champagne bottle, crystal champagne flutes, chocolate-covered strawberries, and an assortment of petite sandwiches are set out on a small table with a recessed center, presumably to prevent the items from sliding. The champagne holder is built into the table.
“Were you surprised when your father rushed your ceremony and held it without others in attendance, on a weekend when all those who matter in the Lupi Grigi were in town?”
“We didn’t want to take away from Carlos and Maria’s engagement weekend.”
The censure in his expression tells me he expects more of me. Reality hits in a flash, like a lightning strike.
“Leandro. Father’s worried he’d… Massimo blessed our union, right? Father wouldn’t go against the capo.” That would be unheard of. Orlando said Father would never…
“I was told Massimo is aware.” He sighs and tips the water bottle back and, after swallowing, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. In a tux, he’s breathtakingly handsome, but add in his aloof demeanor, and he’s intriguing. “I believe the concern is Leandro feels slighted. I’ve heard nothing specifically to that effect, but I’m reading between the lines.”
That thought is unsettling. Wouldn’t Leandro obey the capo, like we all do? If Massimo blessed the union, it should be a done deal.
“Don’t worry. Leandro De Luca might be pathological, but he’s not suicidal. Nick’s cautious. If Leandro planned on tracking us, Nick thwarted his plan by switching cars. There won’t be time for him to find you in Rome, and he won’t come after you in London. Such a move would be suicide.”
“Why wouldn’t it be suicide in Rome?”
“Because…” His gaze travels to the passing scenery. “It’s his territory. Who knows? His logic doesn’t matter. Word is Leandro De Luca suffers from extreme rage, but he’ll burn it off long before he finds you. Give it a day or two, and he’ll accept that you’re my wife.”
One corner of his lips rises in a half-smile, and he winks. I feel that wink all over, from my itchy shoulders down to my cramped, sore toes.
He opens a black bag and removes a silver laptop. With the push of a button on the side rest, a desk slowly rises and extends in front of his lap. He puts on a pair of black-framed glasses that shave years. Wearing them, he could be mistaken for a graduate student or professor. An extremely handsome, polished, intelligent man.
He quickly becomes engrossed in whatever he’s reading, so I study him. His hair is a deep brown, and sprinkles of gray dapple his crown. Thick brown eyebrows, shades darker than milk chocolate, curve over deep-set brown eyes. A well-defined jawline tapers to a full chin. While a tux hides all manner of sins, I’ve seen him in only a dress shirt, and he’s fit, with broad shoulders. Judging from how he manhandled Leandro and Papa, he’s strong and capable.
I relax into the seat. Why would this handsome man agree to help me? And is Papa afraid of Leandro? Is that the real reason we held a swift, secretive ceremony? Was that why he was willing to marry me to Leandro in the first place, because Papa was intimidated by Leandro? Did Papa place himself and my family in danger by marrying me off to someone other than Leandro? How badly have I overestimated Papa’s position within the Lupi Grigi?
There are so many questions, and I want to ask Leo, but he’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading. And given how he’s treating me, he’s probably like my father and the other men in that he doesn’t believe the women need to know the details. And what right do I have to ask anything of him? He’s helping me, and he’s getting nothing in return.
He lifts his gaze from the screen. He must feel me watching him. That’s never a good feeling. So I shift, giving him privacy, and zone out, letting the passing landscape blur into a haze of muted, calming colors.
“Willow, we’re here.”
The car door clicks open, and a uniformed man wearing white gloves steps back, holding the door for me.
Familiar marble columns below a series of flags greet me. Yes, I know this place. The black awnings with the striking font and the statement title Le Grand Hotel perch high above. It’s The St. Regis. My mother brought me here for afternoon tea more than once. It’s never been a hotel Papa favored, but it’s beautiful, and I’ve often wondered what the suites and the infamous butler service would be like.
I rub my face, settling into my situation and smile up at the patient porter. I must’ve fallen asleep. A car door slams. The desk is put away, the black bag is missing, and the champagne and food remain untouched.
Leo appears at the side of the car, offering his hand. “Ready?”
I take it, and as he helps me out of the back of the vehicle, a couple standing to the side smile.
Of course they do. I’m in a wedding dress.
The woman says, “ Sei bellissima .”
Once we’re in front of the grand entrance, Leo releases my hand and leads the way into the lobby. I speed walk, struggling to keep up in my heels and cumbersome dress.
We should’ve changed before taking this drive, but I didn’t know where we were going. No one bothered to share the plans with me. I doubt anyone shared our plans with Mamma, or she would have purchased a travel suit for me to change into.
I focus on the detached tuxedo-wearing man at my side, far too aware that my dress has attracted the attention of every single person in the lobby. It’s a wedding dress in Rome, and all the visitors are thinking of love.
Or maybe they’re wondering why the groom isn’t doting on his wife. They might envision an argument occurred.
They might observe our age difference and cast judgment. Perhaps they assume I married for money and deserve to be left behind. Could others tell with one glance at us that two decades separate us? I’m not certain. The make-up artist Mamma hired created a mature, elegant persona. I’m guessing most would assume I’m in my late twenties, and passing by so quickly, Leo appears to be in his thirties at most.
In the elevator, the porter accompanying us says, “Did you come straight here from your reception?”
“Straight here from?—”
“Milan,” Leo interrupts.
I let Leo carry the rest of the conversation. He lied about where we came from, because he doesn’t want people to talk. Word might spread about a bride from Atrani who rode hours in a limousine in her dress.
“You’re staying in the Bottega Veneta suite. It’s my favorite suite.” The uniformed employee beams, pride oozing, as if this is his personal space and he’s allowed us entry into his private haven. “May I give you a tour?”
“No, thank you, grazi ,” Leo answers.
I flinch at the rudeness of his response. Even Papa would have been gracious and allowed the man five minutes.
Leo locks the door behind him and turns to me. “We’ll order room service. I’m assuming you’d prefer to change into something comfortable?”
“I would love to get out of this dress.” I’m not hungry, but he might be.
“Luggage should be in the bedroom.”
The suite is done in a belle epoque style with a mix of modern and classic Roman elegance. The sitting area overlooks the piazza high above the city, and sepia leather sofas sit atop a white marble floor. Eighteenth century landscape art adorns the walls.
I step into the bedroom and take in the king size bed with what I suspect are Rubelli fabrics. The door to the ensuite bathroom is open, but I barely glance at the black marble and soaking tub. I’m stuck on one aspect of this suite.
“There’s one bed,” I announce to Leo, who has taken residence on one of the leather sofas. “I didn’t think?—”
“I didn’t make the arrangements, remember? Nick’s aware of the arrangement. He’s just fucking with us. Don’t twist your knickers. There’s an ensuite study with a fold-out sofa. I’ll take that.” He sounds annoyed and tired. I didn’t mean to insult him. I’m simply confused. And I’m uneasy because there are so many unknowns, the biggest being is why he agreed to this arrangement.
He toes off a black tuxedo shoe and looks up, one shoe on, one off. “What?”
“Can you help me with my dress?” There’s a zipper, but there are a million tiny buttons over it, and they all must be undone.
“Oh, right.”
He removes his other shoe and, in black trouser socks, steps up behind me, kicking the hem out of the way.
He jerks my body, fumbling with the back.
“Damn. These buttons are small.” One goes flying across the room. “Fuck.”
Another button pops, but this one must fall directly to the ground.
“Fuck it.”
There’s a ripping sound, and the tightness around my ribcage loosens.
The dress falls in a pile around my knees. I stand there, shocked. He ripped my dress. From the top to the bottom, he ripped it.
“Why are you wearing that?”
I turn to him, dazed. My dress is a pile of fabric around my feet. My sore feet are packed into too tight heels, and he destroyed a dress that cost over twenty thousand euros.
He holds up his palm and steps back, clearing a view of my reflection in the framed mirror.
Pure white sheer thigh highs, a garter, a lace bra, and a barely there thong. This is the lingerie Mamma picked, and it’s too revealing. My hands fly to my lace covered breasts.
I’m mostly covered, yet I am bared, and still very itchy.
“Go change.”
His expression and tone strip me of confidence.
My heel catches on to the taffeta, and I crash to the ground. A sharp pain stabs my knees.
“You okay?”
I’m on my hands and knees, in a ridiculous get-up I would’ve never picked, straddling my ripped wedding gown, the most expensive garment I’ve ever owned, and probably will ever own.
Tears burn my eyes, threatening to break the dam. I’m tired, ashamed, and far too confused. The only thing I have to hang onto is anger because I am not to blame for this fucked-up world. These are modern times, and I shouldn’t be in this situation.
“I’m fine.”
My palms flatten over silk, cooled by the underlying marble. I lower my head and dig deep for inner strength. Shame flames my cheeks and chest.
A strong, masculine hand with short, clean nails extends into my line of sight. I take it, using it for balance as I rise. He steps on the dress, and I step out of the heap of silk and tulle.
My heels click on the marble, and I struggle to ignore the breeze over my tush. In a mirror, I glimpse Leo, standing in his socks on my dress, watching me with an unsettling intensity. Disgust? Hatred?
I’m too overloaded. I can’t think about what he must be thinking.
The door clicks closed, and I sit on the edge of the bed to remove the painful shoes.
He probably regrets helping me. My fingers tremble. Goosebumps climb my arms, but my palms are clammy. Undefinable emotions swirl.
Breathe. Think.
He doesn’t hate me. That’s my emotions playing with reason. Unreasonable emotions are bubbling up, and I don’t know what to do with them. Feeling sorry for myself won’t get me anywhere. I need a shower. I need to remove the make-up, rid my hair of pins, wash away the hairspray, change into comfortable clothes, and calm down.