Chapter 15
Willow
“Honey, I’m home.”
My voice echoes through the stairwell, and I hope it drips with sarcasm.
I spent a few hours splattering paint against blank canvases, blaring music as loud as I dared, but after a while the indie songs in my playlist calmed me enough that I lowered the volume and called Scarlet.
She listened to me rant and interrupted me with an exasperated, “What does this all mean? You aren’t in a relationship. He’s been away for weeks. Why is he jealous?”
Scarlet asks good questions.
“Has he hit you?”
This is Scarlet’s worst fear, and in our world, it’s reasonable. Not to mention, her personal experience contributes to her worry.
“No,” I assured her.
“Did he ever tell you who he was with these past two weeks?”
“I never asked.”
Was I supposed to? Our conversation skirted it, but did it matter?
“Are you falling for him?”
“What?” I’d sputtered. “How? I’ve seen him collectively for less than twenty-four hours.”
“You’re idyllic. You grew up dreaming of love.”
“I gave up on that ages ago.”
“Did you? Didn’t you believe you would be allowed to marry for love?”
She didn’t spend time with me when I was in Florence. She didn’t get to know the independent Willow. The one who dared to have a serious boyfriend by opening her heart to someone she could never have. I didn’t share that part of myself with her because it would worry her, and just like now, she would’ve doubted me and worried I’d make the wrong decision. But I didn’t. I ended things before it got dangerous.
“Scarlet, you don’t need to worry.” That’s what I’d told her.
“If you’re telling me the truth, he’s respectful and decent.” Finally, she heard me. “And if you are sharing the truth, it’s not what you’re used to. He’s handsome. You’re going to fall for him.”
“You say it like that’s a bad thing. If I’m in this arrangement already, why exactly would that be bad? Isn’t it better to like the person I’m supposed to spend time with?”
I’d argued with Scarlet in my mind, disagreeing with her because he’s not just handsome, he’s gorgeous. I want to draw him. Maybe even paint him.
“You’ll fall, but he’s not going to,” she’d said. “He’s already told you this is temporary. He’s doing this as a favor, biding his time. You can’t lose sight of reality. Trust me on this. Because if you do, reality might break you.”
Her answer stayed with me into the condominium lobby.
Reality might break you.
Her words stay with me until I step into the living area and find lit candles on a table and Leo’s sleeves rolled three-quarters up his arms, with socked feet peering out beneath his worn Levi’s, standing over the grill.
My heart pitter-patters and my knees wobble. And suddenly, I’m not thinking, I’m feeling. It’s not love, but it is an undeniable attraction. It’s lust. Undeniable lust.
I entered this flat ready to throw down snark, but apparently rolled-up sleeves in a kitchen softens me into the consistency of warm gelato.
“You lit candles.” Paint-splattered and flustered, I say the first thing that comes to mind and immediately regret it.
“Don’t read into it.” With tongs, he flips a piece of meat and the pan sizzles. “Saw you put out candles. So I lit them. Saw the flowers too. And the cutting boards. Nice touches. Sit. I’ve got this.”
Uncertainty washes over me. Is this him apologizing for being an arse? Or does he like to cook? Don’t read into it . That’s what he said.
With his back to me, I place my fingers over my mouth and breathe out. My breath is stale. “I’m going to go take off my smock.”
“Sure thing. Get comfortable. Maybe take off those heavy boots.”
I glance down at my Doc Martins. Mamma hates these boots, and for that reason, I own six pairs of them in different styles and colors.
After sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing the boots, and letting them fall to the floor, I step into my bathroom and take stock. Frizzy flyaways surround my scalp. A streak of dark paint crosses my cheek, and my hands are stained blue from the paint I washed off back in the studio. The faint smell of paint thinner wafts off my skin.
Don’t read into it.
We have an arrangement. Chances are he’s spent the past two weeks with someone else, or many someone elses. He’s in the syndicate, and while I know little about the syndicate, I’ve gathered the Lupi Grigi respect them. Which means he’s probably not a good man.
Scarlet told me Vincent had been attentive and loving until he wasn’t.
I pull back my hair, taking care to capture the flyaways, splash water on my face, dry it, and add a little blush and mascara.
It’s our first dinner, just the two of us. I should listen to his words. Don’t read into it and don’t expect too much. What I need is to better understand what he wants from this arrangement. It’s like the business professor at university said, I need to understand what he wants. And Scarlet’s wrong. I won’t fall for him. I’ll simply do my best to ensure I remain in good standing so I can pursue my art career. If the marriage lasts long enough, I’ll be like Scarlet, and no one will force me to remarry.
I swap out my tank top for a fresh one, exchange the heavy cardigan for a lightweight one, spritz perfume, brush my teeth, and examine my reflection.
I’m twenty-two. I’m too young to give up on life. For many my age, I’m too young to hope for forever. I’m the exact right age to live for the moment.
There’s nothing to be nervous about. This isn’t a date. Best to go see what’s what.
When I return to the room, he’s sitting at the long kitchen table that seats twelve in the chair closest to the living room. Two place settings are set at one end of the table, opposite each other. Neither of us is placed at the head of the table. An optimist would take that as a good sign.
I swipe my palms on my skirt and sit. He has a steak on his plate and a baked potato split open with cubes of butter melting inside. On my plate, there’s a baked potato, and there are dishes of vegetables, sour cream, and shredded cheeses.
“Since you don’t like meat,” his shoulders lift, “I had Chef create several options for you to add to your potato. Tomorrow night, you can tell the chef to create your favorite dinner, but tonight, I was in the mood for steak.”
He lifts his fork and a knife and pauses, suspending the utensils mid-air. “Is that okay for you? If you want something else…” He glances over his shoulder toward the refrigerator.
“No, this is great,” I tell him. “Thank you for taking care of dinner. I can handle it tomorrow night.”
“You can put that in your potato.” He points with this fork. “If you like. This is supposed to be like a baked potato bar.”
I spoon sauteed mushrooms onto my plate, then lift a bowl of sauteed spinach.
“It’s a jacket potato,” I say. “I typically would add arugula, tomatoes, and burrata, but I’m sure these toppings will be delicious.”
He sets his fork down, picks up a bowl of sour cream, and spoons a dollop into his baked potato.
He poured two glasses of red wine for dinner, and I lift one and offer a “ Salut .”
He’s chewing but sets his fork down, swallows, and lifts his glass. Our glasses clink, and his gaze softens. I swirl the wine and breathe in notes of blackberries and plums, with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. It’s a full-bodied vintage, and I hope it will calm my nerves. Outside the windows, the sun is setting, casting hues of gold across the skyline. Soon, the horizon will flicker with a million twinkling lights.
He’s halfway done with his steak, and I have yet to slice the potato.
“You had a good business trip?” It’s a conversational question. I hope it sounds normal.
In the candlelight, his brown irises merge with his pupils, forming unreadable black orbs.
“You going to eat?” The end of his steak knife points at my potato.
“Yes.” I set the glass down. “I’m not particularly hungry.” It’s the truth, especially since we’re eating so early and he’s being dismissive. “Can we talk about your expectations? If you don’t want to talk about your business, I understand. My father didn’t talk about business with my mother.” I spoon butter and sour cream into the potato. “Although, if I had an interest in the shipping business, I would’ve pushed him.” I risk a glance up and find him intently watching me. “I am a woman, but I am capable. I disagree with…” I set my fork down and regroup. I don’t want to argue. “It’s time for tradition to evolve.”
“I hear you.” He lifts his glass as if he’s toasting me. “Blows my mind pockets of the world still do arranged marriages.”
“Right?” In some cultures, the family is adept at finding prosperous love matches. But in some, like mine, the marriages are about prestige and business. Women are assets to be leveraged. I never believed my father would see me as an asset he needed to exploit. He’s wealthy and powerful in his own right. Yet, if I hadn’t taken matters into my hands, I’d be betrothed to Leandro De Luca. An uncontrollable shudder rips through me. “Thank you, by the way.” He sets his knife across his plate and leans back in the chair. “For helping me avoid what would have been…” I shake my head, at a loss for words. He saved me from Scarlet’s path. I would have either killed Leandro, or he would’ve killed me.
Leo’s expression is unreadable, but his persistent gaze quickens the pulsing through my extremities, my brain, my lungs, my heart.
“There has to be something I can do for you,” I say.
His lips purse, his jaw flexes, and his gaze lowers. “There are some things I need.” He’s stretched out in the chair, pushed back slightly from the table. One hand rests on his thigh, and one forearm rests on the table’s edge. His index finger taps the napkin. “One, I need for you to be smart. As a mafia princess, you’re used to security. You might feel safe in London, but you still need security. Don’t blow off John like you did today.”
I haven’t blown off John, and I’m not a mafia princess. I open my mouth to argue, but his cold stare closes it. I focus on the base of the wineglass, fingering the smooth glass, and concede. “Didn’t I agree with that earlier?”
“Two, I have a reputation to uphold. You should wear your wedding rings. If you don’t like the engagement ring, we can get you another one. Or really, you don’t have to wear one. But you should wear the band. People need to know you’re married, and my wife would not cheat on me. Do you understand what I’m saying?” His eyebrows nearly join above his nose and his brow furrows. “This is an arrangement, a temporary one, but we need to play the assigned roles.”
Assigned roles. Those two words bandy about in my head.
“Will that be a problem?”
“No.” I suppose this conversation settles whether he was jealous. It’s a matter of reputation. The men in the mafia world are the same. “And you? I suppose for you, playing the assigned role means you’ll sleep with whoever you want?”
His molten gaze centers on me once more. “Do you remember how your brother told you he didn’t see me with women at the parties?”
His behavior struck my brother as so odd he’d assumed he was gay.
“That’s the reputation I have. If I sleep with someone, no one will know. I am a private person, and my affairs remain private.”
“But you plan on having them?” He’s doing me a favor, but the inequitable plan doesn’t sit well with me. “Affairs?”
“I define affair as a business of any kind, commercial or professional. I didn’t mean to imply…” He rubs his forehead. “You understand you’re too young for me, right?”
“Why? I’m twenty-two. Most women are married by the time they’re my age.”
“In Italy, you mean? In your family?” I nod, and he scoffs. “I’m almost twenty years older than you. You’re too young for me.”
I open my mouth to protest. Leandro is older than him by decades.
“You’re too young to know what you’re saying. Or what you want.”
He balls up his napkin and drops it on his plate like the matter is settled.
“I’m young, but I’m not naive. And I’m not a mafia princess.” The look on his face says he clearly disagrees. I’m in the mafia, but I’m not the capo’s daughter, but it’s splitting hairs and a pointless argument.
“How long do you see us playing this role?” I push back the chair and cross my arms. “How long do I have to get my feet under me, so when the dissolution of our marriage occurs, I won’t have to return to Italy?”
“You won’t need to worry about finances.”
“I’m the daughter of a shipping titan. I’m well aware I don’t need to be concerned with finances. How long do I have before the end of our arrangement?” He keeps talking about it and throwing it in my face. He must have a timeline in mind.
“I don’t know.” His answer comes across as distinctly honest. “I hear you have an agent interested in your work?”
“Yes. The shipment with some of my older work should arrive in a day or two, and he’s going to come by next week to see it.”
“Who is shipping it?”
“Scarlet handled it for me.”
“You trust her?”
“Yes. Completely.”
“Be careful who you give your address to. I don’t share my address broadly. Do you understand?”
“I gave Scarlet the studio address.”
“That’s a trail anyone could follow.”
I feel scolded, and annoyance seeps through my skin. “Understood. Are those all the rules?”
“Yes.” I expect him to push up from the table, but he lifts the wine bottle and refills his glass. “Would you like more?”
“No, thank you.” I’ve lost what little appetite I had. I should be ecstatic, yet I’m not. “Security, rings, and all my orgasms come from my fingers or a battery-operated device. Got it.”
He does not look amused. I don’t really care. I’m annoyed. I’m probably also acting like a brat. Getting worked up is nonsensical.
This arrangement couldn’t be more ideal, yet I’m let down. I shouldn’t be. I have no right to be. He did this as a favor. We’re temporary, and that’s what I should remember. This is not my life forever.