Chapter 13
Catalina
Dario’s grin appeared if only briefly. “Contessa is the woman who lives with me.”
“What?” My question went unanswered as the elevator doors opened.
We stepped out of the elevator into a stunning entry showcasing a sprawling living room, complete with a large fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city below. While the apartment was luxurious with ceilings at least fourteen feet high, and the furnishings were the best money could buy, my thoughts remained on this woman, the one who cohabitates with my husband.
Dario placed his hand in the small of my back, turning me toward footsteps. A sigh of relief escaped my throat at the sight of a short and plump woman, probably in her early sixties, coming toward us. “Contessa?” I asked.
Only I could hear Dario’s soft chuckle.
“Yes, Mrs. Luciano,” she replied in a pleasant tone. Wiping her hands on an apron, she scanned me up and down. “You’re beautiful. I see why Mr. Luciano chose you.”
Chose me.
Yes, from a menu.
“Contessa,” Dario said, “show Mrs. Luciano around the apartment. Armando will be up with our things from the weekend. Have Mrs. Luciano’s belongings arrived from California?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve taken everything to the primary bedroom.” She turned to me. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to put things away.”
“Thank you. I’d like to do that myself.” My answer earned me a nod and half a smile.
Dario flashed his card in front of the sensor for the elevator that had closed.
Panic that he was leaving scurried over my skin. “Are you going somewhere?” I asked.
“I have a few fires that need my attention. You’ll be safe here with Contessa and Armando.”
Straightening my neck, I nodded. This was my first full day as Catalina Luciano. I didn’t want to spend it as a meek, needy wife. Dario said he liked my fire. Maybe I needed to stoke the flames and convince myself that it was better for me to get a lay of the land on my own.
“I’ll be back by dinner,” he said as the elevator doors opened revealing Armando and our suitcases.
“You can take those to the bedroom,” Contessa instructed Armando.
Dario took Armando’s place in the elevator, and the doors closed without a goodbye.
Ignoring my stupid feelings of self-pity, I pressed forward, doing my best to smile. “Contessa, please call me Catalina. I hope we can be friends.”
The temperature seemed to drop as Contessa pressed her lips together with a curt nod. “Would you like to see the apartment first or go directly to your bedroom suite?”
“The apartment, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well.” Contessa led me into the spacious living room. Dario’s taste of furnishing was opulent without extravagance. Grays and blues interrupted the mostly white décor. Plush white shag rugs filled the seating areas, covering the marble floor. She took a step toward a hallway. “The theater room is through here.”
“Dario has a theater room. I don’t picture him as a man who takes time to watch a movie.”
“It wasn’t constructed for him.”
Who was it constructed for?
Contessa forged ahead, opened a door, and turned on a light. The room consisted of eight reclining leather seats arranged like a theater. “The controls are over here” —she pointed at a cabinet— “as are a wide selection of DVDs. With cable, virtually every station you’d want to watch is available.”
“I guess I could catch up on some series I’ve been too busy to watch.”
Contessa huffed.
Or maybe not.
Across the hallway, she opened the door to a beautiful library. The scent of books permeated the air.
“Oh, this is more like it,” I said, walking toward the built-in bookcases that extended to the ceiling, complete with a ladder. Three walls were lined with shelves. The fourth had tall windows on either side of a fireplace. I ran my fingers over the spines of the books: biographies, autobiographies, political titles. A smile came to my lips as I found fiction titles. There were thrillers, mysteries, and even romances. “Dario reads romance?”
“No, ma’am.”
When no more information followed, I said, “I do. And there are titles here that I’ve been wanting to read.”
The centered pieces of furniture were two chaises. “I could spend my free time in here.”
“It was…” Contessa shook her head, not finishing her sentence. “Mr. Luciano appreciates the quiet serenity of his library. It’s his escape.”
“So this room was constructed for him.”
Contessa turned to me, puzzlement in her eyes. “Yes, of course. This is, after all, his home.”
I walked to a long glass case slightly out from one of the walls of bookcases and peered inside. It reminded me of something from a museum. Within the glass enclosure was an eclectic collection. Antique weapons, Fabergé eggs, figurines, stamps, and coins.
“Mr. Luciano is a collector of rare and beautiful things,” Contessa said before leaving the library.
Her comment reminded me of something Ariana said. “My son is a collector of sorts. You should know that we’re happy he’s finally decided to collect a woman of worth.”
Am I now part of his collection?
The tour continued into the kitchen. Armando was seated on a tall stool at the breakfast bar with a sandwich half-eaten on a paper plate and a glass of iced tea.
“Mrs—” Armando smiled. “Catalina, your things are upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
Contessa made a face that suggested disapproval at the use of my first name. “Mr. Luciano wouldn’t be pleased.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I prefer my first name.”
“We called Josie—” Armando stopped as if he realized he’d said too much.
Contessa stood taller. “Mrs. Luciano is Mr. Luciano’s wife. She deserves respect.”
I turned to Armando. “Thank you for respecting my wishes. We’ll leave the missus for when Dario is present.”
“Are you hungry?” Contessa asked. “I should have asked when you arrived.”
I went to the refrigerator and opened the double doors. “I’m sure I can make myself something…”
Contessa audibly exhaled. “Do you cook?”
“Yes.” I spun toward her, sporting my best smile. “I learned from my mother’s cook. I enjoy cooking and baking.” I looked to Armando, wondering if I was stepping on Contessa’s toes. “But if you want to make me something to tide me over until dinner, I can show myself upstairs and find the primary bedroom.”
“I can bring your lunch upstairs. I’m sure you want to unpack.”
Armando wiped his lips with a napkin and stood. “I can show you.”
“Thank you.”
Walking at his side, I followed him up the front staircase. My question about Josie was on the tip of my tongue. He turned down the hallway on the right. There were two closed doors and a set of double doors at the end of the hallway, slightly ajar. “That is your room.”
“Armando?” I asked as he started to walk away. “Is it my imagination or is Contessa unhappy about another woman in the house?”
His expression morphed as if he was deciding what he could and couldn’t tell me.
“Maybe I’m too sensitive.”
“It isn’t up to me to tell you what Mr. Luciano should.”
My nose scrunched. “Is Contessa attracted to Dario?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “Mr. Luciano was in a relationship for many years. Contessa cared deeply for the woman.”
Josie.
“Did he break it off with her because of me—this marriage?” Maybe he too had no say in our union.
“No, ma’am. She’s gone.”
My eyes opened wide. “Gone?”
“She passed away.”
“Oh, poor Dario.”
“You’re not upset that another woman lived here?”
Am I?
“I’m not,” I replied honestly. Things started to come together. “The romance novels, the two lounge chairs…” I met Armando’s wide stare. “Those were for her.”
He nodded.
“She was the Josie you mentioned?”
Armando clenched his jaw. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Today wasn’t the first time I heard her name,” I interrupted. “Dario’s sister mentioned her.” He appeared relieved. “How long ago did Josie die? Was she sick?”
His unease quickly returned. “Please talk to Mr. Luciano. It’s his story to tell. I wanted you to understand Contessa. She opened her heart, and it was broken. You could say she’s gun-shy.”
“They never married?”
“Oh no, the famiglia would never allow it. Mrs. Luciano vehemently disapproved.”
“My son…we’re happy he’s finally decided to collect a woman of worth.”
“Josie wasn’t a good Catholic Italian girl?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not even close. I shouldn’t have told you what I have. If you can come up with a way to get Mr. Luciano to open up to you, that would be best. And give Contessa some time. She’s afraid.”
“Afraid that I’ll be gone? I’m young and I’m not ill.”
“Neither was Josie.”
“What is this?” Contessa questioned, entering the hallway with a tray and assessing our discussion. “Armando, you can protect Mrs. Luciano better from the first floor. I’m sure Mr. Luciano would prefer that.”
Armando nodded my direction. I cautiously turned my attention to Contessa. “Thank you for the lunch.”
She walked past me and into the bedroom. I followed, realizing that the primary suite was more than a bedroom. It probably encompassed over a third of the second floor. The outer room was a private living room and further inside was a grand bedroom with a large four-poster bed. Not to be outdone by the first level, the suite had floor-to-ceiling windows. As Contessa placed the tray on a small round table in the living area, I walked around, familiarizing myself with the walk-in closets and large attached bathroom. One door led to a private office and another to an exercise room.
Within one of the walk-in closets were stacks of boxes filled with my things from California. Our two suitcases from this weekend were standing near the bed.
Stepping out of the closet, I asked, “Do you know if Dario has made room in his dressers for my things?”
As I walked back to the outer room, I didn’t get a response.
Contessa was gone.
Instead of going straight to my lunch, I wandered about the suite, looking for a sign or clue about the mysterious Josie. Who was she? Running my fingers over the bedspread, I wondered if she’d slept in this bed and in this room.
As I sat to eat, I remembered Armando saying that Josie was deceased.
Will I be sharing my new husband with a ghost?
I also recalled him saying she hadn’t been ill.
How did she die?
Instead of focusing on this new mystery, I enjoyed my lunch. The chicken salad sandwich and grapes hit the spot. There was more apartment for me to explore, yet with my new knowledge, I had a sense that going from room to room could be interpreted as snooping or invading someone else’s space.
That was stupid.
I was Dario’s wife. Regardless of whether he’d been married or in a long-term relationship, that was in the past. I was his present and future. Contessa could take her time warming up to me. We only had forever.
Or as Dario said—now and forever.
Slipping off my shoes, I began my quest for space, space into which to move my belongings, space in a home that was now mine. There was one large dresser near the bed, each side of the bed had a bedside stand, and within the closet that I assumed was mine, there were more built-in amenities: drawers, movable shoe racks, various clothes racks, and even a large round upholstered ottoman in the middle. I soon learned that the left side of the dresser and bedside stand on the right were empty, as was the closet except for my boxes.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Dario arranged for me to have space for my things or if these spaces have remained unused since Josie’s passing. Lugging the boxes into the bedroom, I chose to dive into my project at hand.
Time passed as I put my things away.
My hands were dirty and my skin slick with a coat of perspiration by the time I made it to the final box. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I began pulling photos, photo albums, books, and journals from within. My heart ached at the pictures of my family. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and I was missing my sister something terribly.
The time on my watch was almost six. Dario had said he’d be home for dinner, but I was at a loss for what time that would be. After checking my phone for messages and finding none, I pushed the last box into my closet, deciding to tackle the sentimental walk down memory lane for another day.
This was my first night in my new home. Going to dinner in a wrinkled sundress that I’d worn all day, didn’t seem like the right attire. In the bathroom, I turned on the shower and stripped out of my clothes. Even if dinner was downstairs in the kitchen or dining room, I wanted to be more presentable than I currently was. Within a large glass shower, under the warm spray, I realized my soreness from last night had eased. The insides of my thighs were slightly discolored and tender to the touch. That was the only outward signs of what we’d done.
Did Dario take Josie’s virginity?
I tried to push my questions away.
Thirty-plus minutes later, my hair was dry and hanging loose, and my face had a fresh coat of light makeup, not as much as for the wedding. My eyes were made up with shadow, liner, and mascara. I had a tint of blush on my cheeks and color on my lips. Wrapped in a bathrobe, the same one from this morning, I selected a green sheath dress. Mireya said my eyes looked brighter when I wore green. My excitement grew as I added an emerald and diamond necklace Dario had sent me for my birthday.
I slipped my feet into a pair of low heels.
As I walked toward the door, I noticed the tray that had contained my lunch. Lifting it, I carried it back to the kitchen. It was a quarter to seven as I reached the kitchen entry. “Hello,” I called.
The room was empty, yet a delicious aroma told me there had been something cooked. I peeked in the oven. Empty. I looked in the refrigerator. There were two covered plates. Were they for Armando and another guard?
Around the corner and through a swinging door, I came to the dining room. There were two places set, complete with plates of food. Walking closer, I reached out, touching the congealed, separated béarnaise sauce in a small gravy pitcher. The ice cubes in the water goblets were mostly melted. And the red salmon and small potatoes were cold to the touch.
Disappointment battled with anger for my top emotion.
What the hell is this?