Chapter 31 Chiara
Chiara
Angelo’s mansion is big, but it never feels that way. While there are plenty of rooms, most are in use, and the living areas are comfortable. As I stare up at the monstrosity that is Lorenzo Di Rossi’s palatial home, I decide he must be overcompensating for something.
It’s as if an architect saw a photo of a Venetian palace and told ChatGPT to produce something similar. The house is at least four stories, crafted from cream stone, and surrounded by towering cypress trees. Beautiful but cold.
Lights sparkle in the trees, and if I inhale deeply, I can smell the lemons in the nearby lemon grove.
From the array of expensive cars lined up along the sweeping driveway, several of the guests have already arrived.
“Try to steer clear of my father,” Angelo warns from the front passenger seat, oblivious to my internal negative review of his childhood home. “I’m sure he’ll be too busy playing the role of bountiful host, but it’s always better to avoid him when he’s had a few drinks.”
I don’t bother asking why. Having had the displeasure of Lorenzo’s company a while back, when Angelo dragged me to the opening night of a new casino hotel, I recall all too well his creepy stares. The thought of being stuck with him in a dark corner makes me want to stab myself in the eye.
“I plan to stay glued to your side, darling.” I smirk before winking at Kane. My blood heats at the memory of Kane fucking me at the charity gala. As Angelo opens my door and helps me out, playing the role of a solicitous husband, I wonder if we’ll get the chance to repeat the experience.
“Behave yourself this evening,” my husband growls in my ear as he drags me toward the stone steps at the mansion’s entrance.
I dig my heels into the cream gravel and gasp in mock horror. “I’m always a good girl.” Angelo’s eyes heat for a moment, and his gaze drops to my cleavage. But before I can second-guess what he’s thinking, a liveried butler appears.
“Good evening, Sir. Your father is waiting for you in the drawing room. He’d like a quick word before the rest of the guests arrive.” The man sounds like Horatio’s twin, and I wonder if they’re related. They don’t exactly look alike, but they share the same snooty demeanor.
“I’ll escort Mrs. Di Rossi to the reception room,” Kane says smoothly. Angelo tenses, but unless he wants to drag me along with him to see his father, he has no choice but to leave me with Kane.
“Fine. I’ll be there shortly.” With one last glare at me, Angelo stalks off.
“The food better be amazing,” I mutter to myself as I lift the hem of my floaty dress and pick my way toward the steps while cursing Fina for insisting I wear this ridiculous dress.
Music drifts out from a large room as Kane pauses outside. His role tonight is to ensure I don’t run away. At least that’s what Angelo told me on the way over. I laughed until I realized he wasn’t joking. Shortly after that cute warning, he informed me his father’s dogs would be roaming free.
“Aww, I love dogs!” I’d excitedly imagined some cute terriers or lazy wolfhounds. Nope. Angelo informed me that Lorenzo’s dogs were man-eating monsters, and if I tried leaving via the grounds, they’d eat me for dinner.
Hardly a recommendation of Lorenzo’s hospitality. Hopefully, none of the other guests wander into the gardens while drunk, or they might also get eaten. If it’s my dear stepmother, the dogs would need surgery to extract all the plastic enhancements.
Yeah…apparently she and her odious husband are guests this evening, along with a bunch of other assholes I’m sure I’ll hate.
Fina will be here shortly, at least. We can stick together.
“Luka should have come with us,” I grumble as Kane takes my coat and gives it to a meek woman wearing a black uniform.
“Lorenzo wouldn’t want him here,” Kane says, “but I’d say he’s dodged a bullet because I can guarantee you’d hate watching Lorenzo treat him like shit all evening.”
“Would Lorenzo really be that mean?” I’m not surprised to learn Lorenzo is awful to his illegitimate son, but to be vile to him in front of guests is a surprise.
“Yeah. He hates that his infidelity came back to haunt him so publicly.”
“That’s so stupid. It’s not like anyone really knows Lorenzo is Luka’s bio father,” I scoff. Kane pushes open a double-set of carved oak doors and gently nudges me inside a vast reception room with a painted ceiling. My mouth gapes open.
There are graphic depictions of cherubs, angels, and naked women doing dubious things to one another. I squint while trying to make sense of the paintings before Kane chuckles in my ear.
“Look closer and you’ll see the angel with the biggest cock has Lorenzo’s face.”
My stomach heaves. “Oh my fucking—”
“What a lovely surprise.” Vivian’s voice drips with icy disdain. When I drag my gaze away from the pornographic ceiling that would not be out of place in Hugh Hefner’s old mansion, I struggle to paste a polite smile on my face.
Vivian’s had more work done. Her face is tauter than ever; it’s a wonder she can move her mouth.
“How lovely,” I reply, not meaning a word of it. “Such a treat to see you again.” I make a show of looking around. “Could your husband not make it, or is he dead now?”
Kane chokes on a laugh behind me while valiantly doing his best to turn it into a cough.
Vivian fixes her face into what might pass as a regretful frown on a normal person, only her face doesn’t move more than a millimeter, so she ends up resembling an exhibit from Madame Tussauds.
“Now, now, dear. While I understand you are still grieving the loss of your father, it’s not okay to abuse me in public.” Several people have overheard us and are gawping at me like I’m the Antichrist.
Before I can retaliate, Kane grabs my elbow and leads me toward the far side of the room where servers are expertly mixing cocktails. I take a moment to collect myself while he orders me a glass of chilled white wine.
“Don’t let her get under your skin, kitten,” he says as he passes me the glass. “She’s not worth it.”
I know he’s right, but dammit, I hope karma comes for that bitch soon because she fucking deserves to pay for the things she’s done.
All eyes are on me as I wander around the room with Kane tracking my every movement from his position by the door.
Seconds tick by as I wonder what’s taking Angelo so long. Is there a problem? Not that I’m desperate to have him back at my side, glowering at me like I’ve committed a crime just by breathing the same air as him.
But as much as it pains me to admit it, without his steady presence and his hand resting on my lower back, I feel vulnerable.
I know Kane would step in if he thought I was in danger, but being among these stuck-up people is like death by a thousand paper cuts. Each sneer, every derisory glance and, in the case of all the men present, lecherous looks, makes me want to run away as fast as my legs will carry me.
If it weren’t for the vicious dogs roaming free, I’d take my chances.
A server approaches with a silver tray of champagne flutes, so I swipe two, pretending one is for Angelo. It’s an expensive brand that slides down my throat without making me cough.
I drink the first glass in less than five minutes while doing my best to avoid looking up at the ceiling. The second glass goes down more slowly as I hover by a bookcase full of classics. Judging by the pristine spines, they’re only there for show, which doesn’t surprise me.
Just as I’m about to go searching for a bathroom to alleviate my boredom, the door from the hallway swings open and Fina sashays in, as glamorous as ever.
Carefully applied makeup hides the bags under her eyes, and the wrap she wears over her navy blue silk dress gently disguises her belly. Not that she’s showing yet.
She spots me and hustles over, ignoring the people who try to catch her attention.
“Where’s Angelo?”
“Your father wanted to talk to him the moment we arrived.”
She’s about to say something when a large, barrel-chested man in a charcoal suit strides over. Fina takes one look at him, and what little color she had on arrival drains from her cheeks.
An older couple cross the man’s path and attempt to engage him in conversation, thwarting his progress. He clenches his teeth but nods politely when the husband asks him a question. I note how his gaze stays fixed on Fina the whole time. It’s honestly kind of creepy.
“Who’s the douche?”
She shudders as he slides a feral grin in her direction while licking his lips.
“Domenico Santini, my husband-to-be.”
It doesn’t take long to see that Domenico Santini has at least two personality disorders. It could be the way he continues to lick his lips while leering at Fina, or perhaps it’s his deranged laugh when I not-so-politely tell him to fuck off after he tries to push between us.
Kane tenses like he wants to rip the man’s head off, but I shake my head in his direction. This is Lorenzo’s home, and I am Angelo’s wife. The man would have to be insane to try anything in front of so many people.
He’s a bully and used to getting his own way.
I’ve dealt with men like him before. Frat boys who think the women serving their drinks want to listen to their disgusting, misogynistic banter, or entitled assholes who think any woman agreeing to a date is saying yes to sex.
Two glasses of champagne in quick succession have erased my social decorum. Not that I ever had much to begin with.
“Serafina will soon be my wife,” he tells me with a look that promises death if I dare get in his way again.
“Perhaps, but currently she’s single and not in the mood to mingle, so back off, meathead.”
“There is no perhaps about it,” he sneers. “The contract has been signed.”
I laugh loudly enough to attract the attention of several people standing nearby. Santini opens his fat mouth to fire more bullshit at me, but I cut him off at the knees.
“I feel sorry for you that you have to buy a bride. It’s a bit like the sad dudes who go to countries like Thailand and pick up a woman willing to overlook their significant defects in return for financial security. What do they call them? Oh yes. Losers Back Home.”
Santini turns a worrying shade of red like he might explode. Messy.
“Are you a loser with women, Domenico?” I tut. “You’re definitely giving off a loser vibe, jackass.”
Just as I’m about to expand on the many reasons why Domenico Santini is a pathetic specimen of a male, a familiar arm snakes around my waist and the scent of bergamot and pepper fills my nose.
“Santini,” Angelo says smoothly. “Are you well?”
From the rage burning in Santini’s eyes, he’s not well at all. In fact, if I were a betting woman, I’d say he's two seconds away from a coronary event. But instead of asking if there’s a defibrillator nearby, I smile serenely.
“Mr. Santini and I were just getting to know each other, darling,” I say before swiping a third glass of champagne from a passing server. Dammit, this shit is good. I might have to steal a bottle for the drive home.
Angelo glances down and spots the way Santini’s fists are clenched.
He shifts me out of the way and fixes the man with a hard stare.
Santini is at least four inches shorter than my husband, which means the odious man has to crane his neck to talk to him.
He catches me smirking, and his face turns purple.
“I hope you haven’t upset my wife,” Angelo remarks in a conversational tone. “I don’t like it when people upset my wife.”
From the way Santini chokes on his saliva, he’s desperate to bite back, but Kane’s hand brushes my shoulder, reassuring me he’s ready if the idiot starts anything.
Santini’s a thug, but he’s not stupid. No sane man would pick a fight with these two.
Fina has taken advantage of the distraction and slunk away. I spot her out of the corner of my eye. Matteo leads her out of the room, away from the other guests, all of whom are enjoying the show.
The music goes silent a few seconds later and then a bell rings from the far end of the room.
“Dinner is served,” the haughty butler announces. “Please make your way to the dining room.”
The announcement gives Santini the excuse he needs to back off without losing face. But, like all psychopaths, he has to have the last word.
“I look forward to breaking in my new wife,” he snarls with one last venomous glare at me. Then he turns and storms off, not caring that he nearly knocks a poor server flying when she veers into his path.
I stare after him while trying not to vomit at the thought of Fina marrying that psycho. For all Angelo’s faults, he’s an angel compared to Domenico Santini.
“We can’t let Fina marry that man,” I tell my husband.
Angelo gives me a terse nod. “I know.”