17. The wedding band
MICHELA
17
Despite making fun of our meals, we both polished off our plates. I lean back with a hand over my tummy and look over at the table near us.
A brunette in her early twenties cuts into her filet mignon, while a woman in her late forties sitting across from her swirls pasta. The food here is really that good. It’s not just me who’s eating every last bit as if I came from a starving island.
Corrado types a message, then slips his constantly vibrating phone into the pocket of his jacket. As he does that, I notice the holster around his shoulders.
“It’s my sister,” he explains.
“One must always answer one’s sister.” I make light of his comment, but I’d love to blow up my brother’s phone like this while he’s on a date. Or sleeping. Or working. Or anywhere at all besides a cold gray cell.
The server clears the table. “The lounge is ready for you, sir.”
Corrado stands, and as I do as well, the jewelry box he placed between my legs falls to the ground. It rolls and hits the tip of the server’s shoe. Apologizing, I bend to pick it up, but Corrado catches my arm and pulls me upright.
The server retrieves the box, accidentally opening the top. Inside, on a pillow wrapped in tan suede, is a single golden band.
The larger empty space behind the smaller wedding band makes my heart race. I slide a gaze at Corrado’s wedding finger. Sure enough, he’s wearing a ring that matches the one in the box. Not only did I not even notice he’s wearing a wedding band, but I’ve also refused to open the box.
The server looks between us, and Corrado pinches his lips.
Corrado is watched like an animal at the zoo. As we ate our meal, I couldn’t help but notice the glances from the adjacent tables and frequent visits by random people coming and going to our table to pay their respects to him.
If they kissed the ring on his hand, I might’ve died. They didn’t, but that means very little after seeing grown men bend to his will. I want the ruse of our marriage to hold up in front of people who will surely draw conclusions and gossip.
I lean in and peck Corrado’s cheek. “You already got it resized. Thank you.”
Once the waiter walks away, Corrado says, “My wife needs not explain herself to anyone. Even when it appears odd that she’s dropped her ring. But thank you for doing it anyway. Go ahead, and I’ll meet you in the lounge.”
Gently, he nudges the small of my back, and I follow the waiter out of the terrace, casting a gaze over my shoulder. Corrado dials his phone.
“Ms. Mancini,” someone calls as I pass them by.
I’ve lost my server. Damn it. I turn to go back to the terrace when a man calls out again, louder this time. “Ms. Corrado Mancini.”
I take a few more steps when it hits me that I’m Ms. Mancini the man is calling. Turning, I face the man we met at the door. Samuel.
“This way,” he says, and leads me through a narrow hallway with dim lighting and pale green doors separating textured, beige-wallpapered walls. All the way at the end of the hallway, we enter a room, where two men stand at ready. One wears a toque, and the other holds a golden tray with an assortment of dessert samples on it.
A chef and a server, just for the pair of us.
“We hope you enjoy the evening,” Samuel says as he closes the door behind me.
Exotic gold-foil wallpaper artfully displays rich and dramatic oil paintings. The thickness of paint applied to the canvas gives a three-dimensional impression, making me want to pluck the painted grapes from the bowl.
Instead of touching the art (even though I want to so badly), I brace my knee on the deep green Chesterfield and lean in so I can run a hand over the foil on the wallpaper underneath the painting.
My knee brushes something soft. It’s a furry, deep purple pillow. I fluff it up, then put it on my lap. I pet it as if it’s a dog, which makes me think of the pair of Dobermans Corrado rescued today. I hope they find a loving home.
Once I settle in, the server offers me a cup of decaf with milk and sugar while also placing a decanted glass of what might be whiskey on the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. The chef remains standing with the tray.
Since Corrado takes longer than ten minutes to arrive, I figure I’ll use a bathroom outside. On the way back, I’m fixing the zipper of my purse, and when I enter the lounge, I stop in my tracks.
Corrado sits on one side of the couch, his right arm thrown over the back, left leg extended, right hand swirling a decanted drink.
Across from him, sitting on the couch, is a beautiful brunette with long, straight, black hair cascading down her bare back. She wears a red dress too, but it’s a red that’s somehow richer than mine. She paired her dress with silver shoes and a French manicure on her toes.
Her red lipstick leaves a print on her wineglass.
She gives me the same look I’m likely giving her. It’s the what are you doing here look.
Corrado breaks the tension. “Michela, I believe you’ve met Isabella last night.”
Isabella, although already pale in complexion, pales even further before fumbling a confused “Nice to meet you” before looking at Corrado the way a woman looks at the man who broke her heart.
I feel bad and approach her, offering my hand. “Hi again,” I say.
She narrows her eyes, and pure hate-rage replaces her heartbroken expression as she looks down her nose at my proffered hand, then slurs out, “Looks like I’m in your seat.”
Before I can respond, Corrado pulls me into his lap. “Not at all. My wife was just sitting on my face.”
Holy crap! I slide my arm around Corrado’s shoulder.
Isabella downs her drink. “She’ll bore you, and then you’ll call me.” Drunk and clearly heartbroken, she stumbles to the door.
Samuel arrives and apologizes profusely for the interruption while trying to escort the woman out of the room. I presume Corrado isn’t impressed or forgiving when he barks in Italian.
“I don’t need your charity!” she screams.
No woman should make a fool of herself over a man, but love makes us all do crazy things. I’m not sure if she loves Corrado, but if she does, she’ll find a way to grieve what might’ve been between them and move on. Sadly, before she moves on, she’s here screaming at and kicking the security team that’s arrived.
Samuel is still apologizing profusely, but Corrado isn’t having it. He snatches Samuel’s tie and yanks it toward him, forcing the man to bend. Then he takes the burning candle from the table and brings the flame to Samuel’s tie.
It lights on fire.
Samuel bends one knee.
Corrado nods. “Good. Now, we can talk. Make sure no one sees her and drive her to Franko’s home. Tell Franko to get her under control before she does something dumber than this. Tell him she put my wife’s old car in the junkyard and that I’ve retaliated for that. Let that be the end of it.”
“She was the one who junked my car?” I ask, biting my lip as Samuel’s tie keeps burning up toward his face.
“Mmhm,” Corrado says to me. To Samuel, he says, “Two things. You will discipline whoever allowed her in here, and if you find out it’s Dominico Benvenuti, you will scrape out his eyeballs with a spoon and deliver them to me in the empty vase I left on his table.”
Samuel’s tie is burning, the fire threatening to scorch his face. I snuff it out with a pillow, and Samuel stands, his head bowed. When I try to get off Corrado’s lap, his hands lock around my waist, and he bites my shoulder.
Ouch!
Samuel takes the hint and practically sprints out of there.
Corrado smiles at the tooth indents on my skin. “You’re coming home with me, and you’re staying there. I’ll send Hank to pack your stuff.”
“Um, no. I can’t.”
“You can. You are my wife, and my wife lives with me. People are wondering what’s going on and why you’re not wearing the ring. They’re yapping, creating hope for Isabella and problems in the ranks for me. This marriage is my solution. I need you with me all the way.”
I turn on his lap so we can have a conversation, but he transfers me onto the table. He spreads his legs so mine fit between them. Palms resting on his knees, he leans in. “I’m waiting for confirmation that you understand my plan and are on board with it.”
Oh boy, here we go.
Clearly, Corrado is used to being obeyed. While I understand his plan, I can’t agree with it because I have a life of my own. Not to mention my need for a relationship that evolves into marriage over time, you know, the way most relationships do. “That’s the thing, Corrado. When I agreed to pretend to be yours, you didn’t specify that you needed a wife.”
“Which part of pretend you’re mine is unclear?”
“There are many ways I could be yours.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Your weak arguments shock me. I expected better. Let’s see. You can’t be my relative, because you’re not. You’re either my wife or my whore. A whore deters no one from pursuing a relationship with me, but a wife does. So I chose a wife.”
“I could’ve been a date. Like this one. You could’ve introduced me by my name and let the others stew on that. Instead, you’re…forcing a fake marriage on me. On us. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“It does because I don’t date.”
“A marriage is more important than dating.”
“Real marriage is, but this is a business proposition, one where I guarantee”—he places a hand over his heart as if his heart has anything to do with this—“you will enjoy and come away satisfied.”
“If not heartbroken like the girl who was here earlier.”
Corrado leans back. “That’s fair. I gave you a hard time with Tino, and you’re throwing Isabella in my face. Let this be the end of talking about other people and the start of a marriage arrangement between us.”
“I can’t move in with you, Corrado.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have responsibilities at home.”
He tilts his head. “Do you have a child?”
“Nothing like that, no. But my mother can’t take care of herself.”
“I can arrange care for a disabled parent.”
“She’s not disabled.”
“Then what’s the matter with her?”
I change the subject. “This won’t work. It’s nice while we’re together, but it won’t work. I come from nothing. You come from everything. Our worlds are so far apart that you can’t possibly understand mine and I sure as heck can’t fathom yours.”
“You’re wrong. Our worlds being so far apart is what makes us perfect for this arrangement. A girl from my world won’t do. Most of them are after my money or power or have some ulterior motive, something the patriarch of the family wants from me. You have no idea who I am or what I can do, which makes you perfect for me. Come on, Michela. I’ll spoil you.”
“I bet you would.”
He takes a strand of my hair and tugs. “Let me spoil you.”
“Oh man, you say all the right things.”
“I’ve only gotten started. Ten million for the time we agree on once you move in.”
My breath seizes. “Ten million?”
He nods, then waits for my answer, his gaze roaming my face. As he anticipates an answer, I recognize discomfort. Corrado looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin. I can tell by the intense glare he’s giving me and the tightening of his jaw as well as the paling of his fingers as he grips his kneecaps hard.
By putting the ball in my court, he handed me control of the situation, and that makes him uncomfortable. For a man who owns every room he walks into, giving up control is a daring task.
I appreciate the gesture. Corrado’s generosity and honesty about what he wants from me make my resolve falter. I consider his offer, if only briefly. He wants an answer right now. If I accepted, I’d be lying. Maybe we could compromise?
“I can’t move in with you,” I say, “but I would like to date you.”
“I don’t date.”
“Okay, maybe you could ask me out for a cup of coffee.”
“That’s worse than a date.”
“Jesus, Corrado. It’s just coffee.”
He sighs, takes a strand of my hair again, sniffs, and smiles. “Ten million. Come live with me. Pretend you’re my wife.”
“I can’t live with you.”
He releases my hair. “Get out.”
I blink at the change in his demeanor.
Corrado gets up and opens the door. “Hank will take you home.”