Chapter 42 Francesca
Francesca
Saturday night and Midtown Manhattan hums with life, but the last few days in this enormous hotel suite have been very lonely.
I’d grown accustomed to a degree of isolation after Da’s betrayal.
But having school and my new little sisters torn away from me, being denied the comfort of my piano and Dinora’s motherly presence on top of losing my husband’s delicious touch at night and our quiet pillow talk is a very cruel punishment.
Even if I’m to blame. At least Mom, Alessio, Caterina and Gia arrived yesterday, along with Armando to give me some reprieve.
A sharp rap on the suite’s primary bedroom door tells me it’s showtime.
Despite the unorthodox circumstances of our marriage, today’s wedding reception is being treated traditionally - the finest hotel ballroom, the best caterers, booze and musicians, and the most scrumptious wedding cake, no expenses spared.
Carlo is waiting in a tuxedo on the other side of the door, looking dangerously dapper. I check my invisible armor for chinks and prepare myself for whatever arrows he wants to sling my way after locking me away the past few days.
“You're beautiful, Francesca.” An unwanted rush of pleasure fills me with his words. I feel beautiful in the shimmering pale blue gown with a string of pearls looped around my throat.
But he follows the compliment with a surly, “I hope you’ve been practicing your happy-bride smile.”
My resentment over today would’ve been strong a month ago. Things have shifted in ways I didn’t expect. Where has he been while I've been in my new cage? "I've perfected it. It's necessary in this marriage, I suppose," I tell him, giving him the biggest stage smile imaginable.
He sighs, adjusts his cufflinks, and leads me to the elevator. “Come. They’re all waiting.”
"I dropped my phone," I say as the elevator descends. I've had lots of time to think. "But you found me almost like you knew exactly where I was. How?"
His fingers brush over my wedding band. "Prettier than an ankle monitor, no?"
My stomach drops. A tracking device in my ring.
Why am I even surprised? I should flush the beautiful diamonds and rubies down the nearest toilet, but would that change anything?
I'll still be guarded, and I wouldn't put it past Carlo to have something surgically implanted in me.
"Did you really believe I'd ever let you go? "
“I’ve only missed a few days of class so far. I would hate to fall too far behind. Or are you going to make me drop out?”
“Remember to behave tonight,” he clips, leading me toward the ballroom.
I slant a look of utter defiance his way, but we step inside, and a hundred faces turn toward us.
The low hum of conversation dries up for a painful handful of seconds – how many of them despise me already?
– before applause fills the air. The only thing more fake than their clapping is my answering smile.
***
That fake smile is still plastered on my face an hour later as Carlo leads me through our obligatory first dance. “We danced at another reception not so long ago,” I comment, hoping to kickstart a conversation.
“Hmm.”
One word. Not even a real word. He closes his mouth - was it even really open for that utterance? - and keeps leading me through the steps of our dance. How can his hands be so warm when his expression is so cold?
“Carlo…”
“Don’t,” he huffs in response to my pleading tone.
So damn stubborn, he’s been convinced his word is law since birth. Fed up with the silent treatment, I stop dancing right in the middle of the song and in front of our assembled guests.
Carlo’s jaw clenches as he tries to keep us moving, but he’s literally dragging me around the dancefloor, and he has to stop, too. “Frankie, what the fuck-”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, but I ignore them. Mere murmurs can't hurt me anymore. “If you won’t speak to me, this farce is over. We dance and we talk or we’re not dancing.”
“Then, speak if you must,” he growls, sweeping us right back into the flow of the music.
I swallow hard, trying to push the words past my lips. Why does his indifference hurt so much? Two months ago, I prayed for his indifference. “I wasn't with another man that way when you found me. I was with-”
“Your brother,” he finishes for me. My eyes widen, but I shouldn’t be surprised. “Were you going to run from me?"
"No."
"Why should I believe you? He already came to my city once before to steal away my fiancée. Why wouldn't he help my wife do the same? Hiding things from a man like me usually brings harsh penalties, Francesca.”
“I don’t doubt it, but my husband told me not so long ago he’d rather cut off his own hand than ever strike me.”
“And I never will.”
“Would you be able to cut Luca or Renato out of your life completely because of some made-up rules?”
“It’s more than ‘made-up rules’ to us.”
“Would you kill them for the Trio then?” He stiffens and glances away, clearly not liking my question. “You didn’t hit me, but I’d almost prefer that to being locked away while you ignore me. It hurts, Carlo. Knowing I’ve hurt you hurts me more.”
“You haven’t hurt me,” he says, coldly.
“Bullshit. We both know you were hurt when you thought I cheated.” That unhinged, possessive look blazes in his eyes at the suggestion. “I would’ve been devastated if you… I would be devastated if you ever did.”
His mask cracks, perhaps in ways only I can see. “When I thought you had…” His mouth quickly clamps shut, but I know what he must have felt.
“I’m not sorry for wanting to protect my brother. I’m not sorry for trying to meet him even if it was foolish under the circumstances. But I am sorry that I wasn’t honest with you about it.”
“How long have you been betraying me?” he asks, gruffly.
“It was the first time I’ve seen Ronan since Sofia fled, I swear it.”
“But he didn’t just happen upon you in that park, did he?”
Of course, he didn’t, and we both know it. How much more do I confess? I can’t throw Maeve to the wolves.
It doesn’t matter because the song ends. With an audible sigh of relief, Carlo walks me toward Alessio and Caterina so he can hand me off to my cousin for the next dance. Ouch. Has his intense need to claim me already faded for good? Does he already regret our marriage as I feared?
Alessio’s eyes bore into me as our dance starts. “How do you like lying in the bed you’ve made now, Frankie?”
“Shut up,” I tell him, my fake smile firmly back in place.
He shakes his head and spins me around. My groom is dancing with his mother.
Traditionally, I would be dancing with my father now.
Or Ronan would take his place. I dig my fingernails into my palm where it rests on my cousin’s shoulder to fight against unwanted tears.
His brother Luca asks me to dance next while Carlo dances with my mother. As the new bride, at least I don’t lack partners for once. “How have you been?” I ask Luca, unsure what to say but knowing he’s close to Carlo.
“Busy.” It’s the only response I receive, and I don’t have the heart to draw more words out of a Vicini who hates me.
The following dance, Carlo is dancing with his Consigliere’s younger daughter. I remember her sister, Margareta Morelli, and her tragic end, but I’ve forgotten the girl's first name in the sea of people I’ve met tonight. Every time she looks my way, there are daggers in her eyes.
I ignore her to focus on Renato who claimed the next dance after Luca. “What’s up, little sneak?” he asks me with a sly grin.
I'm grateful for the teasing. “You can’t call me little when I’m older than you.” He raises his dark eyebrows because we know his size more than makes up for me being two years older. “Just dance with me,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He complies, whirling me around wildly until I’m dizzy and laughing. Several older guests appear shocked by our behavior. I’ll probably be in more trouble for this later, but I can't say I care. I only wish my dance with Carlo could've been joyful this way and not layered with so much frost.