Chapter 9
L EILANI
Earlier
I didn’t have time to change or let anyone know about my new adventure. I only made sure that no one in the house had seen me leaving.
I went to the backyard, rounded the house, and followed the trail back to town, walking along the dirt path, moving stealthily through the clusters of trees, while pieces of wood were scraping my legs.
Holding my red skirt with one hand, I moved as quickly as possible through the dark, not looking back, not listening to the sounds of nature, not doing anything that could stop me.
I don’t even know who that Stefano Varela guy is.
I can’t even tell whether the information is real or not––deep down in my heart, I know it is.
All I know is that I need to get to Callum before he changes his mind and retracts his support, gets distracted by someone else or something else, or they simply get to him in some way, and make it impossible for me to communicate with him.
I know that it’s already risky and too damn complicated.
I know our understanding is fragile, and while I’m sure of what I felt for him when he held me in his arms, I also know that these things can be destroyed in a second by the stupidest things on this planet.
I don’t trust men, as a rule. They taught me not to trust them. Not once had they shown me something different.
A reason to think highly of them.
But somehow, I trust him.
Or maybe I’m so attracted to him that I really don’t care if he proves to be just another deceitful man.
My feet hurt, are sore, and I’m pretty sure my skin has split open, and drops of blood trickle over the straps of my Roman flat sandals.
I totally forgot about my bum.
Finally, the lights of the city shine brightly not far from me.
I’m still not sure whether to tell Callum how I got that name, about Julian’s actions.
What if he gets mad and acts on his fury, revealing the connection between us, jeopardizing everything?
I can’t be on home arrest for the next two weeks.
They won’t let me out.
No matter what happens, it’s always my fault.
They always blame me.
What if, after these two weeks, they sell me to that stupid man, and this is, in fact, my last night of freedom?
Please, please, I can’t have that.
A few minutes later, I walk to the place where I met him this afternoon.
Fewer people are on the streets at this hour.
It’s so nice outside––the perfect time and weather to walk down the street and share a kiss with someone. Trail down the shore and watch the rain of stars across the sky.
These are dreams for people who are not me.
All I know is that I need to find the building where he lives.
I stop and look around, hoping someone on his crew is having a late-night snack or a glass of Grappa.
Something.
I spot a few men wearing suits.
Sadly, they have company and look like tourists. Maybe they celebrate something. Who knows?
I move my attention away from them and keep walking, checking every door, every place that is still open, every table where people linger.
There’s no trace of him.
And then a thought I despise and resent pops up in my head.
He must be with that woman.
Oh, no. Fuck no.
This is not the time.
I’m not even jealous.
I’m just scared and afraid for my life.
Completely disconnected from the beauty surrounding me, I walk feverishly, without leaving one street unchecked, when I round a corner and bump into a man.
“Che cazzo fai?” ~ What the fuck are you doing?
The man dips his eyes while I step back.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks, and that’s my clue.
He knows who I am, and not many people do.
I step forward and touch his forearm, the tension in my grip more than telling.
“Take me to him,” I say, my eyes pinned on him.
“Excuse me?”
“You were with him this afternoon when I talked to him. Take me to him.”
He mulls over something.
“I’ll wait. Just go talk to him, call him. Do whatever you need to do, but take me to him. This is very important. And I don’t have much time. Please.”
“Wait here,” he says, and then he looks around. It’s a fairly deserted area. “No. Come with me.”
We take a few steps together, turn left and then right, and then I glimpse the sea in the distance, and a wall of historic buildings.
“Don’t move,” he barks as he breaks away from me.
He moves with urgency and, before long, enters a beautiful building with a large terrace.
Maybe I’m dreaming, but up there, on the last floor, a man seems to be looking in the distance.
It looks like him. It could be him. His white shirt stands out.
He doesn’t wear a suit jacket, only a fitted waistcoat highlighting his athletic physique.It can only be him.
I drag my eyes down, refusing to hold my hopes high, and wait.
A few moments later, I hear noise in the house and look up at the terrace.
The man is gone.
Shortly after that, a couple of men walk out of the building, but only one heads my way.
Cosimo.
I feel much better.
Shivering inside, I let him walk to me, without moving an inch.
“Come with me,” he says quietly and evenly, which seems reassuring to a degree, giving me hope that nothing bad will happen next.
Within moments, we stride into a beautiful house.
It’s just what I had in mind when Nona said it was a house that belonged to a noble family.
A place filled with history, peace, and calmness––so misleading in a way––with antique furniture, handcrafted art, and framed old photographs on the wall, and long Italian lace curtains–– Tende in Pizzo Rinascimento.
Renaissance style, delicate lace curtains.
The hallway is dimly lit, as is the house, and the more we walk, the more the stairs squeak.
Eventually, we reach the last floor, and he invites me into a room where candles in brass candlestick holders on a chest of drawers cast a glow in front of an antique oval mirror.
Looking outside, a man is waiting for me, with his arms crossed over his chest, the satin back of his waistcoat hugging his torso flatteringly, his stance a little wide, more than suggestive.
He may be angry with me, or he may have reached, as I have, the point where he understands that our stories are tied together, whether we like it or not.
I stop in the middle of the room, waiting for him to turn to me and speak.
The news I bring to him is huge, but the fact that he allowed me to come here is even bigger.
Now that we’re here, only he and I, I wish I could make this moment last forever.
I wish this could be more than a secret meeting about a practical matter.
I have an important name for him.
Maybe that will unfreeze his heart a little. Maybe he knows more about this man than I do.
Stefano Varela.
He spends a few more seconds looking into the distance as if pondering, and not being aware that I’m in the room, before he slowly uncrosses his arms, slides his hands into his pockets, and turns around.
His eyes catch the candlelight and glint like the moon, while his face seems frozen, forbidden to show any emotion.
He flicks his chin toward one of the chairs in the room as he slowly walks in my direction.
“Take a seat,” he says, his voice quiet like the edge of a blade moving through the shadows.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
Icicles float in the air from his voice as he stops a couple of steps away from me.
“What brought you here?”
I look at him, not knowing how to prolong this moment. How to make it about more than this trivial piece of information.
My brain can’t come up with anything significant, so I give him the information without much fuss.
“They want to marry me to Stefano Varela,” I say, my eyes fixed on his face.
Something happens to his expression.
Only moments ago, he seemed unemotional, carved away from this world, and now something simmers at the edge of his awareness.
His eyebrows move slightly into a questioning look, his eyes warming in realization before narrowing into a dark look.
“What’s your source?” he asks point-blank with the sharp instinct of a businessman.
Have I questioned Julian’s credibility since he gave that name? A dozen times, maybe more. I never trusted that weasel.
Julian is the product of a fucked up life.
Just like me.
I don’t know what his father did to him or to his mother before he married my mother, but something happened in that family.
Just because Everett York wasn’t a strong man didn’t make him less dangerous.
Weak people are just as effective in inflicting damage on other people as strong ones are, and they’re often more driven.
So Julian isn't the source to rely on, but what he said just made sense to me. This is more about my gut than his words.
“Julian York.”
He purses his lips, his eyes promptly moving away from me. I’m staring at his back while he pours himself a drink.
“Do you want some?” he eventually asks as he sets his glass of wine down and glances over his shoulder.
His expression is clear of any clues.
“No. I can’t drink right now.”
He studies me for a second before shifting his eyes away from me and taking his first sip with his back turned to me.
Calmly, he pivots to me.
Honestly, this is not what I expected from him.
I thought he'd find the news useful and maybe provide me with some additional information.
Not to mention the fact that he might give me some guidance on what to do next.
“You’re nervous,” he says, tilting his gaze down, a barely there smile arching his lips.
“Wouldn’t you be? Do you know this man?”
He takes another sip of wine, and I’d love to taste the ruby drink on his lips.
“Sadly, I do.”
“Is it good? Bad? How is it?”
I become frantic by the second.
His eyes finally lock with mine, and the darkest shade of sternness colors his gaze.
“It’s unexpected. And yes, it’s bad for you and… me. ”
My eyes widen in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
He dismisses me casually with a flick of his hand, his eyes trailing down.
“How did it all come about? Your conversation with Julian York about your future husband?”
My cheeks burn as if engulfed in flames, my long silence disturbing and suspicious.
“Lani?”