7. Giovanni
SEVEN
GIOVANNI
Eight Years Ago
T his wedding was a lavish affair, with white, red, and yellow lilies as far as the eye could see.
My uncle stood at the altar with a self-righteous gleam in his eyes, waiting for his bride.
I only arrived this morning, so I had yet to meet her. However, I heard plenty about her from my mother, who currently sat next to me in the pew with a look of disgust on her face. She didn’t like the idea of Santiago Tijuana marrying some young woman and producing male offspring that could potentially push me further down the inheritance line.
As if I gave a shit about that.
I was ready for this to be over so I could get back to Boston.
“This is ridiculous,” she hissed, leaning closer so nobody else could hear her. “He’s four times her age.”
I rolled my eyes. “Love works in miraculous ways.”
Although, I knew firsthand that my mother didn’t believe in love or fidelity. Needless to say, learning of my true parentage last year came as a shock.
From birth, I’d been bound to the Agosti empire that my father—or the man I’d believed to be that—and his family built, and that wouldn’t change until my death. When my parentage came to light, I was sure that Mateo, the head of the Agosti family, would renounce me, but he’d surprised me.
Instead of burning me off the family tree, he made me the head of our family in Italy, under the Thorns of Omertà. It gave us a wider reach with my blood connections to the Tijuana family and induction into the Agosti famiglia.
The music started and everyone turned to look at the bride. Everyone except for me.
I stared at the elaborate cross made out of gold and decorated with rubies for blood as soft clicks of heels neared.
The scent of wildflowers fragranced the air as the bride passed the pew and joined her intended at the end of the aisle. I shot a curious glance her way, slightly surprised by her size. She was petite, her figure slim beneath a white satin dress that hugged her body. She wasn’t the type that Santiago went for; he usually liked them curvy.
It seemed he was smitten by the young woman that currently stared up at him, a veil covering every inch of her face looking like a snow princess.
But then he lifted her veil and, for the briefest moment, I was awestruck. Not by her porcelain skin. Not by her beautiful face. But by the courage and hope that shone in her eyes. By the stubborn tilt of her chin.
No wonder my uncle had changed his type.
“I, Santiago Tijuana, take you, Louisa Volkov, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”
Jesus, he didn’t sound sincere in the slightest, and I pitied the young woman.
It wasn’t long before he leaned in, smiling greedily, as he took her mouth for a rough kiss. The bride—Louisa—stiffened, her nose wrinkling for the briefest moment.
The guests erupted into a cheer, clapping and nodding like they just witnessed a fairytale come true firsthand, not a beauty marrying an old beastly fuck. But despite it all, Louisa played her part well.
As the day went on and guests took turns complimenting the new husband and wife, the atmosphere was as relaxed as a mafia wedding could be. The bride was gorgeous—everyone agreed on that. Except for my mother.
As each guest went to congratulate the happy couple, one by one, the first crack appeared. I watched as Santiago instructed Louisa to stand a step behind him. I also watched as she shot him a glare, her lips a thin line on her regal face. It pulled the first genuine smile all day from me.
“Congratulations on your marriage,” I said as I extended my hand. Santiago put a hand on my shoulder, grinning like a fool.
“My heir,” he said in a booming voice. “Unless my wife gives me a child.” I gave him a tight smile, while Santiago’s gaze settled on his young bride, who stood there with a stoic expression. “This is your nephew, Louisa. Greet him properly.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said robotically, extending her hand. I regarded her closely as our eyes met, but her gaze was distant. I took her hand, cold and clammy, in mine, but her face didn’t betray a thing.
I moved on, allowing other guests to congratulate the couple, and for the next few hours, the newlyweds were tied up with well-wishers—fake and authentic.
Deciding it was time to make myself scarce, I wove through the fifteen-thousand-square-foot home when I passed a cracked door and found the bride sitting on the desk cross-legged, drinking her wine and smoking a cigar. Jesus Christ, who is this woman?
We stared at one another, gazes clashing and challenging. A shift happened when the corner of her full lips tipped up.
I let out a sardonic breath, debating whether or not to bite.
I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Fuck it, I did.
Pushing my hands into my pockets, I entered the room and found my uncle passed out next to the desk where she casually dangled her crossed legs.
“What’s wrong with him?” I questioned.
She shrugged. “Thought he could keep up.”
“Keep up with what?”
“Shots of vodka,” she drawled, her voice too soft to match the hard gaze she flicked his way.
“Not the best way to start a marriage,” I pointed out. She rolled her eyes and looked away from me.
“Don’t tell me you believe in love, Mr…”
Lovely, the woman didn’t even remember meeting me.
“He’ll wake up grouchy,” I warned. “And he’s not pleasant when he’s in a bad mood.”
“Neither am I.” Something flashed in her eyes and she shot me a glare. “You didn’t comment on my remark.”
“What remark?”
“Do you believe in love?”
I shrugged. “I’ve seen it a time or two so yes, I do.”
She scoffed. “You sound like a… dreamer.”
Despite how odd this encounter was, it amused me. The girl was surprisingly resilient, and despite us being strangers, I hoped my uncle wouldn’t dull that spark in her eyes.
“And you sound like a realist,” I replied. “Not very original.”
She laughed, a sound that reminded me of the first rays of sunshine after a long, gray winter.
“My twin is a dreamer.”
I frowned. “There are two of you? That’s dangerous.”
She threw her head back and her bell-like laughter filled the space once more. Then she slid off the table, landing on her feet gracefully, and closed the distance between us.
Her voice was rough, whispers of sorrow dancing in her expressive eyes. “You have no idea.”
She brought her thumb to my cheek and skimmed it softly while I watched her, fascinated. She was unlike any woman I’d ever met.
When she walked past me, the scent of wildflowers lingered behind, and she never looked back.