Epilogue Savannah #4
Alessandro Ferucci is the last to arrive, and he's different from the other two.
He's closer to my age, possibly mid to late twenties, and handsome in a more understated way.
He has dark brown hair and hazel eyes, and his smile is the most genuine of the lot, as far as I can tell.
When he greets me, he's respectful—almost shy. I don’t hate him as much as I do the others on sight.
"It's an honor to meet you, Signorina Ciresa," he says, and his voice seems more genuine than the others. "Thank you for having me in your home."
Out of all of them, he's the one I should prefer. He's kind, he's age-appropriate, and he doesn't make my skin crawl. But when I look at him, I feel nothing. No spark, no attraction, no interest whatsoever.
I try not to think about why that is, but deep down, I know. It’s because he's not Luca.
"The honor is mine, Signor Ferucci. Please, come in."
"Alessandro, please." His smile is warm, genuine, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes at how every single man has said the exact same thing. Please call me by my first name, we’re going to get to know each other so well.
"I hope we'll have a chance to talk this evening.
Your father mentioned you had a particular interest in classic literature. I hope we can discuss it more."
At least he's making an effort to see me as a person, not just a prize to be won. I should be grateful for that. I should appreciate his kindness. But all I can think is that he's not the man I want.
We move into the dining room, and I find myself seated between Alessandro and Enzo, with Marco across from me.
My father is at the head of the table, Romeo to his left, and Luca is sitting next to Romeo.
Normally I would be to my father’s right, but tonight I’ve been put in the middle of the guests—the better for them to engage me in conversation, I think.
Further away from Luca, which is definitely not by design—no one knows how I feel about him, not even Luca—but it feels purposeful all the same.
I force myself not to think about how I’d so much rather be sitting across from him.
The meal begins, and I play my part perfectly.
I smile at the right moments, laugh at the right jokes, ask the right questions.
I'm the perfect daughter, the perfect potential wife, giving each of these men exactly what they want to see.
Marco talks about his business ventures and his properties and his connections.
"I have holdings in three states now," he says, cutting into his steak with precise movements.
"Real estate, mostly, but I've been diversifying into shipping.
The profit margins are excellent, and with the right connections—which your family has, of course—the potential for growth is substantial. "
He's clearly trying to impress me with his wealth and power, and I nod along, making appropriate sounds of interest. "That sounds very impressive, Signor Ferri."
"Marco, please, like I said before." He smiles at me, and there's something paternal in it that makes my skin crawl.
"I think you and I could have a very comfortable life together, Giulia.
I have a house in the city, another in the Hamptons, and I'm considering purchasing a villa in Tuscany.
You'd want for nothing. I’ve long wanted a wife to heap luxury on.
I do love spoiling a beautiful woman. You could have anything you wanted. "
Except love, or passion. Except any say in my own life.
Once again, the thoughts startle me. I’ve been resigned up until now.
Why am I suddenly bucking against this so hard?
Is it just because it’s real, now? Because it’s so clear that I’ve never had a choice?
Or has seeing Romeo with Savannah over the past months subconsciously made me want things I never did before, and now it’s finally coming to the surface?
"That's very generous," I say, because what else can I say?
Enzo is more aggressive in his approach.
He leans in close when he talks to me, his hand occasionally brushing against my arm or my shoulder.
"You know, Giulia," he says, his voice low and intimate, "I think you and I would be very good together.
You're beautiful, intelligent, well-bred—everything a man could want in a wife. "
His hand lands on my knee under the table, and I have to physically stop myself from flinching away. "You're very kind, Signor Gallari."
"Enzo." His fingers squeeze slightly, possessively.
"And I'm not being kind. I'm being honest. I've been looking for a wife for some time now, someone who could stand beside me as I expand my family's operations.
Someone who understands our world, who knows how to navigate it.
Someone like you. The fact that you are so exquisitely beautiful makes me all the more excited to make this a reality. "
There's an assumption in his words that makes my teeth clench. He's already decided this is happening, that I'm going to choose him, and my opinion on the matter is irrelevant. His hand is still on my knee, his thumb making small circles that make me want to stab him with my fork.
"I appreciate your interest," I say carefully, shifting slightly so his hand falls away. "But I think it's important to take time to get to know each other properly before making any decisions."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course. Though I think you'll find we're very compatible. In all ways."
The implication in his tone makes me want to throw my wine in his face.
Alessandro is different. He asks me questions about myself—what I studied at boarding school, what I like to read, what I think about current events.
He actually listens to my answers, and when he talks about his own interests, there's a genuine enthusiasm there.
"I've always been fascinated by literature of the past," he says, leaning forward slightly.
"My mother was a writer, actually. Not professionally, but she was quite talented.
She used to read to me often when I was young, teach me about different eras of literature and the men and women who shaped them.
When your father mentioned you had a particular interest, I was excited to meet someone who shares that interest."
It's the first genuine connection I've felt all evening, and I find myself engaging more than I probably should. "Who was her favorite author?”
“Dostoevsky,” he says with a slight grimace. “Dark, I know. But she also loved Wilde, and Stoker, and Bronte.”
“I do love Dorian Grey. And I know it’s almost cliche, but Pride and Predjudice, of course,” I admit.
We end up talking about books for several minutes, and it's almost pleasant.
Almost normal, like we're two people having a conversation instead of a man who might all but purchase me from my father and a woman who has no real say in who she’s going to marry.
But then his hand reaches over to touch my arm—just a brief, gentle touch that probably looks reassuring to everyone else—and I see something in his eyes that makes me uncomfortable.
There’s a possessiveness there, a certainty that feels like he's already decided I'm his.
"I'd love to take you to a gallery opening next week," he says. "There's a new exhibition at the Met that I think you'd enjoy. We could make an evening of it—dinner, the gallery, maybe a walk through Central Park afterward. With proper security, of course."
He's asking me on a date, and everyone at the table is watching to see how I'll respond.
"That sounds lovely," I hear myself say, because what else can I say? I could tell him no, I suppose, but out of everyone I’ve met so far, he’s the best option. I’d rather deal with a date with him than anyone else here.
His smile widens, and I see my father nod approvingly from the head of the table. I've done well. I've made the right choice.
I feel like I'm suffocating.
Alessandro takes his attention away from me long enough to address my father, asking him questions about business, about how the Ciresa holdings are doing.
It seems carefully couched in hints that perhaps the Ciresas are struggling since the chaos of the Beauregard matters, and I see Romeo tense out of the corner of my eye.
But my father is quick to tell Alessandro how well we’re doing, about expansions and other business matters that I quickly tune out.
It’s not as if I’ve ever been included in them, anyway.
Throughout the meal, I'm constantly aware of Luca's presence.
Every time I glance toward him, his expression is carefully neutral.
But sometimes I catch him looking at me, and there's something in his eyes that I can't quite read, a look of irritation, I think.
It's gone before I can analyze it, replaced by that careful blankness, but it was there.
Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.
The conversation continues, flowing around me as if I’m an object, and everyone else is a river in constant motion.
Marco tells a long story about a business deal that I'm sure is meant to be impressive but just makes me want to fall asleep.
Enzo makes increasingly inappropriate comments that he seems to think are charming, his hand finding excuses to touch me—my arm, my shoulder, once even brushing against my hair.
Alessandro continues to be perfectly pleasant and perfectly attentive, asking me questions about my time at boarding school, my interests, my thoughts on various topics.