Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Violetta
Flanked by Elio and Riccardo, I walk up the magnificent staircase at the historic Palazzo Vecchio with all the enthusiasm of a woman being marched to the gallows.
When the pair picked me up at Damiano's house a little before five o'clock, they offered no explanation of where they were taking me. I just did as I was told and followed.
Neither of them said a word to me in the car either, but the moment we pulled up outside one of the most stunning Renaissance buildings in Florence, I knew why we were here.
Like it or not, I'm about to get married.
Glancing down at my outfit of pale blue capri pants and a filmy white blouse, I wish someone had warned me this was happening.
When I got up this morning, I dressed for a day of lounging about the house, not for the formality of a wedding.
But, as I'm fast learning, information is currency in Damiano's world and it's dispensed with caution.
For whatever reason, he decided I didn't need to know that this was happening today.
Perhaps he thought it would ruin the blowjob I gave him before he got out of bed this morning. At the time I enjoyed the fleeting power I wielded as I brought him pleasure. Now I wish I'd bitten the asshole.
My other regret in this whole thing is that I have these two men escorting me to my groom.
I haven't forgiven Riccardo for sticking that needle in my neck after dragging me from La Stanza Rossa.
Though rationally I know he was just doing his boss's bidding, I can't persuade myself to dislike him any less for it.
As for Elio, he unnerves me in an entirely different way. While Riccardo is outwardly menacing, the consigliere is quieter, more calculating. His is the punch you wouldn't see coming. I don't know yet whether to regard either of them as friend or foe.
When we arrive at our destination, the famous Sala Rossa, a nervous-looking young woman in a black skirt suit opens the door for us. She practically curtsies as we pass. I'm guessing it isn't every day they have a mafia wedding on the premises.
I enter the room and gasp. Though I've lived in Florence my entire life, I've never been in here before.
It's breathtaking. The walls are swathed in a deep crimson damask.
There are touches of gold everywhere and the ceiling is ornately painted with allegorical figures who seem to be judging us from above.
The Palazzo Vecchio was once the home of Cosimo de Medici and I suspect Damiano chose to marry here for that reason.
He's similar to the Florentine Dukes of the Renaissance in many ways, wielding his influence through force when necessary and employing calculated restraint when that was the better option.
It occurs to me that the men who brought me here today each embody one of those roles and Damiano has always been both.
My husband-to-be is already standing at the large wooden desk when we enter. Engaged in conversation with a short, silver-haired man who looks to be in his seventies, he doesn't turn when we enter. He carries on his conversation, the world moving at the pace he sets.
When he does finally turn, his dark eyes meet mine. Even from this distance, I see the possessive gleam in them. He scans me from head to foot and his lips twitch slightly. I'm glad he's amused by the image I'm presenting because I never pictured myself getting married like this.
While Elio moves past me to hand the folder he's carrying to the judge, Riccardo positions himself in front of the door.
I'm not sure if the intention is to prevent anyone from entering or me from fleeing.
Either way, it reminds me exactly what sort of men I'm surrounded by here. I wouldn't dare try to run.
Damiano waves me over to the desk. I saunter across the room, taking my time in an attempt to appear unruffled. It doesn't work. I've been ambushed and every tense muscle in my body betrays exactly how upset I am by that.
"Violetta, this is Judge Flavio Bernetti. He'll be marrying us today." Damiano gives me a pointed look. "Flavio is an old friend."
In other words, he's not someone I can turn to for help. I summon a smile for the older man. He looks me up and down and addresses Damiano.
"Your bride is very beautiful, Damiano. Other men will envy your choice."
My jaw clenches at being reduced to the role of pretty accessory to Damiano.
"My bride is standing right there, Flavio, if you wish to compliment her directly."
His intervention surprises me. I flash him a grateful smile as the other man clears his throat.
"Of course. You look very beautiful, Signorina Caruso."
I incline my head in thanks. The judge goes through the formalities, checking our paperwork and reminding us of the solemnity of the contract we're entering today.
Whether he's unaware or unconcerned that this is not the joining of soulmates, he adds his hopes that we'll live a long and happy life together to his spiel.
Nerves flutter as he has us recite our vows.
While Damiano speaks with his usual confidence, I struggle to get the words out.
I glance over my shoulder toward the door.
Riccardo pulls his jacket back just enough to reveal the gun sitting at his hip.
Message received. I dutifully promise to love and honor my husband until the day I die.
As we reach the moment to exchange rings, Damiano reaches into his pocket. He produces three rings, one a plain gold band, which he passes to me. The others are a simple gold band and a beautiful engagement ring with a large emerald at its center.
It's the precise green of the dress I wore the night he claimed me at his bedroom window for all the world to see. He takes my hand and slips both rings onto my finger. They fit perfectly.
I don't manage to put Damiano's ring on his finger because my hands are shaking, so he takes it from me and does it himself.
I look up at his face, hoping something in his expression will tell me everything is going to be okay.
There's nothing there for me to hold onto. His public mask is firmly in place.
By the time I know what's happening, the ceremony is over and we're married. Damiano kisses me, a soft, chaste brush of his lips across mine. The judge passes me a pen and I sign the paperwork. Damiano does likewise and his henchmen add their signatures.
Just like that, my life belongs to Damiano Volante. I guess it did from the moment I interfered in his business. "Congratulations." Bernetti shakes Damiano's hand. "May you soon be blessed with an heir."
Horror at that prospect must show on my face because Damiano's lips twitch.
"Thank you, Flavio," he says to the older man before grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the door.
With Elio and Riccardo walking a pace behind us, we head back outside to the car.
The Piazza della Signoria is buzzing with tourists.
Several cameras are aimed at the building.
As Damiano steers me to the back seat of the car, Riccardo moves through the crowd with quiet efficiency, ensuring nobody has captured an image of us.
Elio jumps in the passenger seat and when Riccardo is finished intimidating innocent tourists, he gets in to drive. As we move off, I twist the ring on my finger. The emerald catches the light. If it didn't represent a new life I didn't ask for, I'd find it pretty.
"Do you like it?" Damiano asks.
"It's beautiful. Where did you buy it?"
I hide my resentment that the ring is one more choice he took away from me. If he'd asked, I'd have told him how I always pictured myself browsing the goldsmith shops on the Ponte Vecchio for my engagement ring. Of course, in that scenario, I was hand in hand with the man I loved.
"I didn't. It belonged to my grandmother."
"Oh." I'm not sure what to make of that. I examine the ring again, wondering if it holds some sentimental value for him. "Were you close to your grandmother?"
Damiano nods. "For a time. She died when I was fourteen."
I don't press him on the topic. Even if Elio and Riccardo weren't in the front of the car, I doubt he'd open up to me.
I'll just soothe myself with the idea he loved her and that giving me her ring means something.
The alternative, that he simply couldn't be bothered shopping for one, is far less romantic.
While I look out of the window to watch familiar streets slipping away, Damiano turns his attention to his phone.
"Mila's ready to move against the Albanians," Damiano says suddenly. It's safe to assume he's not speaking to me.
"Our men are already on their way to Marseilles," Elio replies.
"Good. And how are things looking in Athens?"
I should be pissed that Damiano is so casually discussing business while I'm wrestling with my emotions, but I'm sort of glad of the distraction. The inner workings of Damiano's world are a mystery to me and I want to learn what I can.
"Timofey Lenkov and Sev Baranov are dealing with the Makris family. Niamh Donnelly is providing support. Everything's under control."
From the corner of my eye, I see Damiano nod, apparently pleased by what he's hearing.
"And Andriano Martelli?" he asks.
That's the first name I've recognized in their conversation.
"He's laying low for now." It's Riccardo who answers. "But we're keeping an eye on him in case he decides to pay Signorina Lazaro a visit."
"Good. I don't want him near her."
I furrow my brow at the protective tone in his voice. "Who's Signorina Lazaro?"
Half-expecting him to tell me to mind my own business, I'm surprised when Damiano turns to me.
"Lucia Lazaro. She's my brother's…." He stalls as if unsure how to describe the woman. "She's important to Lorenzo."
"Oh, right." I didn't realize his brother was involved with anyone, but then, again, why should I know the details of Lorenzo Volante's tangled love life? "Wait, Lucia Lazaro? Why do I know that name?"
"She owns Gianetta's."