Chapter 15 #2
"Of course." Gianetta's is a Florentine institution. Lucia Lazaro took over running it from her grandmother. "Wasn't Lucia named one of Italy's hottest chefs under thirty last year?"
Damiano shrugs and returns to scrolling through his phone, his interest in the topic apparently exhausted.
A few minutes pass before we drive through the gates to the palazzo. I wonder if I'll ever get used to the guardhouse and the armed men patrolling the perimeter. The level of security seems high, but I suppose a man in Damiano's position can't take any chances with his safety.
We pull up at the front door and Damiano gets out. I reach for my handle.
"Wait," Riccardo snarls.
I drop my hand to my lap and sit there until Damiano comes around to open my door for me. He helps me out of the car and keeps an arm around my waist as he leads me to the house. Thankfully, his consigliere and enforcer don't join us. The moment Damiano shuts the car door, Riccardo drives off.
When we walk into the grand entrance hall, Lina is waiting for us. She's almost bursting with excitement, which makes me feel bad for my own lack of enthusiasm about my marriage. Damiano releases his grip on me as the housekeeper flings her arms wide and enfolds me in her embrace.
"Congratulations, Signora," she gushes. "It will be an honor to work for you."
Though she means well, a heaviness presses down on me. It hadn't occurred to me until now that as Damiano's wife I'll have responsibilities both in his home and at social events. That's something else I'll need to get my head around.
"Thank you, Lina."
I step back as Gianni approaches. I'm caught off guard when he sketches a courtly bow that would put any Regency romance hero to shame.
"Felicitations on your marriage, Signora." He's so ridiculously formal I almost laugh, but there's sincerity in his voice that stops me. He turns to Damiano. "Signore, we have taken the liberty of laying out some champagne and antipasti in the drawing room since you don't require a meal tonight."
"We don't?" I ask.
Damiano shakes his head. "I've given the staff the night off."
Lina gives me a secret smile, probably imagining it's because Damiano wants us to enjoy a romantic wedding night. I've no doubt he intends to consummate the marriage, but it won't be all hearts and flowers. I'm not sure whether I dread that more than I want it.
Taking my hand, Damiano leads me through to what Gianni referred to as the drawing room. It's the smallest of several sitting rooms in this vast palazzo, with a cozier, more intimate feel than some of the others.
The furniture in here is modern and comfortable, but the room's main selling point is the enormous bay window overlooking the formal section of the garden with its carefully sculpted topiary.
The window isn't an original feature of the house, but I've noticed in my explorations that several parts have been upgraded over the centuries.
On the coffee table at the center of the room there's an enormous platter of meat, cheese, olives and bread, as well as some tiny stuffed peppers.
"It looks like Lina was planning to feed the five thousand," I say as I take it all in.
"She still thinks I'm a growing boy she needs to feed." There's something in his tone I haven't heard before, a hint of affection.
He picks up the bottle of champagne and pops the cork before filling two glasses. He holds one out to me. It's ice cold, which tells me it hasn't been sitting there long.
"How do they manage it?" I ask. "Lina and Gianni. They always seem to serve food, coffee, whatever, right on time."
"My security system tracks my cars and movement around the house. Gianni and Lina have access to the information they need to ensure my day runs smoothly."
I'm genuinely stunned by that revelation. "Wow, you're like royalty."
Damiano snorts dismissively. "I doubt even the King of England has access to a security system as sophisticated as mine."
"Do you need it?" I ask. "Is your life that dangerous?"
"There are constant threats, Violetta, but it's not my life I worry about."
Not knowing quite what to say to that, I clear my throat. "So, what should we drink to?"
"You, of course, my beautiful bride."
He raises his glass. I clink mine against it, then take a sip of the crisp champagne.
"I prefer Prosecco," I say as I sink onto the edge of the sofa.
"Me too."
That's another shared preference for me to file away.
Maybe this is how I'll get to know my new husband, one meaningless tidbit of information at a time.
Leaning forward, I grab a plate and fill it with slices of salami, bresaola and some olives.
Damiano sits close to me, close but not touching, and eats slices of meat straight off the platter.
"Lorenzo wasn't at the wedding," I say. "Did you tell him we were getting married?"
"I'll tell him when the deal with your grandfather is struck."
The reminder that a business opportunity lies behind our marriage hits me harder than it should.
"Why not tell him before? Are you afraid he'll be disappointed if my grandfather reneges on his deal?"
"My brother isn't a child, Violetta. He doesn't need me to protect him from things going wrong."
Damiano's words are at odds with what I've glimpsed of his relationship with Lorenzo.
His youngest brother is more than capable of looking out for his own interests, but Damiano still protects him fiercely.
The only times I've seen cracks in his cold exterior are when he's concerned for his brother and perhaps for their cousin, Olivia.
It gives me hope that one day he'll come to care for me.
I clear my plate, particularly enjoying the savoriness of the bresaola, and sip my champagne.
I get up and walk to the window to look out over the garden, laid out centuries ago.
So many people have lived in this palazzo since it was first built in the 1400s.
It probably has another six hundred years of life in it yet.
Will someone wonder about me at a distant point in the future, the way I think about those who've come before? I hope so.
Twisting the ring on my finger, I turn to Damiano.
"I wish you'd told me today was the day."
"Why?" He cocks an eyebrow. "Would you have run?"
"No, but I could have prepared myself better."
"How?"
"Well, I'd have worn something more appropriate." I tug at my blouse. "I never imagined I'd get married looking like I was on my way to the market to pick up some tomatoes."
Damiano's mouth twists in what might pass for a grin. "Is that something you do often? Go to the market to buy tomatoes?"
"No. I've no need to go to the market. I'm a terrible cook."
"So how do you survive?"
"I usually eat out. Well, I did before I came here. The food here is excellent."
"I'm glad there's something you like about the place."
I detect something in his tone, a hint of bitterness, maybe.
If he's wishing I would say I also like him, he's in for a disappointment.
That's something I can't tell him even though it would be true.
Beyond all reason, I don't only like Damiano.
I'm falling for him. Every tiny glimpse of the man behind the facade brings me closer to loving him.
I fear that would be my downfall.
Before he can read anything into my expression, I turn back toward the window and stare into the fading light. Falling is one thing. Whether it kills me is another.