Chapter 33
Bambalina
My new home looks pretty much as I’d imagined for a Beacon Hill House.
Large, pale gray washboard exterior with a warmer gray slate on the roof.
The white wooden porch doesn’t wrap around the entire property but it is wide and furnished with matching chairs.
A neatly kept lawn winds the whole way around, and low slate steps lead up to the big front door.
My stomach tightens as Nicolò cuts the engine and Allegra grips my hand.
The front door opens and two men step out onto the porch.
Their dark coats make them look like shadows against the pale building.
They watch me step out of the car, probably eager to get a peek at whoever the new woman of the house is going to be.
Allegra and Nicolò walk behind as we make our way up the steps.
I can’t imagine being the woman of any house. I didn’t think I’d need to imagine it for quite some years yet. My hope is that Alessio has a staff that takes care of all the estate details and the service personnel, because I know nothing about keeping a house, managing contracts, paying people.
We reach the porch and the heavens open. Thankfully, the entrance is well-covered, but the sound of rain beating down around us lends the moment a bleak and eerie sentiment. The men don’t speak at first, which seems to irritate Nicolò.
“Is Alessio here?” he demands.
“He’s on his way,” replies one of the men.
It doesn’t seem as though Alessio is in any great hurry to meet me, which does nothing to calm the nausea gripping my esophagus. The rain is pouring down so hard it is running onto the floor of the porch.
I school my features into something calm and dutiful but beneath the surface I’m falling apart with hopelessness.
The sound of slow, heavy footsteps inside the house halts my breath.
They sound ominous and, in a way, final.
When the door opens and a tall, dark-haired, not-half-bad looking man steps out, I can’t help but squint.
He looks more like twenty-eight than seventy-eight.
His gaze meanders over the full length of my body then cuts to Nicolò standing behind me.
There’s a question in his eyes, like he’s confused as to why we’re standing here.
Just as I start to think I may not have been dealt such a bad card after all, the man steps aside and a much older, far heavier and infinitely less good-looking man appears on the stoop.
He walks with a cane and the fact he seems to lean half his bodyweight onto that slim piece of wood gives me instantaneous anxiety.
His gaze doesn’t meander over my form so much as suck the life out of me. His perusal is slightly detached. There’s appreciation in his features but the kind that one might usually reserve for a racehorse, not a future wife.
I blink rapidly, unsure of what to do or say. Fortunately, Papa finds his voice.
“Mr. Bellucci,” he says, the conviction forced. “I present to you my youngest daughter, and sister of Trilby Di Santo, Bambalina Castellano.”
I step forward to greet my future husband, expecting at least a kiss on the cheek, but instead he reaches a hand up to my face.
I flinch and then feign a cough to disguise my reaction.
He strokes a dry, coarse hand down my cheek, his eyes following with a hint of curiosity.
Nicolò stops breathing behind me and I wish—I wish—he’d stayed home.
It’s going to be so much harder being here with him than without him.
“Come inside,” he says in a rough, aged voice. I glance back at Allegra who gives me an encouraging nod, then follow Alessio into the house.
It’s spacious inside and decorated simply.
I overheard the men last night saying Alessio’s wife passed many years ago, survived by his four grown-up sons.
Alessio never remarried. But there’s a definite woman’s touch around the house.
It’s obvious in the vases of flowers, pretty photo frames on the mantel, the small bowls of exotic fruit, plump cushions on the occasional chairs scattered about.
Part of me feels relieved there are other women in the house—I won’t be completely alone in a family of dangerous men.
We follow Alessio into a drawing room where soft seats are set by high windows, and tall, narrow tables exist only for expensive coffees and correspondence. He gestures for me to sit beside him on a sofa, then turns to Papa.
“Would you like a drink before you leave?”
A dart of fear strikes me in the chest. They’re leaving so soon? I plead them with my eyes to stay for as long as they possibly can. Papa just seems stunned but Allegra understands immediately. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”
My gaze is drawn to the door, to where a woman around Allegra’s age is entering.
She’s dressed in a housekeeper’s uniform and is curvy and homely looking.
A deep sense of relief washes over me as I wait for her greeting.
But it’s a greeting that never comes. In fact, she doesn’t even cast her eyes in my direction.
She looks only at Alessio. A cool wave puts out the small fire of hope that started up at first sight of her.
Is this how Alessio commands his staff? They are not to acknowledge anyone but him?
The woman looks at Alessio the entire time as he gathers our drinks requests, then walks out of the room without even a blink our way. My breath stutters at the cool reception. I hope this isn’t an indication of what life in this family is like. I will die from loneliness.
I distract myself by seeking out Nicolò.
He sits a few chairs away. He’s taken his place thankfully without fuss, as a brother and Di Santo capo.
He’s watching the room the way I imagine he does during his business meetings—carefully.
Calculating moves and cataloguing people and exits.
This is how he watches Alessio’s men, without hardly moving a muscle.
No one speaks as we wait for the drinks to be served, and no one speaks after.
It is the most uncomfortable silence I’ve ever been party to.
Alessio watches me occasionally so I have to make sure I stare at nothing, but my face is burning up from the heat of Nicolò’s gaze.
It’s locked on me and hasn’t moved since we all sat down.
Alessio keeps beckoning his men and whispering hushed commands in their ears. I get the impression he’s impatient for my father and aunt to leave. When Papa places his empty cup on the tray, Allegra shoots me an apologetic look. It’s time for them to go.
I stand as they say goodbye and hold back the tears for when I’m alone. I won’t show weakness, not when my family is depending on me to make this alliance a success. But watching them walk out of this room to a waiting car makes me want to break down on the floor.
Alessio watches them leave then rings a bell on the wall. The housekeeper returns and again doesn’t seem to notice I’m there.
“Ria, show Miss Castellano to her rooms.”
I swallow. Rooms?
“Of course, sir,” the woman replies, warmly. Then she walks past me without looking my way, only hesitating at the door because it’s taken me a few seconds to realize I should be following.
I feel foolish as I catch her up, then just as I enter the hallway, I glance back to see Nicolò standing in the open doorway and his eyes find mine.
He hasn’t moved because moving would do more harm than good, but the promise in his eyes is enough for now.
He is here, in the same house, and that alone makes me feel comforted.