5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
My husband has only been alone with me for two minutes and is already stealing glances at his watch. “I’ll be in meetings most of the day.”
“Of course.”
Nico finishes his coffee and clears his throat. “Explore the house. Just stay away from the east tower.”
I nod. Curiosity has me wanting to go there immediately, but I know I shouldn’t disobey his wishes.
Servants move around us like ghosts, removing plates of half-eaten food and empty cups, but leaving mine for me. Not that I have much of an appetite.
“We’ll dine together if I’m home in time, but if I’m not, don’t wait up for me. Sometimes I stay overnight in the city.”
A strange mix of relief and disappointment settles in my chest. I understand the nature of this union, yet there is a part of me — foolish, hopeful even — that had imagined our small stolen glances and touches meant maybe he was attracted to me.
“I won’t,” I promise. The words come off sadder than I intend, and my cheeks redden. I hate how transparent I am.
Nico stands, pushing his chair back. He runs a hand through his dark hair. “We’ll talk later,” he assures, though it sounds more like a chore than anything.
He approaches me and touches his hand to my shoulder, then glides a finger along the slope to my neck and along my jaw. “Tonight, Fiore Mio.” His term of endearment confuses me.
I watch him leave, the resonance of his touch lingering far longer than the man himself. I pick at my untouched breakfast, yearning nibbling at my insides in ways a meal won’t fulfill me.
No. The only thing that will satisfy this craving is my husband and his touch.
Until then, I’ll have to find other ways to fill my time and satisfy this ache that has carved itself inside me.
The mansion is an expansive web, rich with rooms that ooze luxury and are untouched.
I let myself wander, nodding politely and saying hello to the employees I encounter as I explore.
Another housekeeper, a gardener, the chauffeur.
All of them are too busy working to pay me much attention.
Of course, his men are around, lurking like the whispers that seem to taunt me.
They don’t acknowledge me outwardly, but I feel their eyes on me.
Sunlight spills through tall windows, painting the halls in gold.
I should feel fortunate, living in this mansion and being married to a man like Nico Moretti.
But I’ve never been lonelier. I miss Lynette and even Gissette.
I want to talk to my friends. I can’t do that, though. They wouldn’t understand.
It isn’t like I go around advertising that my father is connected to the mafia.
I continue exploring, peering into rooms that look like no one ever sets foot in them. This place is more like a museum.
I imagine how it must have been once filled with laughter and children.
The whispers follow me down every corridor, and yet when I go in search of where they are coming from, I find nothing. No one. Maybe I’m imagining it. Not even twenty-four hours have passed and I’m losing my mind.
I walk the grounds, avoiding Catherine’s grave.
The air has a bite to it this morning. I rub my arms for warmth and wonder if Nico has a woman in the city. Someone he fucks. Is that why he didn’t want me last night? Wasn’t the point of this marriage for him to knock me up as soon as possible?
I’m bored and find myself back inside debating popping by Nico’s office to see if he’s still busy, but it’s the east tower that captures my attention.
A hallway — dark and silent, shut off from the rest of the world, guarded by the memories of someone who came before me.
The air feels different here, thicker and filled with secrets. Catherine’s secrets.
The doors are all closed, but there’s one that sticks out.
One with roses carved into the door. This must have been her room.
Catherine’s. The whispers return and seem to grow louder the closer I get.
I don’t know what they are saying, but I pause with my hand on the knob, knowing I’m doing the very thing Nico asked me not to.
What will he do if he finds out I disobeyed his order?
Will he punish me?
Maybe if I press his buttons, he’ll be forced to spend time with me. I should be glad he is happy to ignore me, but if anything, it makes me crave his attention. Dare I say his affection?
The smoky aroma I smelled last night is nearly overpowering. I cough and wave my hand in front of my face as I push the heavy door open.
Soot stains the walls and what furniture is left.
How long has it been this way? Each step I take further into the room gives me a thrill, like turning the pages of one of the novels my father forbade me to read.
How else was I going to learn about love?
Unrealistic love, but still. His marriage to my mother isn’t a good example of a loving relationship.
Like Nico and me, their marriage was also arranged. Father hated that Mother never gave him a son. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven her for it.
That isn’t the kind of marriage I’ve dreamed of having, but I’m afraid it’s the hand I’ve been dealt.
My mouth falls open as I study the mural on the wall. I trace what’s left of the circus clowns and animals that have begun to fade and chip away. This isn’t Catherine’s room. It used to be a nursery.
Did they have a child or were they expecting one?
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice from behind me makes me jump at the intrusion.
I turn, and a younger maid faces me, arms crossed like a guard on patrol. “These rooms are forbidden.” Her words are clipped, holding an unexpected edge to them.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but her expression says she is not one to be reasoned with.
“No one is allowed in here. Not even staff.”
“I didn’t realize,” I stammer, my cheeks flaming under her scrutiny. I am unsure of how to navigate this encounter. She works for Nico, which technically means she works for me. Mother always said to make sure the help knows their place. They aren’t your friends and are never to be trusted.
“Mr. Moretti wants everything as it is,” she says. “He doesn’t like people nosing where they shouldn’t,” she warns. “If he catches either of us here, there’ll be trouble.” There’s something unsettling about the certainty in her voice. As if she knows more about my husband than I ever will.
Jealousy flares inside me. “Then we’d better not get caught,” I tell her.
She nods, shooting me one more nasty look before spinning on her heel. Her skirt swishes with the movement. It’s short. Too short.
My gaze narrows on her as she struts down the corridor.
She’ll be the first person I get rid of once I fully step into my role as the head of this house.
Does Nico appreciate that she wears her skirt so damn short?
Is she one of his whores?
My father had an affair with the help once.
My mother walked in on them together in his office, and she killed her and spared my father. After that, he never fucked the help again and kept his affairs away from our home.
I close the door and find my way to the library.
I run a finger along the spines of books whose titles are familiar to me. He has the classics. I wonder if he has read any of them or if they are merely for show.
The maid’s warning clings to me like cobwebs, sticky and hard to brush off. I picture Nico, stern and unyielding, guarding his memories –––his shared past with Catherine — with the same intensity he defends his territory.
My mind flashes to images of him with Catherine and her belly swollen with a child he never held. What really happened to my husband’s first wife? Is it as everyone said? Did he murder her for money? Or is there more to the story?
He referred to her as his wife last night after saying his vows to me. He must have loved her. He must still love her.
I’m jealous of a dead woman. I have no right to be. I have no claim on Nico nor his heart. No more so than he has on me and mine, but part of me was hoping. Last night I dreamed of him––our life, our future together. One where he fell madly and deeply in love with me at first sight.
It’s nothing more than a fantasy. Like something in a movie or romance novel.
I thought when I left home, I’d travel and meet a mysterious stranger who’d take one look at me, and they’d know that I was it for them.
They’d look at me the way I imagined Nico was looking at me before I even exited the car.
And again, when it was only the two of us after he signed the contract with my father.
But all my hopes and wishes were dashed the moment his lips touched mine, and he would barely look at me. He probably kisses his grandmother with more passion than he gave me.
I grab a random book off the shelf, not bothering to check the title.
I’ll gladly escape to any reality but my own.
I flop down on a nearby brown leather sofa, sinking into the worn cushions.
Nico’s scent wraps around me, and I can’t help but think of him lounging here with a book or smoking a cigar.
I snort when I flip the book open and read the title page. The Art of War. I’m definitely in for a battle if I’m ever going to win my husband’s affection. Step one. Planning.
How do I seduce a Don?