Chapter 10
Enzo
I cut the engine, the stillness almost a balm after the ebb and flow of voices and horns in Messina.
Giulia greeted me in the foyer and took my briefcase. The aroma of baked focaccia filled the air, a promise of homeliness the mansion almost never offered. She twisted her fingers together, not meeting my eyes—a bad sign. “What’s the matter, Giulia?”
“It’s Gemma.” She released a long sigh. “She’s upset…no left her room all day.” Giulia held out her palm. “I asked her, want to visit the library or pool?” Her hand rose in a stop signal. “ Ma , she refused.”
I rubbed my forehead. My little wife insisted on making life more complicated. “Where is she now?”
“In her room, reading her bibbia . I worry, Enzo. She ate nothing yesterday, and this morning, niente . Only two bites of toast. The dress fitter will come in two weeks, but if Gemma no eat, she no fit in dress.”
I stared up at the staircase, bracing for another inevitable argument.
Considering the last few days, I anticipated her lack of appetite, but expected hunger would force her to eat.
Starvation wasn’t a pleasant experience; the dull ache low in the stomach, the sense of vertigo and nausea…
I clenched my jaw, dismissing the memory. “A dress fitter?”
She tilted forward at my sudden frown. “For your Zio’s party.”
My mother’s brother. I almost forgot the event neared. “When’s dinner being served?”
She beamed as though I already solved the matter. “In five minutes, I’m about to call your mother and brother.”
“Go ahead. I’ll make sure she comes down to eat.” I charged upstairs, a silent plea forming in my mind. For once, let her be reasonable.
The guards at her door stepped aside. I clutched the handle, my fingers already turning it before I checked myself. This wasn’t my room anymore. Not entirely. Knocking on the door, I warned her of my presence, the formality grating on me.
“Come in,” she called out, her voice muffled.
Gemma reclined on the bed, dressed in a casual outfit—jeans and a t-shirt. Not the silk pajamas or designer loungewear I could afford her, but standard denims. She actually looked comfortable. As rigid as a taxidermied animal, she kept her head buried in the book open in her lap.
I stood over her, arms crossed. So, this was how she used the freedom I’d given her to roam the house? Burying herself in a book. “Come downstairs for dinner,” I managed, the words feeling like shards of glass scratching their way out.
She snapped the book shut—the same marriage devotional she’d thrown at me the other day. My scalp still tingled under my curls, a ghost of the impact.
“I’m not hungry.” Her voice, short and clipped, left no room for argument.
The lingering scent of burnt coffee clung to my suit from the earlier bump-in with a coworker inside the elevator, a reminder of the day’s disasters.
Road closures, a sick assistant, a lunchtime blackout…
and now this, from my little wife! My jaw clenched, a muscle pulsed in my cheek.
Calm . Lombardy ran like clockwork; I yearned for the order my hometown offered.
My voice, even to my own ears, dripped with a dangerous smoothness.
“One piece of toast all day? You must be starving.”
“What?” The word cracked out of her, and she straightened. “Are you tracking my calories?”
My eye twitched. I clenched my fists. This woman’s deliberate defiance pushed me to the edge. “Maybe I will. You look like you could use a pound or two on those bones. Now come downstairs.”
She slammed her Bible on the duvet. “No. I won’t sit at the same table as the woman who threatened my mother.”
“She’s your mother-in-law now.” I hoped she’d be a little softer today, considering she got her way last night by kicking me out of my room, our room. Instead, I get a lockdown and hunger strike. “Stop being disrespectful.”
“Respect?” She huffed a laugh and retrieved her Bible, flipping through the pages. “You listen here, buddy. I’m more than capable of treating people with respect , but I refuse to share a meal with that woman.”
Something obviously happened. I’d tell Carina to cut her some slack… later. Right now, Gemma wasn’t starving herself to death. I plucked the Bible from her hands, tossed the book aside, and hoisted her over my shoulder.
“Put me down!” She shouted at my back, kicking. I secured her legs against my chest, marched her downstairs, and ignored her screams ringing my ears. Necessary. Perhaps she’d thank me later, when she finally satisfied her hunger. Maybe .
I barged into the dining hall.
Carina’s gaze flared.
Lucio’s jaw dropped.
Dumping her into her seat in front of her hot meal, I too plunked into the chair at the head of the table.
My limbs shook with suppressed rage, and I inhaled a breath, catching hints of the focaccia I detected earlier.
A spread of pasta, bread, cheese, and olives overflowed the table, a feast meant for family, yet this table couldn’t be anymore divided.
“Our bride has joined us at last, I see.” Carina abandoned any attempt to hide the cruelness in her taunt.
“Cut it out!” I stabbed my fork into my pasta and eggplant, the tines letting out a high-pitched screech against the ceramic. “You and I will talk later.”
Carina tilted her nose, her eyes flickering.
My mother would have known Gemma isolated and starved herself today.
I get she hated the woman, but I never agreed to torturing the poor girl.
A spark ignited within me at the threat of my mother harming her, but I tamped it down.
No, Carina wouldn’t dare. Seeing the plan through meant too much, even for her to jeopardize.
Gemma bared her teeth and raised her fork. No doubt to poke out my eye. “You want me to eat? Fine!” She stabbed the plate and shoveled in mouthful after mouthful. “See, I’m eating.” More mouthfuls. “ Wook?” Cheeks glutted, she mumbled through her food. “ Woo wappy wow?”
Carina stroked her throat, wrinkling her nose.
Lucio stamped his lips together, but the attempt did nothing to smother the humor twinkling in his eyes.
Vigilant, I listened out for gagging in case her stupid tantrum resulted in her choking.
The fork in my hand indented my palm with how hard I squeezed the metal.
Who’d given this woman a handbook on how to push all my buttons?
I snatched the hock glass, gulping the smooth red in one go, the fine wine leaving a bitter aftertaste that had nothing to do with the vintage and everything to do with the patronizing woman beside me. “Si, thrilled.”
I returned to my own meal and ignored the pasta strands dangling out of her engorged mouth.
If she choked, she deserved nothing less.
Dead air stretched as we all ate our meals, the strain in the room so thick, I could barely breathe.
I tugged at my collar. Gemma didn’t frown at the lack of table talk, probably too consumed with inhaling her next breath.
The woman would suffer heartburn at this rate. Stubborn to the bone.
Carina and Lucio finished their meals and excused themselves, which left me and my oh-so-lovable wife at the table. I sipped the remnants of my wine and stole another peek at her.
She slumped in her seat, features contorted as she rubbed her tummy in small circles.
My shoulders dropped, exhaling a final harsh sigh through my nose at the sight of her discomfort. Tossing my napkin on the table, I shot out of my chair. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”
Her hand paused over her full stomach. She stared, eyes narrowed, perhaps gauging my purpose. At last, she snatched a napkin and dabbed her mouth. “Okay.” Her grimace conveyed she felt too sick to protest.
Good. Finally, she agreed without argument.
The instant I ushered her into the garden for our sunset stroll, her gaze lingered on the guards patrolling the villa, not at the rose bushes or fountain. She squinted, practically counting how many lurked. No wonder she agreed to join without dispute; freedom was the flower Gemma intended to pick.
The stiff set of her shoulders loosened, a silent acceptance of reality.
No escaping. Her hand, no longer shielding her eyes from the setting sun, fell to her side.
She ambled alongside me, at last pausing at the immaculate garden, tilting her head to inhale the fragrant citrus from the nearby groves.
The air buzzed, a thrumming energy of bees flitting from blossom to blossom.
“Tell the staff to call me Gemma. Just Gemma. Not Signora Cammarata.”
“Why?” No sense in fighting facts. “We are married now. Cammarata is your new name.”
She gave a mock laugh. “Married to a complete stranger. I know nothing about you. I don’t even know how old you are.”
I leisurely kicked at a stone, the pebble bouncing back into its place along the path. We were strangers, but from the moment I laid eyes on her, I didn’t want to be. “I’m thirty, if you must know.”
“Thirty!” She gawked and stumbled along the paved footpath to catch up to me. “Enzo, we share a nine-year age difference.”
Her distress over my age twitched my lips. “Same as my grandparents. What’s the big deal?”
She glimpsed from her peripheral and muttered under her breath. “Cradle snatcher.”
I bit my inner cheek. Cradle snatcher. As stated on her passport, she’d turned twenty-one six months ago, not a baby as she’d labeled herself.
“May I have my phone back?” The question verged on a demand, her pointed stare refusing to back down. “I owe my friends… Matthew, an explanation. I know them. They’ll be worried sick about me.”