Chapter 23
Gemma
I awoke to the same routine, no different from any other day. Enzo carted my breakfast tray and arranged the platter across my lap. “ Buongiorno , little wife.” He kissed my head.
Little wife? The term had been on his lips more than usual since the incident.
He’d stayed at my side every day during the first two weeks of my recovery, more attentive than ever before.
I must admit, these last two weeks with him back at work had been hard.
I missed him like crazy and eagerly waited for him to return.
Doubt crept into the back of my mind. What was his intent?
We hadn’t discussed the night at the festival…
his admission of his feelings. Maybe he did lie to his mother to get her off his back.
Not the first lie I’d seen him feed her.
The whole ordeal left me a tangled mess of confusion, and the more I steeped in Enzo’s affections, the harder I fought the dangerous hum in my chest.
“Eat before your breakfast goes cold. Lisandra will be here soon to clean your room.”
He’d hired nurses and extra staff during the first week of my recovery.
Considering my shoulder only suffered a little tenderness now, the nurses were no longer needed.
But he’d kept Lisandra. She spoke fluent English, and we were the same age.
I smiled, recognizing his real motive. He kept her on the payroll because he didn’t have the heart to part me from my new friend.
“Aren’t you due at the office now?” I arched a brow.
He chuckled and eased back in the armchair by my bed. “Are you eager to get rid of me?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged and sipped my juice.
He glimpsed his watch, frowned, and stood. “I should go.” He bent forward and kissed my forehead. “I’ll see you this afternoon for our walk.”
We walked every day in the garden for fresh air and exercise, then lounged in the library for some quiet reading.
Neither of us ever did any reading; too much time spent stealing glances.
Flutters erupted in my belly whenever he looked my way.
Deep down, I lived for those delicious flutters, craved them.
The more time spent with Enzo, the more I wished his vow to his mother disappeared from above our heads.
I imagined us as a real couple with a real chance at happiness.
A few weeks ago, when I felt like a complete invalid but refused to bother anyone, I fetched my own glass of water downstairs.
Carina and Enzo were arguing in the living area.
His mother belittled him for his attentiveness at my bedside.
He’d snapped at the woman, told her to cut it out, but otherwise didn’t deny nor undermine his hovering.
Afterward, Carina had burst into my bedroom.
Her sole purpose for dropping in centered on goading me, reminding me I’d forever be the enemy, regardless of Enzo’s care.
A small part of me had hoped she’d come to wish me well, but instead she stole the opportunity to shove her son’s vow in my face.
“And what happens once you succeed in this plan, huh? Will you become a doting mother? Have you ever cared for Enzo, or is he no more than a pawn to avenge you? Instead of destroying my life, you’ve robbed yourself of life, of happiness, of a relationship with your sons.”
Her eyes blazed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, girl!”
“I know you have Vito’s ring. The same ring Nicolo De Luca wants. You could end this war, keep your family safe, but your stubborn pride is in the way. Give back the ring, Carina.”
She poked her own chest. “Once I hand it over, I’m as good as dead.”
“You’re wrong.” I slammed both fists into the mattress beneath me. “Nicolo doesn’t care to avenge his father. It sounds to me like he had no real affection for the man. He just wants the ring, nothing more.”
“Oh, Gemma, how naive you are about our world.” She raised a pointed finger, her eyes flickering with a chilling glint. “That ring is an insurance policy, a safety net I plan to pass onto my sons and protect the next generation. I won’t give it up for anything, you hear me?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, determined to get through to her. “Nicolo won’t stop. He’ll hunt down everyone you love until he has what’s rightfully his.”
Her sharp gaze snapped to me, sending a chill down my spine. “Have you told Enzo about this?”
I shook my head, the guilt a heavy weight in my chest.
“Good. Keep it that way. I’ve taken care of my sons their entire lives… I’m not about to quit now.” She stalked out of the room. The scent of her expensive floral perfume lingered, a sweet contradiction to the woman who wore it, a suffocating reminder of everything standing between Enzo and me.
I didn’t give up even after she’d stormed out.
A few times now, I snuck into Carina’s room in search of the ring, but had no such luck.
In her walk-in closet, behind the array of clothes, sat a safe.
I bet she kept the ring hidden there. Without the code, I held no chance of attaining it.
If I influenced Carina to like me—at least behave civilly toward me—perhaps she’d give up on her vendetta.
She might make peace with the De Lucas, giving Enzo and me a real chance at happiness.
“ Buongiorno , Gemma.” The young maid greeted, cheery as usual. “What shall we do today? Play cards?”
I removed the tray and flung back the covers. “Lisandra. Did you see Carina downstairs, or has she left for the morning?”
Lisandra paused from gathering my clothes off the floor and dropping them into the small hamper at her hip. “She’s in the parlor.”
Perfect. “I need your help.”
◆◆◆
“Come on.” I sailed into the parlor, cheery on the outside, but my heart hammered against my ribs. “We’re having pedicures, and I’m painting our toenails.”
Carina looked up from a stack of documents, lowering her reading glasses down her nose. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I towed her by the hand toward the kitchen.
She glanced around for… Enzo? A maid? Anyone to save her? “I’m in no mood for games.”
“This isn’t a game. I’m bored. All the staff are busy. So, you’re up.” A lie, and a bad one at that. Carina wasn’t stupid. Inside the kitchen, I led her to the two basins Lisandra prepared. A variety of nail polish perched on a small stool between our basins. “Shoes off.”
She scrutinized the area as if a prankster lurked, her gaze lingering on the exit. “This isn’t a joke?”
I kicked off my flats. “Not a joke, I swear.” I plonked onto my seat and immersed my feet in the tepid water. “Leave, and I’ll chase you. My feet are wet, so if I run, I might fall and break my neck. Then you can kiss your revenge goodbye.”
The older woman huffed, slipped off her shoes, and peeled away her knee-length pantyhose. She sank into the chair beside mine and lowered her feet into the water. Her stern face softened, and she released a deep, gratifying sigh.
“Nice, huh?” I wiggled my toes, getting a kick out of how Carina enjoyed this. The woman perfected her cold demeanor, even in the presence of her own sons. I doubt she treated herself to manicures, pedicures, or massages.
She glowered at me from her peripheral; her guard back up.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. I feared any more verbal communication might scare her away.
I waited for her scoff, the inevitable dismissal of my silly pedicure offer.
But it didn’t come. Hope bloomed inside.
Maybe this little interplay was bonding us—by the tiniest fraction.
I dried my legs with the towel under my chair and knelt in front of Carina, the cool tiles a momentary shock against my knees. I shuffled the small stool containing the nail polish closer.
“What are you doing?” Skepticism laced her tone.
Why sound so wary? Did she assume I’d cut off her toes rather than paint them? I bit the inside of my cheek, dispelling my snicker. “Choose a color.” I gestured to the little bottles.
“No. You do yourself.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t need—”
I clapped, cutting off her protest, a little trick I learned when working with toddlers. “Carina, choose.”
From the way her jaw strained, she disliked me bossing her. “Red.”
The color of blood to remind us both what this was all about.
At least she responded. Progress, right?
I dipped my hands in the water and lifted her feet onto the padded stool, then claimed a clean towel and dabbed her feet dry.
In silence, she studied me as if a mythical creature pedicured her feet.
I shook the red polish, unscrewed the bottle, and commenced painting her toenails.
Carina bent forward to observe my handiwork, probably expecting me to do a horrible job to slight her. I ignored her scrutiny and continued painting. She unrolled her shoulders and at last relaxed further into the chair.
I racked my brain for conversation starters, the suffocating silence a weight pressing me down.
“Have you ever tried chamomile tea?” I blurted, barely pausing for breath before launching into a rambling explanation about the benefits of teas and herbs, the vitamins they contained, their health-boosting properties.
It was a conversation I’d had countless times with my father.
I didn’t expect Carina to engage, but the chatter, even one-sided, was better than silence.
By the second coat, a soft sniffle sounded above me.
I paused mid-sentence, forgetting all about the vitamin C in cauliflower, Carina’s pinky still in my grip.
A single tear shimmered on her cheek. “Did I hurt you?” I analyzed her foot to see if I had scratched her by accident.
“No. I’m fine.” She wiped away the tear staining her cheek. “This must be what it’s like to have a daughter.” The last word, daughter , died on her lips.