Chapter 11 #2
I glance at him, unable to resist teasing him. “You’re ruthless in every room we walk into, you're a proper seducer, but tell a girl you like her, and you clam up like a schoolboy.”
He grunts in annoyance. “I’m biding my time,” he mutters. “I want to woo her. Properly. She's not the kind you impress with flowers and a dinner date.”
I lift a brow, chuckling. “And the harem?”
He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Married now. Blind to other women. Never thought I'd see the day.”
I chuckle. “Not denying it.”
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, his face curling into a grin. He flicks ash out the window. “Just don’t hurt Lili, that's all. If you do, I’ll marry her myself. She won’t resist me. I’m as good-looking as you. If not more so.”
I turn to glare at him. “You’re not half as good-looking as me.”
He grins. “Debatable.”
“I’d kill you, but then, I'll let the cigarettes do the job,” I say, half-joking.
We get to the estate, and the gates slide open. Guards nod as we pull into the garage. We climb out. Tomasso stretches, while I glance towards the house, half-expecting Liliana to appear.
Tomasso catches my look, and he smirks. “Waiting for your wife to roll out the welcome mat?”
I shoot him a look, and he laughs.
He starts in the opposite direction. “I’ve got business.”
“Your harem?” I ask dryly.
He only smirks and vanishes down the opposite path.
I should shower, freshen up. But I have to see Liliana first. It's either that or go mad. I've been deprived of her presence all day, and seeing her is the only thing that'll cure the ache in me. Knowing she'll be in the garden at this time, I head in that direction.
I get to the garden, and there she is.
She's bent low, hands wrist-deep in soil.
She's wearing one of her soft dresses that clings to her in the places I'd like to refamiliarize myself with again.
Her sleeves are rolled up. Her glorious hair falls loose, catching the misty light, and my body stirs hard.
The ache I felt earlier intensifies, spreading through me.
She’s unaware of me, her hands coaxing life from the earth. I stay rooted, drinking in the sight like a man too long in drought.
Behind me, I hear a familiar voice.
“Why are you watching your wife like a thief?”
I turn. Mamma.
I haven’t seen her since the day after the wedding.
She looks radiant, but her smile is all mischief.
“You look well,” I say.
“And you look smitten.”
I ignore her. “When did you arrive?”
“Hours ago. I’ve been with Liliana,” She pauses, dusting something off her crisp shirt. “Did you know she’s knitting you a scarf?”
My brows lift. “She is?”
Her lips twitch. “She doesn't say, but I guessed.”
My chest tightens as warmth floods me. She's knitting a scarf for me. That has to mean something. She's opening up.
My mother is watching me, her eyes annoyingly tender. The smile on my face slips. “Thank you for spending time with my wife,” I say sarcastically.
She laughs. “Giovanni Renzetti, you're jealous.” Her tone is full of wonder.
I shrug. “I should be the one spending time with her. You’re stealing her from me.”
“Well, you’re busy playing Don.” She laughs.
She steps past me, approaching Liliana with the ease of someone who’s done this before, someone who’s begun to love her in the quiet, seamless way a mother does. She bends slightly, taps her shoulder gently, then signs, Your husband is here.
Liliana straightens, her hands still in the soil.
Her head turns slowly, and when her gaze finds mine, something clenches inside me.
Her eyes are wide and startlingly blue in the sunlight.
There’s nowhere for her to run now. Not with my mother standing beside her, not with me watching her like I’ve done a hundred times since she became mine.
I move forward, drawn by something instinctive. Familiar heat coils low in my belly, building with every step I take. She’s on her knees in the dirt, a smear of soil across her cheekbone. She looks wild. Bare. Beautiful, in a way that punches the breath from my lungs.
She doesn’t move as I stop in front of her. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. I offer her my hand. Her fingers tremble just slightly as they slide into mine.
I pull her to her feet, steadying her by the waist. I let my hand settle there, just above her hip.
Her skin is warm. Her heartbeat is frantic.
I lower my head and press a kiss to her forehead.
It's slow and deliberate. I let it linger longer than necessary.
She smells like crushed rosemary and sun-warmed earth. I inhale her.
Then, because I’m weak where she’s concerned, because I’ve missed the feel of her and I know I’ll spend the rest of the day wanting more, I tilt her face up and press a kiss to her mouth.
It’s brief. Chaste, almost. But it sets something off in both of us, recalling the memory of our unfinished business three days ago. Her lips part in surprise. Her eyes flare wide, startled, soft. I pull back just enough to see her reaction. Her cheeks bloom with color. Her breath hitches.
She's fucking glorious.
I pull back regretfully. I sign, Have you eaten?
She blinks, still dazed. Then nods slowly.
My mother answers for her, her tone easy and amused. “We ate together.”
I glance at her, nod once, then return my eyes to Liliana. I need to freshen up, I sign. She doesn’t reply, just stares like she’s still recovering from the kiss. It pleases me more than it should.
I step away, turning toward the house, but I don’t make it far before I glance back over my shoulder.
My mother has already begun ushering her away from the garden, one hand on her back, the other waving her off. “That’s enough sun for today,” she says with mock sternness, like she’s scolding a child she’s already forgiven. Liliana looks up at her, smiling faintly, then back at me.
I don’t look away.
My mother wraps an arm around her shoulders and leads her down the path, talking as they go. Liliana listens, her hands loose at her sides, her steps easy.
Something swells in my chest as I watch them. My mother loves her. It makes my heart full.
Dinner is warm and alive with conversation. The kind that wafts through the air and winds its way around the clink of cutlery, the scent of roasted lamb and garlic, of fresh tomatoes still steaming in their skins, and the faint, herbal sharpness of basil.
Mother’s done something extraordinary with the risotto tonight. She'd insisted on making it. It's creamy and rich, each bite grounded in saffron and lemon zest. The wine is deep, red, full-bodied, and smooth on the tongue.
Tomasso is seated across from me, his sleeves rolled.
He has a glass in hand. He speaks animatedly, gesturing with a fork like it’s an extension of himself.
He and my mother speak easily, like they always do.
She treats him like a son, and has done so since we were boys.
He calls her "madre" as easily as he does his own mother, and she doesn’t correct him.
Now, she watches him like she would a second son, laughing at something dry and sarcastic he just said.
Liliana sits beside me, dressed in a slate-blue dinner dress.
The neckline is simple, the fabric soft.
Her hair is pinned up, delicate strands falling at her nape.
There’s a smear of pink across her cheeks that isn’t just from the wine.
Her eyes flick between us as she signs, her hands graceful, measured.
I’m trying not to touch her, and it's a battle I'm losing by the minute.
My fingers itch to graze her skin. Her profile stirs something deep in me.
The delicate curve of her neck. The way she dips her head when she signs.
I watch her more than I eat. She's so beautiful, it hurts just to look at her.
She’s getting more comfortable. She signs a joke, and Mother and Tomasso burst out laughing, obviously delighted. I feel myself smiling before I even realize it. I glance at her, and she catches me looking. She ducks her head slightly.
Dio, I want her. I reach for my wine to distract myself from the way my body tightens in reaction to her.
Soon, we're done with dinner. The dishes get cleared, and the wine gets replenished. Mother turns to Tomasso. “What have you been up to these days? Still chasing danger, or has peace found you at last?”
He grins. “Depends on who you ask. Giovanni says I attract chaos like perfume.”
“I'm not wrong,” I say, sipping.
Mother chuckles. “And are you still unattached, or will I finally see you walk down an aisle one day?”
When he doesn't answer, mother says, “I never thought your friend would either, but look at him—” she gestures to Liliana, a smile on her face, “—married to the woman of his dreams. Aren't you going to follow in his footsteps?”
I steal a glance at Liliana. Heat suffuses her cheeks. She brushes her hair behind her ear, hiding a smile behind her wineglass. The light catches her eyes and the curve of her throat, and my fingers twitch with the urge to reach for her. I tear my gaze away from her with deliberate effort.
Tomasso laughs. “Gio doesn’t like to be called my friend, so I’ll say this cautiously. But if my friend Giovanni can settle down, maybe there’s hope for me yet.”
I glare daggers at him.
Mother nudges Liliana playfully. “See the effect you have?”
Tomasso’s eyes flick to her, and his voice softens in the way it does when he's teasing. “Maybe when I find someone like Liliana, I’ll know it’s time.”
I tense just slightly. But it’s enough. Enough for the smile to falter on my lips. Damn Tomasso. He's using his charm on my wife, and damn if I'm not affected.
I look at Liliana. She smiles politely, tilting her head. Nothing more. I study her. Does she enjoy his attention? Is it welcome? I can’t tell, and I hate that I can’t tell.
Tomasso’s phone buzzes. He glances down, frowning slightly. “Excuse me,” he says, standing. “I need to take this.”