4. Lucia
Chapter four
Lucia
S ummoned. That’s the only way to describe the phone call from my father that had me rushing back to Florence. I know better than to ignore his demands. And thanks to Ant helping me out of a yet another bind, I’ll make it to my father’s house earlier than the time demanded.
Nerves tilt my last meal from side to side in the pit of my stomach as the car eats up the miles to Papa’s villa on the outskirts of the city. Closing my eyes, I try to recapture the peace of waking up in Capri only this morning, but I can’t manage it.
Ping. I glance at my phone, grateful for the distraction. Dante has replied to my earlier message, asking if he’s joining us.
Dante: Ciao, Luce. I’m in Rome and haven’t heard from Papa in over a week.
I can’t remember the last time, if ever, I was invited to have dinner alone with my father, and I’m edging toward panic as I throw various possibilities around in my head.
If I thought it would help, I’d call Dante to talk me down off the cliff, but as the only other person who understands our father, I don’t expect he’d have anything to say that would actually work.
It’s more likely he’d ratchet up my stress level.
Digging my teeth into my bottom lip, I chew off the lipstick I applied only a few minutes ago, before I check the time on my cell again. At least I have the perfect excuse ready to make this visit short: my flight to London later this evening.
It was Ant’s suggestion when he saw how worried I was about the meeting.
Leaning back against the buttery-soft leather of the headrest, I close my eyes and think about my week ahead.
London Fashion Week is a dream come true, with international recognition.
And for the first time, the models will be walking on a global stage wearing my new designs.
A different kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.
They unfurl their wings in a joyous dance of success at having reached this career milestone, my first major fashion week show.
My work is something my father can never take away from me. But with that thought, a new kernel of concern washes over me .
Is this why he wants to see me now?
My eyes spring back open. No, I would fight that. Like Antonio said. You have to choose your battles carefully.
The car crunches to a stop in the gravel driveway at the front of the house I once lived in.
That was so long ago, though, that any remnants of affection at seeing the imposing stone facade have long since disappeared.
This building never really felt like a home, with the immaculate, luxurious interiors that looked like a photographer could arrive at any moment to do a feature for a lifestyle magazine.
Even Mamma refuses to spend time at the house that lacks any signs of it being a family home, instead preferring to live in the Rome apartment.
To the world, my parents are the perfect couple, but in reality, they barely tolerate each other, choosing to live separate lives.
A deep inhale lifts my shoulders almost to my ears, and on the exhale, they drop again. It does little to slow my pounding heart as I step out of the car.
“Grazie,” I mutter to the driver before turning and trudging toward the imposing entrance.
Curling my fingers under the solid brass knocker, I tap it several times against the double-height wooden door. I wait, knowing better than to turn the handle and walk in unannounced.
One of my father’s assistants pulls the door open. I don’t recognize her, which isn’t surprising, considering his turnover of staff is high. Another fact that’s not shocking.
“Your father has asked for you to join him in the study,” she says, her British accent so sharp it could break glass.
I thank her and follow the wide hallway to the end, my heels clicking against the terrazzo tiles in time with the ornately carved wall clock hanging halfway along.
The ticking a reminder of the times during my childhood when Dante and I would be called to my father’s study, usually to be reprimanded for nothing more than being children.
Maybe it’s time I stopped letting this man and house turn me back into that scared little girl. In every other aspect of my life, I’m a strong, independent woman, and I summon every ounce of that self-confidence I possess before knocking on the study door.
“Entra,” he orders, and I ignore the slight tremble of my fingers as I turn the handle and stride into the room.
Franco Romano is an intimidating figure in any setting, but as he sits behind the large antique desk in the middle of the room, it’s like I’ve walked into the lion’s den.
“Sit,” he commands.
“Thank you,” I reply, sugarcoating the words with a sweet smile while I perch on the edge of the leather chair directly opposite.
His features remain set. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s had a recent injection of Botox, they are so lacking in movement. “I expect you are wondering why I asked you here today.”
“You mean it’s not just to have dinner with your daughter?
” I ask before I have to look away from his expressionless stare.
Where is the anger I’d normally see flaring in his brown eyes after such a taunt?
A wave of uneasiness washes over me, landing like a lead weight in my chest, and I fold my hands together on my lap to hold them steady.
“No, Lucia.” His voice rises several decibels, breaking through the silence. “You’re here to fulfill your duty as my only daughter.”
My head jerks up as my gaze narrows. “And what would that duty be?” I hate that my voice wobbles.
“You are to marry.”
I jump to my feet. “What? No.”
“Sit down,” he booms, and even though my legs are shaking, I remain standing.
“No. And no, I … am … not … getting married just because you demand it.”
“Don’t argue with me, Lucia. This was always the plan.”
In my head, I fill in the gaps. A pretty ornament to hang on the arm of some wealthy man my father deems acceptable to become part of the Romano family. A perfect trophy wife. An incubator to provide heirs.
My heart cracks, and I imagine the tinkling sound as it shatters into a million tiny pieces at my feet.
I’d hoped one day to meet a man, fall in love, and have a family.
Someone who is kindhearted, encourages and supports my career aspirations, and wants a family as much as me.
But what my father is suggesting is nothing like that.
“There is no one I want to marry.” The fight seeps out of me by the second.
“That is not important. This is about duty, and because you have failed to find a suitable husband, I have chosen one for you.”
My jaw drops. Tears well, clouding my vision. But I won’t let them fall; my father hates signs of weakness. And I refuse to let him see how much he has hurt me with his words.
“Who?” I croak out through a suddenly dry throat. Please don’t let it be someone a lot older.
He smiles smugly, and a fissure of fear races up my spine.
“Giovanni Barbieri,” he pronounces.
“No!” I shout again, before I can think better of it. Antonio’s older brother? No. He’s not the Barbieri boy I fell in love with as a teenager.
My father’s thick brow descends in a frown. The first sign of emotion.
“You will,” he roars. “It was agreed upon when you were a child, and now it’s time that our families are joined as one. My grandchildren will be part of the Barbieri family.”
He leans back in his chair, resting his hands on his belly. A smug smile plastered across his face and completely unaware that he’s blown up my future happiness.
“I can’t marry Giovanni,” I plead, the tears now falling unchecked.
“Stop with the hysterics. You will do this to honor your family. Now go and fix yourself for dinner.” He waves his hand in dismissal of me before spinning his chair around to face out the window.
My shoulders slump, and I turn to leave but stop to look back before reaching the door. “Does … does Gio … know?” I stammer.
He spins back around to glare at me. “He was meeting with his father this afternoon.”
This time when I turn, I do go, stumbling on the edge of the rug in my rush to get away.
And I don’t stop until I’m out of the house and falling into the back seat of the car.
Somehow through the sobs, I manage to tell the driver to take me back to the airport.
It’s way too early for my flight, but I don’t care.
Anywhere is better than remaining at my father’s house, eating a meal and pretending that what he’s asked of me isn’t some archaic, misogynistic, bullshit tradition that I want no part of.
I’ll hide out in the first-class lounge for a couple of hours until my flight to London, and maybe I can figure out a way to change my father’s mind.
But then, remembering my father’s last words, I realize I’m not in this alone.
Gio met with his father, too, and he’ll know how to stop this madness.
I pull out my cell and scroll through my contacts to find his number.
I’m sure Antonio gave it to me a couple years ago when the fashion house I worked for wanted to order wine for a show.
My fingers shake as I hover over the number. I don’t know whether to speak to Antonio or Giovanni first. The fact that Ant hasn’t tried to call me means he likely doesn’t know yet, and honestly, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to tell him that my father wants me to marry his brother.
Fresh tears run down my cheeks, and I brush them away. I’m in no fit state to talk to anyone at the moment.
I’ll call Ant when I land in London. Time and distance will surely help me get the words out.
Of course, my secret hope is that Gio will have told him first.