8. Lucia
Chapter eight
Lucia
Three Months Later, Las Vegas
M y hands shake and my stomach churns. It’s been like this for days—no, make that months. I give the man sitting beside me a sideways glance. How the hell did we end up here? My fingers curl around the armrest of the private jet’s buttery-soft leather seat.
Antonio’s cologne wafts over to me, and I take a moment to breathe in the rich scent. It’s the one I gave him for his last birthday, and that he’s worn ever since. Bergamot mixed with exotic spices, and on him, it conjures memories of a fresh Capri breeze whipping in from the sea.
It’s not only his scent that teases my senses; everything about him feels different today.
It’s like I’m back to being the giddy teenage girl with a massive crush on the cute American boy.
My same childhood friend who is about to become my husband, and it’s flipped my world upside down. My breath hitches.
I’ve railed against following my father’s commands all my life, yet here I am doing exactly what he wanted.
Well, maybe not exactly, but I’m going to become Lucia Barbieri, and that was his goal all along.
I doubt he’ll care which brother I’ve married when he had no regard for my opinion on the matter.
“What time is Rose arriving?” Antonio asks, making me jump in my seat at the suddenness of the question.
We’ve been traveling for hours, and throughout that whole time, we’ve only exchanged a few sentences.
Each of us lost in our own thoughts. For me, that’s been a wander through some dusty childhood memories.
Like a visit to the National Central Library of Florence, each moment with Antonio is a volume steeped in history and full of treasure.
With a glance to the side, I see he’s waiting for me to answer. “Umm, she should already be there.” I tap the screen of my cell to check for messages. “Sì, she’s at the hotel.”
“So are my brothers,” he says in a flat tone, like he’s reporting the latest weather forecast.
“Okay,” I mumble, floundering in the stilted conversation.
My head spins with a million thoughts, none of them turning into words, and I dip my head back to my cell and start scrolling through my social media accounts.
It’s times like this when I’m grateful for the distraction it brings.
Cake decorating videos capture my attention, and I happily dive down that rabbit hole of nothingness to occupy me for the remainder of the flight.
Avoiding tough conversations is becoming my new superpower.
“This is Captain Rossi speaking. We are about to start our descent into Las Vegas. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts for landing.” The metallic voice fills the cabin as we begin our approach to the airport.
Already? I would have been happy with our jet circling overhead for a few more hours. But that wish is crushed when a few bumps later, we’ve landed, everything after whizzing by in a blur of frenetic activity.
Customs, baggage claim, and then we’re in the back seat of a limousine, being driven to the Clark County Marriage License Bureau. Antonio says something about it being necessary for us to collect the license in person, but I’m not really listening.
At the bureau, I speak when spoken to and smile at the lady behind the counter, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels pasted on my face. Ant tucks the paperwork into his suit pocket, and then we’re back in the car on our way to the hotel.
It’s like somebody has pressed the fast-forward button, and I’m incapable of hitting pause.
One foot in front of the other, I once again follow Ant’s broad shoulders as he cuts a path through the casino crowds to the hotel reception.
The lady behind the counter hands him the key cards to our suite, and we’re off again.
The countdown clock is running, and with each passing second, my heart freezes a little more.
I’m overwhelmed by so many conflicting emotions that it’s the only way for me to keep going.
A snick of the lock as Ant swipes the key card over the panel, and we’re in our suite.
The air whooshes from my lungs for the first time since I descended the steps of the jet.
Another few steps forward, and I’m standing in the center of the shared living space between the two en suite bedrooms. It’s similar in layout to the suite in Florence, with only the decor and furniture setting it apart.
The room is nice, a calming cream and dusky-pink color scheme, with white Carrera marble floors and a large plush rug that I want to curl my toes into in the living area.
Anything to tether me to what otherwise feels like an unbelievable scenario.
I’m marrying Antonio Barbieri in a few hours, and the understated luxury and expansive view of Vegas out the floor-to-ceiling window is doing nothing to relieve the rock-hard ball of panic in my belly.
“Do you want me to ask Rose to come?” Ant asks in a gentle tone. It’s the same low voice he was using on the plane, like a few decibels higher will shatter me.
“No, I’ve got it.”
He’s handling the situation better than I am, given this isn’t how he saw his future turning out either. Like me, he’s a pawn in our fathers’ game of control. And like me, he’s gambling with his future happiness too. Double or nothing seems appropriate when we’re in Vegas.
“Okay.”
This is what we’ve been reduced to, single-word responses.
Ant disappears into his room, and my shoulders relax a little.
It’s hard pretending to be strong, even with him, when inside I’m so fragile I could shatter into a million pieces at any moment.
I stroll over to the window and pull out my cell to send Rose a text with the suite number.
“I’m going to go meet my brothers,” Ant says, returning to the living space.
My body stiffens, but otherwise, I don’t move.
He steps closer, turning me slowly until our gazes catch.
Indecision clouds his eyes. He feels this disconnect too.
And when he opens his arms, I move into their circle, and they close around me.
I sink into the comfort of his embrace, and for the first time in a long while, I relax a little.
Maybe this is what I needed all along, to be held.
“It’s okay, we’ve got this,” he whispers next to my ear.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. This might be our last hug as friends, and I don’t want to let go. In just over an hour, we will be downstairs on a terrace saying I do. Regardless of what we hope to happen or what promises we make, this wedding will change everything.
The moment is over too soon, ending with a light kiss on my forehead. And it’s sweeter than every other time he’s done this in the past, lingering a moment longer as he inhales deeply.
He steps back. “I’ll see you downstairs, then?” His eyes are full of uncertainty as he seeks reassurance in mine.
“I’ll be there.” I won’t let him down. He’s always shown up for me, and this is my time to show up for him.
He picks up his suit carrier and leaves. Turning back to the window, I wrap my arms around my waist, hoping to hold in the emotion filling my chest cavity. I just have to hold it together a little longer.
A light knock raps at the door, and Rose sweeps in like a breath of fresh air, carrying a bottle of champagne. With her usual exuberance, she hustles me toward the shower with a bunch of instructions. This is exactly what I need—a Rose-reboot to get me out of this funk I’ve fallen into.
Half an hour later, I’m showered and dressed, but the reflection of the bride in the floor-length mirror doesn’t feel like me.
This isn’t how I imagined my wedding day would be.
Even if, as a teenager, this was the man I hoped to be standing beside.
My childish fantasies were way more extravagant.
My dress was fuller like a fairy-tale princess, with a long train and sparkling crystals handsewn onto the fitted bodice.
Even at that age, I aspired to be a fashion designer.
At least one of my dreams came true .
I run my hands down the ivory silk fabric from hip to thigh.
The simple tea-length dress slides over my curves.
The cowl neckline dips between my breasts, and thin beaded straps go over my shoulders to intricately lace the fabric together across my back, leaving it mostly bare. It’s Vegas sexy, rather than romantic.
“Beautiful,” Rose enthuses, standing beside me. She’ll be my maid of honor, not that the occasion warrants one, but I’ll feel much better having her beside me. For her, I designed a similar black silk dress, with thin straps over the shoulder and a thigh-high split in the front.
“Grazie. And you are too.” I smile back at my friend.
“A glass of champagne to settle the nerves?” she asks, holding out a flute filled with bubbles.
“I might need more than one.”
Her brow creases in concern. “Luce, you don’t have to go through with this. Antonio would understand if you couldn’t.”
“There’s no other way to break the contract.” We’ve had this conversation—or similar ones—a few times now, ever since I told her of my plan to marry Ant. And every time, she’s tried to talk me out of it.
“I’m worried about you getting hurt.”
I turn to face her fully. “It’s okay, Ant won’t let that happen.”
She raises her glass to take another sip while her gaze searches mine. Her blue eyes dart back and forth, but she doesn’t say anything. I’ve never known her to hold back her opinion before.
“Go on, say what you’re thinking,” I urge.
“Antonio would never deliberately hurt you, but …” She takes a breath, and I hold mine. “But we both know you’re in love with him. You always have been.”
The breath I was holding whooshes from my lungs. I tug my hand from hers and walk over to the minibar to refill my glass. “I don’t love, love him. I love him as a friend, just like I love you.”
She purses her lips and makes a hissing sound. “You can pretend all you want to, but I could see the truth from the day you arrived at boarding school. You could not stop talking about the cute American boy who was your friend, and nothing’s changed. You light up whenever his name is mentioned.”
I gulp down some of the champagne I just poured, and my eyes water as the bubbles explode in my mouth. It’s a good excuse to not reply.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I just want you to be sure you know what you’re doing.”
With a nod, I look down at the glass in my hand. It’s not steady at all.
Am I doing the right thing, marrying Ant? I hope so. And I lift the glass to my lips, sipping the rest this time.
***
A secret Vegas wedding still feels sad, even with the Bellagio fountain as a backdrop.
It’s a beautiful setting, but the balcony with the traditional Italian-style balustrade only makes me wish for the real thing.
I should have finished the bottle of champagne with Rose; then I wouldn’t be having to fight back the urge to burst into tears.
With a nudge and a nod from Gio, Antonio turns to where I’m hovering inside the doors that lead out to the terrace. He puffs out a breath and his whole body loosens.
In a few long strides, he’s in front of me and taking my hand in his. He dips, brushing his lips against my cheek. “Gorgeous,” he whispers against the shell of my ear.
My breath catches. If only this was real . But I’m not foolish enough to be carried away on the romance of the moment. Straightening up again, he hands me a pure white rose. Not yellow like he sends me every year on my birthday, but white. My brow lifts.
“To our new beginning,” he says, and his mouth stretches into a warm smile.
I squeeze his hand back. “I like the sound of that.” My fear of losing my friend floats away on the soft melody of the music piped out of a nearby speaker. I’m not losing him; we’re merely starting something new together.
“Are you ready?”
“Let’s do this.”
His smile widens as, hand in hand, we walk toward the celebrant, his brothers, and Rose, who are all waiting for us.