Chapter 7
SEVEN
Lucia
The sight of vases of all sizes scattered haphazardly throughout the library brings a faint smile to my face for the first time today.
I’d be lying if I said my body didn’t freeze the moment I saw Tony at lunch.
I never expected to see him again after a year.
I thought he was gone from my life for good, and that thought brought a strange mix of relief and despair.
Relief that my secret would stay hidden. Despair that he was truly gone forever.
I can’t lie to myself, I still love him. A blind, senseless love. The kind only a first love can create. A love born from youthful naivety, growing wild with fantasy and delusion.
I’m not ungrateful. This past year under Carlo’s roof has been far easier than the nineteen years I spent under my father’s. I rarely see him, and that’s exactly how I want it. I’ve followed every rule to the letter, giving him no reason to come looking for me.
I know he has a parade of women outside this house. Even within these walls, he’s been sleeping with one of the maids, a woman named Aida. I don’t care. As long as he has someone to satisfy his urges and stay away from me, I have no complaints.
After that torturous lunch under Tony’s burning gaze, Carmen texted me about some extra flower pots. She’d had them delivered to the library. She asked me to organize them. Once I was sure she wasn’t home and there was no chance of running into her, I came here.
I run my fingers over the vibrant green leaves and purple blossoms of the beautiful plant in front of me.
It needs to be placed near sunlight. Picking it up, I walk toward the window when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man in the room.
My pulse races. I’m absolutely certain no one was in the library when I arrived.
I spin around and see Tony. My fingers go numb, and the flowerpot slips from my hands, shattering on the floor.
My hands stay suspended in mid-air. Tony stands before me, dressed in a three-piece designer suit, exuding his usual composure. His arrogant gaze briefly drops to the scattered dirt on the floor before it settles on me.
“Seems you’re scared.” His voice cuts through the air like a whip, snapping me out of my daze.
I lower my arms to my sides and take a step back. A hint of worry fills me.
“I’m not allowed to be alone with you,” I blurt out. Carlo’s threats echo in my mind.
His expression remains shuttered. He slips a hand into his pocket and steps closer.
“I know. You haven’t broken any rules, Princess. I’m the one who sought you out. If there’s any sin, it’s on me.”
His cologne wraps around me, warm and dangerous. The way he speaks so gently, walks with that masculine confidence, and looks at me with such heat, it all sends me into a trance. My eyes refuse to move, as if paralyzed.
Long moments pass before I finally pull myself together. What am I doing? Why am I acting like a flustered schoolgirl? I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, and force calm into my voice.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bruni. You know the rules of this house better than anyone. They can’t be broken.”
“Call me Tony.”
His casual, almost friendly response feels completely out of place, leaving me momentarily stunned.
He doesn’t seem drunk. So, is he out of his mind?
Does he even understand what I’m saying?
I’m not sure, but I need to leave before things get any worse.
To get out, I’ll have to pass by him. I start toward the door, but then my worst fear comes true.
He grabs my arm and yanks me in. I gape at him as his eyes flutter shut and he draws in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before looking at me again. But this time, his gaze is different, pure wickedness, raw hunger.
“Stay. I need to talk to you.” His tone is rough, more like a command than a request.
What does he possibly need to say to me? Could it be that he remembers that night? Oh, God, no. No.
Even if he remembers, I can’t let it show. I can’t give him the chance to speak of that night. He’s a capo now, leading a powerful organization in another country. He won’t stay here long. I just need to stall him until Carlo gets back.
But even as my body seems magnetized to him, pulling me closer despite my fear, I shake my head, forcing myself to resist.
“I can’t. Please, just let me go.”
His eyes widen slightly in what looks like shock, his body going still. It feels like his gaze sees right through me, into the deepest parts of who I am. Time stretches, every second heavy and slow.
“Are you sure?” There’s a warning in his voice that makes my palms damp with sweat.
I shake my head again, struggling to free my arm.
He doesn’t let go of me, his fingers digging into my flesh with a painful squeeze.
Then, as if making up his mind, he abruptly shoves me toward the door.
The force nearly makes me stumble, but I manage to catch my balance.
I stare at him in pure shock. Did he just push me?
Beyond the darkness of his eyes I can see the flames of fury, tinted by a trace of hate. It breaks my heart. I don’t want him to hate me, but there’s nothing I can do.
Before the tears well up, I quickly turn and rush out of the room. Thank God it’s the night I visit my grandmother. I won’t have to spend the evening under the same roof as him.
***
I arrange the cream-colored throw pillows neatly on the comfy sofa, then let myself sink into the cushions. My gaze sweeps the room, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the faint smell of fresh paint and glue.
It was about three months ago when the fire broke out, forcing Nonna, my grandmother, to live in a hotel until her house was repaired.
I glance over at her. As always, she’s sitting by the window, a half-burned cigarette resting between her thin fingers, her eyes fixed on the tree-lined street outside.
Those three months were hard on her. After more than fifteen years of living in this cozy, two-story apartment, it had become her sanctuary.
A place that seemed to fill the void left by her absent sons who don’t check in on her, the daughter she lost, and the grandchildren who don’t bother visiting, not even once in a blue moon.
Her short, white hair stirs slightly in the breeze.
I study her features intently; the dull blue of her sunken eyes, the fragile frame that’s more bone than flesh after years of substance abuse, and her thin, weathered hands.
There’s always a sadness in her gaze, a sorrow so deep it aches in my chest. It’s a sadness intertwined with regret, something I fear to my core.
The thought of becoming like her one day terrifies me.
She seems to sense my stare, turning her face toward me and catching my gaze. I offer her a smile, and she responds with a kind, gentle one of her own.
“The house looks just like it used to, Nonna. Do you like it?” I try to cheer her up.
She glances around and raises her trembling hand to take a drag from her cigarette. “Yes, I do. I love it even more now.”
“Why?”
“This house, like me, has been through fire. No amount of paint or polish on the walls can change the fact that it once burned in the flames.”
I frown as her words sink in. For a brief moment, I can’t help but wonder if the rumors are true, that she set the fire herself. The firefighters said the blaze started from her lit cigarette. Guilt makes me push the thought away.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask.
“No, sweetheart. I think I’ll go to bed. I’m tired. You must be exhausted too after everything today.”
“Not really. The movers had already done most of the work. I just made sure everything was where it needed to be.”
She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray, then walks toward me. Bending down, she plants a gentle kiss on my head.
“Thank you, my darling. Sleep well.”
I beam up at her. “Goodnight, Nonna.”
When I step into my room, I pause and blink in surprise. Everything is different. My old wooden bed has been replaced with a sleek, silver platform bed, its headboard etched with horizontal grooves. The scent of fresh paint hangs heavy in the air, a clear sign the walls have been redone.
I walk closer, inspecting the changes. That’s odd. The upstairs wasn’t touched by the fire, so why would anyone redecorate my room?
The soft click of the door closing behind me jolts me. I whip around, and my breath catches at the sight before me. Tony is standing there, calm and collected, still dressed in the same suit from earlier.
Disbelief roots me in place. My wide eyes lock onto him, my chest tight with unspoken questions. His eyes scan me slowly—calm, controlled, and cold—and I swear I feel more exposed than if I were naked.
I blink hard, then again, hoping this is some illusion. But no, he’s still there.
“You’re not dreaming,” he says softly. “I’m really here.”
Yes, it’s his voice. The scent filling my lungs and settling in my veins, it’s unmistakably his. But how? How did he get past the guards at the front door? How did he even enter the house without me noticing?
As soon as he steps toward me, I stumble back. The bedframe catches against the back of my legs, halting any further retreat. He stops a few feet away, chin raised, shoulders squared, radiating the kind of confidence of a man who owns the place.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” I ask with a voice I desperately try to steady.
His hands hang rigidly at his sides. His hair is neatly combed back, and his chiseled jaw is clean-shaven.
“We need to talk,” he says.
Fear grips me, but I force myself to maintain a facade of composure. “We can’t be alone here. It’s inappropriate. If you have something to discuss, it should be in my husband’s presence.”
At the mention of the word “husband,” his entire body stiffens, and a glacial chill hardens his gaze. One hand disappears into the pocket of his pants, while the other hooks onto the edge of his jacket.