Chapter Four
Elio
I take a short nap and then a shower. I stand in the shower with the water as hot as I can take it and I try to organize my thoughts.
I wasn’t kidding when I told Marcello I feel overwhelmed.
None of this has been easy to accept. I’d do it all again for Fabio, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult to grapple with what’s happening.
With how strange my life is going to be for the next three years.
Marrying the head of a powerful mafia family was never on my bucket list. Of course, I won’t actually even be Marcello’s husband in the true sense of the word.
I’m basically a rented receptacle for his heir.
Sure, I’ll love the child. I don’t think I’ll be able not to.
But ultimately, the baby will be his. He’ll have control over how the kid is raised way more than me.
The situation is a nightmare and the strangest part is, I signed up for all of this willingly.
Because I really had no choice.
I turn the water off and stand there dripping, staring at the marble tile.
The bathroom alone is absurd. A soaking tub deep enough to swim in, brass fixtures that look like they belong in a museum, towels so thick and soft they put to shame every scratchy towel I’ve ever owned.
I grab one and dry off and catch my reflection in the mirror.
The guy looking back at me seems lost. Which is fair. I am lost.
I think about calling Fabio. He’s twenty minutes away at Harbor View Medical, probably watching TV in his luxurious hospital room.
He doesn’t know I’m getting married on Saturday.
He thinks we’re here for his surgery. Which we are, but there’s a whole other dimension to this that I haven’t told him.
I know I have to tell him eventually. Obviously.
I can’t hide that I’m married to a mobster for three years.
But I wasn’t about to drop a bomb like that on him right before his heart surgery.
He can’t have any additional stress. Finding out that I sold myself to pay for his surgery will gut him.
He can’t find out until he’s stronger. Healthier.
I get dressed. I brought almost nothing with me.
I knew that Marcello would hate most of my clothes.
He’s controlling. I knew that within five minutes of meeting him.
He’ll want to dress me the way he thinks his omega should be dressed.
So I left most of my clothes behind and just brought a few essentials.
I dress in jeans and a light blue shirt with long sleeves.
Right now, I don’t give a damn about what I look like.
I’m nervous about meeting Marcello’s family.
I’m sure when they meet me, they’ll think he could have done much better choosing a mate.
But for some reason, I’m the one he picked, so here we are.
Once I’m dressed, I sit on the edge of the bed.
Downstairs, I can hear voices and the faint clink of dishes being set.
Dinner is at six. I check the time. Ten minutes to six.
I look at myself in the mirror over the dresser.
God, I look terrified. Well, I am terrified.
I’m completely out of my depth. I just want to go home, but that isn’t home anymore.
I stall a little longer, then force myself to stand on shaking legs and leave my room.
The dining room is on the ground floor, through the foyer and past the living room.
I remember the way from the tour Marcello gave me, which is a small miracle considering the size of this place.
I could easily get lost and they’d find me three days later in a broom closet.
I hear them before I see them. Laughter, warm and overlapping.
A woman’s voice saying something in Italian, another voice responding with mock outrage.
It sounds like a family. A real family. That throws me for a minute.
I kept picturing his family like something in the movies.
Cold-eyed mafia types dressed all in black, only concerned with planning hits and making money.
But these people sound happy. Warm. Almost normal.
I stop in the doorway. The table is set for six, but the table itself seats far more. Candles are lit. Wine is poured. Ornella is placing a dish on the table, a platter of something that smells incredible.
Marcello is already seated at the head of the table.
He’s changed out of the suit he was wearing earlier and into a black dress shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before, the severity in his face softened by the candlelight and the presence of his family.
It feels weird seeing his eyes and mouth soft with affection for his loved ones.
His mother is seated to his right. She’s smaller than I expected, petite and elegant, with silver hair pinned up.
She has the kind of face that must have been stunning when she was young.
Frankly, she’s still beautiful. She glances up and notices me in the doorway.
Her expression is openly curious as she smiles.
A pretty, young girl of around twenty notices me and says softly, “Oh, there he is.”
There’s a slightly older dark-haired young woman across from Marcello’s mother. She’s got a glass of wine in her hand and she’s leaning back in her chair with easy confidence. Her dark eyes flick to me when the younger girl speaks.
The younger girl continues to watch me with wide brown eyes and a shy smile.
“Come in, Elio.” Marcello’s mother stands, waving me toward the table. “Sit here, next to me. Marcello, pour him some wine. He looks like he could use a glass.”
I enter the room and head toward the seat she told me to sit in.
Marcello watches me without speaking, but he fills my wine glass.
The moment is awkward. Marcello is the only person in the room that I know, and he’s essentially a stranger.
There’s no familiar face or person to help me navigate the dinner.
I clumsily pull out the chair beside Mrs. Foschini. It’s much heavier than I expected, so I struggle a bit, which is embarrassing. Solid wood furniture isn’t something I’m familiar with. Every piece of furniture I’ve ever owned has been cheap pine. My face is hot when I finally take my seat.
Mrs. Foschini pats my hand. Her skin is smooth and cool. “How are you settling in, Elio?”
“Great.” I smile stiffly, aware of Marcello’s dark gaze on me. He poured my wine, but he made no effort to welcome me or put me at ease. I suppose he figures there’s no need to put on an act. His family knows our upcoming nuptials are only for show. “My room is beautiful.”
“I’m so glad you like it.” Mrs. Foschini says something in Italian to Ornella who responds in the same language and leaves the room quickly. She points to the older dark-haired girl. “That’s Ginevra.” She turns to the other young girl. “And the baby of the family is Noemi.”
Noemi wrinkles her brow. “I’m not a baby, Mama. I’m twenty-two.”
“I didn’t say you were a baby,” Mrs. Foschini responds patiently. “I said you’re the baby of the family.”
Ginevra smirks. “You know, Noemi, bristling at the word baby actually makes you seem like a baby.”
“That’s not true,” says Noemi.
“It kind of is.” Ginevra shrugs. “If you were truly grown up, you wouldn’t care.”
“Oh, boy,” Marcello says softly. “Here we go.”
Noemi narrows her eyes at her sister. “I doubt you’d like being called a baby in front of our guest.”
“I wouldn’t care,” Ginevra shrugs.
“Girls, how about we pretend we’re civilized,” Mrs. Foschini says, giving me an apologetic look. “At least for this first meal with Elio.”
I smile. “It’s fine. I bicker plenty with my brother, Fabio.”
Mrs. Foschini’s expression becomes serious. “How is your brother doing?”
“He’s settling in nicely.” I glance at Marcello and find him watching me. “Thanks to Marcello, I think my brother will be healthy again very soon.”
“There’s nothing worse than when someone you love is ill.” Mrs. Foschini’s face softens. She sounds as if she speaks from experience.
“Yes.”
“You must love your brother very much to agree to what you’ve agreed to.” Ginevra’s expression is coolly assessing. She reminds me more of Marcello, whereas Noemi seems warmer, like Mrs. Foschini. “I don’t know that I’d have the guts to do what you’re doing.”
I look down at the linen napkin in my lap. “I didn’t really feel there was any choice. My brother is the most important thing to me in this world. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him.”
Mrs. Foschini pats my hand again. “I understand that completely.”
“We’re grateful you were willing,” Noemi says brightly. “Marcello needs an heir or there could be trouble.”
“Let’s not talk about all that,” Marcello cuts in. “Elio is here now and it’s our job to make him feel welcome.” He lifts his glass of wine. “How about we toast to Elio and Fabio.”
They all lift their glasses and my face warms. “Thank you.”
Once the toast is over, Ginevra leans forward. “What do you do for work, Elio?”
“I bartend.”
“Really?” Ginevra laughs. “How fun. Do you like it?”
I shrug. “Yes and no.”
“What don’t you like about it?” Noemi asks, sipping her wine.
“Well, I’m on my feet a long time, and to be honest,” I laugh, “sometimes the customers can get a little grabby.”
Noemi bugs her eyes. “They touch you? Is that allowed?”
I grimace. “Not really. But I work for tips. I have to put up with a lot because I need the customers happy.”
Marcello sounds irritable as he says, “That’s the past. You don’t need their money anymore. Put it behind you. No one will disrespect you that way now. They wouldn’t dare.”
Ginevra snickers. “Marcello will have their hands chopped off if anyone tries to touch you now.”
I wince inwardly at the gruesome image, but she’s wrong about Marcello caring if anyone touches me. She’s obviously unaware Marcello has it in our contract that we don’t have to forsake all others. We can sleep around if we want, so long as we’re discreet.