Chapter 23 Francesca
Francesca
My brain and my body don’t seem to agree on how to handle Carlo, one nursing anger and suspicion while the other is a fool for lust. His kisses threaten to set all my convictions aflame.
I’m not acknowledging my heart in this matter.
It’s a weak thing, seeking his comfort at my most vulnerable moments.
I can’t believe I asked him to hold me because of another nightmare.
But this morning, I found a crumpled note behind the trashcan in the bathroom to remind me why this marriage is a huge mistake.
Marry another girl and try not to make her miserable, you filthy manwhore.
I recognized Sofia’s elegant penmanship and remembered how heartbroken she’d been after Alessio’s Seconda when she’d seen Carlo with two other women. I don’t need heartache like that on top of everything else. Can I find a way to escape on my own?
When I come downstairs, my stomach rumbles from the savory aroma filling the air.
It quickly tightens uncomfortably when I spot a woman standing over the stove with Carlo by her side.
He’s speaking Italian with her, and I can tell they’re comfortable around one another, but the spike of jealousy I felt initially dissolves when her kind brown eyes meet mine and realize she’s my mother’s age.
“Francesca, allow me to introduce you to Dinora,” Carlo says, glancing my way. “She was off yesterday.”
“I’m sorry you missed our impromptu wedding,” I say, slanting a look at Carlo. His answering smirk is unabashedly smug as Dinora and I exchange pleasantries. She says she hopes I will enjoy her sausage frittata, and I tell her honestly if it’s half as delicious as it smells I’m going to love it.
When Carlo tells me Dinora’s carbonara is ‘worth dying for,’ she gives him a sly grin. “If you like it so well, you should let me teach you how to make it for your beautiful wife.”
I grin at Dinora’s cheeky tone. “I think we’re going to get along very well,” I tell her, making her smile widen and Carlo’s eyes narrow.
Once breakfast is ready, Dinora bustles off to another room to clean, and Carlo pulls out my chair. It’s so strange being in his home and doing something so normal like sharing a meal together. Despite the intimacy we’ve shared, I barely know him at all.
He’s wearing a dress shirt and slacks, and his aftershave is even more enticing than the fresh coffee.
I take a bite of the frittata, unable to hold in my moan from the amazing taste.
Carlo grins at the sound as he’s scrolling through his phone, nodding with apparent satisfaction of his own before he opens one of the newspapers Dinora sat beside his plate.
“It made it into the papers today despite the short-notice. Well done, Russo, I suppose,” he mutters.
I raise my eyebrows in question as I’m taking another bite, and he shows me the front page of one of them –
New York’s Most Eligible Bachelor Shocks with Hasty Marriage
I choke on my frittata but, even after the coughing subsides, the headline is still there, taunting me. “Everyone will know.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You wanted this?” I ask him, noting the horror-stricken tone of the article written by a female reporter. “Mystery miss nabs prized player.’ She knows I’m Sofia’s cousin, I see.”
“The article in the Times is much less gossipy,” he says, tapping the one he’s currently reading.
“‘The unknown girl of no apparent profession hails from Reno, Nevada… As the lovely Sofia De Luca hasn’t been spotted lately, one can only assume Miss Donnelly…’ Jesus Christ, she’s all but suggesting I’m some sort of witch who offed her cousin and forced you to marry me instead.
Was she one of your past conquests or something? ”
“No,” he snaps, annoyed. “And I didn’t want that, but the press is full of bullshit reporting. Get used to it and learn to ignore it. No Vicini hangs their head, certainly not for those vultures. Anyway, you should be glad our bond is known. A wedding reception isn’t a surprise party after all.”
“Easy for you to ignore, maybe.” I keep reading, growing more aggravated at every word.
“Does your brother keep up with the news here?” he asks.
Startled, I pass the paper back to him. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Hmm. Have you heard from him… since Sofia left?”
I quickly shake my head, stuffing another bite of frittata in my mouth. I’m not sure he believes me, but it doesn’t matter. Even if I had heard from Ronan, I wouldn’t tell Carlo. He wants my brother dead.
After breakfast, he goes into his office, closing the door behind him. I retreat to the living room with my blank sheet music and keyboard.
“What will you do today while I’m at work?” Carlo asks, when he steps back out, preparing to leave.
I’m busy watching him adjust his gun and knife holsters before his words finally register in my sluggish brain. I need more sleep, but that’s not the only reason I find Carlo so distracting.
“I’ll go dress-shopping with Faro for our reception in between casting my next dark magic spell, I suppose. What else do trophy witches do all day?” I already went shopping yesterday, and Carlo wasn't even the slightest bit irritated by my spending spree.
“No one will ever suggest you’re involved in dark magic in the newspapers again. Don't you enjoy shopping?” Carlo asks next, genuinely curious.
I roll my eyes at his very male assumption. “I like it alright, but shopping with a bodyguard is a lot less fun than shopping with a girlfriend or even my mom.”
“You could go with my mother,” he suggests. “I think every clerk on Park Avenue knows her on sight.” I bite my lip to avoid being rude, but he must read my mind. Chuckling, he comes nearer. “I suppose you’re not exactly thrilled by the notion, are you?”
“Would she really want to go with me?” His expression tightens, and I have my answer. My shoulders slump. “I miss Cat and Gia. I have no friends here." More than likely, I never will. Blinking hard a few times, I return to my sheet music, not wanting to be vulnerable in front of him again.
“They could come visit anytime.”
“They’d have to ask permission from their husbands. They’d probably say no because Alessio is obsessed with keeping Cat safe in Vegas and Ritchie’s an asshole who’s happier when Gia’s miserable. Maybe you have that in common with him,” I add, bitterly.
“I don’t want you to be miserable. What are you writing?” he asks, leaning over me as my pencil continues scratching across the sheet. Dammit, on top of looking sexy in his suit, he even smells sexy.
I pull the paper toward me, worried he might laugh at the sappy lyrics I’m playing around with. “Just a song. It’s not good.”
His dark eyes flick up to meet mine. “Would you share it with me?”
“No. My music is… personal.” I feel my cheeks growing warmer.
“And you don’t want to be personal with me.” It wasn’t a question, and I can tell that bothers him. “How about I come home early tonight? I could take you to dinner, show you around my city. Would you like to see a show perhaps?”
“A show? Like something on Broadway?” Excitement fills me when he nods. Even if I’m tempted to say no to him out of spite, I know I’d only be denying myself. “Could we see a musical?”
I cringe as soon as the words are out of my mouth. A man like Carlo wouldn’t be interested in shows where the actors periodically break into song.
“Which one do you want to see?”
“I-I… Any of them! All of them! Only one tonight, obviously, but… is Wicked still on at the Gershwin? That is… if you can get tickets on such short notice,” I stammer, gulping in an effort to contain my enthusiasm.
He smirks. “I’ll pick you up at six. Will you wear something sexy for me?” he asks, leaning in closer.
Heat coils in my belly, but I manage to narrow my eyes at him. “I think my nun’s habit will be perfect.”
Laughing, he dips forward, claiming a quick and unexpected kiss. I should protest, but electricity sizzles on my lips even after he’s stepped back again. “I’ll still take you out even if you wear that. Maybe that reporter can write an article about how I stole you from a convent instead.”
He walks toward the elevator, and I’m flustered when I realize I don’t want him to leave. I want to spend more time with Carlo. Maybe it’s some variety of Stockholm Syndrome kicking in.
Faro steps out of the elevator as he prepares to step into it. “All arranged?” I hear Carlo ask before the doors close.
“Sì, they’ll arrive any minute.”
Must be mob business they’re talking about. My husband and bodyguard have their schedules for watching me perfectly coordinated with me. It sours my mood again.
“Morning, Warden,” I say to Faro, rising to get some more coffee. “How’s Mrs. Warden?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Vicini. My wife is well,” he says, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
I was surprised yesterday when I asked how much he hated shopping with me and was informed he didn’t mind at all.
He doesn’t seem the type to indulge a wife with time spent carrying shopping bags and such.
“Where do you lock her up when you’re watching me? Want a cup?” I add, nodding at the coffee.
“Coffee sounds good. So long as I draw breath, Aurora will never be caged again.” His harsh tone makes me feel as though I should apologize for my joke. It was pretty lame, but his phone beeps before I can say anything.
I also realize what he didn’t say. I’m the wife in a cage, not her. I’m the one they have to watch. Because I’m the future Don’s wife or the daughter of a traitor who committed a few treasons herself?
After he acknowledges the message, he looks around the room. “Where do you want this thing set up once they manage to get it up the freight elevator?”
Puzzled, I set the coffee pot down. “What are you talking about?”
***
An hour later, I can’t stop grinning as I stare at the beautiful Steinway Grand Piano Carlo had delivered. The hand-written note one of the workmen passed me is still clasped in my hand as they take their leave at last, and I take a seat on the cushioned bench.
Keep the keyboard for when it’s more convenient but your exquisite voice demands an instrument to match it
~ your devoted admirer
My devoted admirer. Damn him for making it impossible to hate him today. It fits perfectly by the terrace doors, giving me a view of the city as I work and play. It’s a very thoughtful surprise, like the offer to take me to a show tonight.
Realizing I don’t have his number, I ask Faro for it before sending a text to my husband for the first time –
It’s beautiful. What’s it going to cost me?
He doesn’t reply right away so I go up to the bedroom, hoping to find something appropriate for the theater tonight.
In the bathroom, I spy his aftershave by the sink.
On impulse, I apply a tiny bit. The effect is immediate, heat licking up my spine and settling between my legs.
His barely-there kiss before he left has left me wanting more.
Sucking in a deep breath, I know one way I’d like to thank him for my gift.
An answer to my text bounces back as I turn toward my lingerie drawer –
Wear something sexy for me tonight, and we’ll call it even.
Oh, I will.