Chapter six
Tilly
There wasn’t much in the stale cupboards of the old house, but I did the best I could with the few in-date tins of beans, potatoes, and sweetcorn I found.
Not having cooked much over the years, I was nervous that my preparations would be tasteless, never mind potentially poisonous.
However, eating is essential to maintain life, so it was a risk that needed to be taken.
Greyson will have to survive my cooking. I’m sure he’s endured worse.
My companion came back to the house from his investigations swinging a plastic bag in one hand.
I relish the fact he came at my call. I do love telling asshole men what to do—it’s even better when they conform to my instructions.
Part of me is desperate to ask what’s in the bag, but the other part doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my interest. If he wants me to know, he can tell me.
I watch as he drops into the old wooden spindle chair set opposite the one I stand beside. The table is laid out with the mundane off-white crockery I found in a drawer, semi-tarnished cutlery beside it.
“I found this,” I say, holding up a bottle of red wine. “There’s a few more in the cupboard. Do you drink red?”
“Is it alcoholic?” I nod. “Then I’ll drink it,” he replies, the edges of his mouth turn up in what could be considered a smile.
The brief softening of his features makes him almost look handsome.
There is no doubt he’s good looking, albeit a bit miserable, but when he smiles, I see a boy-like quality normally well hidden behind the mafia bodyguard persona.
I lift the bottle up to my eye level and squint at the badly faded label. There’s a crest decorating the front: two lions holding a flag with six stars between them, and on top is a crown. Vosne-Romanee is written along the top, with the year 2008 below.
“Judging by the year and fancy label, I would guess it’s expensive too. I’m sure I’ve seen similar in my father’s wine cellar.”
“You have a wine cellar at home,” Greyson states rather than asking.
His smile grows wider, and he lifts his hand to his mouth to cover the chuckle escaping.
He shakes his head a little as I place the bottle on the table and put my hands on my hips.
The blanket covering my modesty chooses this point to unravel and fall to the floor, exposing my tattered party dress.
Holding my head high, I decide to brazen out the inconvenience.
“We have a wine cellar. Is that a problem?”
I snap. I’ve been subjected to this kind of shit from idiots before, people who have no idea how complex my life really is or what’s expected of me.
From the outside looking in, I’m sure my life looks idyllic, but it’s far from it.
My world is mapped out for me whether I want it or not.
No one cares who I am as a person as long as I appear to be the daughter cultivated to meet our family’s traditional values.
Women are to put up, shut up, and bear the children.
Fuck, we aren’t even expected to look after them—that’s what nannies are for.
After we’ve assured our husband’s lineage with a son, our task is to look pretty on his arm until he trades us for a younger model.
“Not at all, Miss. Where is the cellar located? At the main house or…”
Greyson answering my question startles my train of thought. Before he can continue speaking, I interrupt him. “Of course it is,” I hiss. “All my father’s hobbies and interests are catered for at home. The cellar is below the billiards room.”
Unable to contain himself, he bursts out laughing at this fact. Confused, I gape at him then watch in horror as he stands and bows dramatically, the way men did hundreds of years ago when wearing a top hat and tails. It doesn’t quite have the same effect in his dirty jeans and jacket.
“A wine cellar and a billiards room. Now I know I am in the presence of a princess. I’m sorry your accommodations today aren’t so fitting to your usual standards.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter before picking up the bottle of red again and the sharp knife I laid on the table earlier.
Masterfully, I plunge the serrated blade into the cork then twist and pull like I’ve done dozens of times before when I stole one of my father’s prized bottles he was keeping for a rainy day.
The truth is, my knowledge about vintage and expensive wine is more than I care to let on.
My family are collectors, and I know for a fact the bottle I’ve just prized open with a piece of cutlery is valued at well over twenty thousand pounds.
Greyson doesn’t need to be aware of that.
If he was, he might spoil my fun. That won’t be happening.
“Expertly done,” he says with a nod, then offers to take the bottle.
I watch as he pours the red wine into the two mugs on the table, each inscribed with the word peace across the center.
I giggle to myself as I read them, and Greyson flashes me a grin.
“Ironic, eh? We’re drinking out of mugs stating the one thing neither of us have. Our refuge has been a place clearly meant for recouperation.”
“Do you believe in fate?” I ask him. It’s something I’ve considered often, whether what is meant to happen always will or whether we’re truly in charge of our own paths?
I used to believe that my life was my own. When I was a small girl, I dreamed of white weddings, beach holidays, and a job in the city. Now I know that’s not my fate. My purpose is to do my father’s bidding by spreading my legs and bearing a child for his former enemy.
“Fate?” He shakes his head. “Why would some of us have the lives we do if it’s all the will of an almighty?” His question makes me pause for thought. “Life throws at you whatever comes across your path. We make our own choices. Everything else is either a reaction or consequence to something else.”
He gestures for me to sit, then he does the same. A strong hand picks up his glass and tips it in my direction. I respond by collecting my own and raising it to clink with his.
“To making the right choices to ensure the fate you want,” he says.
“Why would you say that?” I whisper, unsettled by the statement. I haven’t forgotten that this man was sent to find me and return me to my family. His job won’t be complete until I’m back in my father’s house. I also know it’s at that point he’ll be paid.
As if reading my mind, he responds, “I have every intention of returning you to your family, Miss.”
That smile which seems stuck on his lips this evening widens.
“But I have no doubt you’ll try to run again. Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to be tasked with tracking you down once more. It is certainly adventurous. Of all the places I expected to be spending the dead days between Christmas and New Year, this wasn’t one of them.”
“What were your plans?”
He takes a sip of wine then places his mug back on the table. His focus drops to the pile of food on his plate. “You better eat before this gets cold,” he says, deviating from my question.
“You never answered.”
“No, Miss. And you should know better than to ask staff about their personal lives.”
His statement brings me up short. I hadn’t thought of him like that. Sure, I was aware he was being paid to be here, but I’ve always chatted with my bodyguards. They probably know more about me than most. It’s then I realize that I don’t know much about any of them.
I stare at Greyson for a moment. The reality is sinking in that most people are in my life because they’re paid to be.
The friends I thought I had, the ones I ran away with, they’re just bored and resentful rich kids looking for folks to get in trouble with.
They’re not even really friends—I’d never tell them anything personal.
Not the way I did with my guards or nannies growing up.
Back then, I had no one else to talk to, but they listened because they were paid to.
“Tilly.” Greyson’s voice is soft, kinder than it has been since our abrupt collision together less than two days ago. “Don’t tell me anything I’ll be obligated to report to your family. I can’t be complicit in your escape from your obligations.”
“You mean if I decide to run again?” He nods. “What would you do?” His dark eyes run over my face. He scoops a mound of food onto his fork and stuffs it into his mouth, chewing slowly as he assesses my expression. “Would you run from my future?”
“It depends what I’m running from,” he replies.
“I’m twenty-two years old, Greyson.”
“That I’m aware of.”
“And my uncle has arranged that I should marry Domenico Lombardi.”
I pause before adding the final piece of information.
His jaw twists visibly as he processes what I just told him.
The tears which I have been hiding since my uncle, Hunter, told me of the arrangement prick my eyes and I will them to disappear.
“The don,” he confirms. “Is he not…”
“Seventy,” I whisper, pained, my cheeks heating venomously against my wishes.
“His previous wives, all five of them, have only borne daughters. He needs a son to continue his family line. The Lombardis and Devanes have been at each other’s throats for years. However, my uncle was keen to form an alliance in these ‘ever-changing times.
’” I lift a hand and wipe the bastard tears from my cheeks.
“I was told you were to marry in summer, but not who you were marrying.”
“June twenty-first, the day of my twenty-third birthday. Knocking me up is going to be my birthday present, I suppose.”
My eyes, which have been focused on my plate of food, lift to his, and all I see is pity.
“Don’t pity me,” I snarl. “It won’t be fucking happening. I will not be a sacrifice in my family’s game. I refuse to be.”
The rest of our meal is eaten in silence, both of us sitting in our own thoughts about the situation we find ourselves in.
I look out of the grimy window as more snow continues to fall.
There’s enough food in the cupboards for a day or so.
I found boxes of candles, and there’s plenty of firewood to burn, but that doesn’t change the fact it’s mid-winter and we don’t know where we are.
There are assassins actively looking for us, and my uncle expects Greyson to return me to London in the coming days.
“That was lovely,” Greyson says, standing once we’re both finished and collecting our plates. He walks over and starts washing up in the sink. The act is strangely domestic. I move over to join him, collecting a small towel from a rack and drying each one as he finishes washing it.
“What are we going to do?” I ask him. My typically over-confident, shit-won’t-fly attitude has all but disappeared as I sat eating dinner with the man sent to find me.
I’d spent the silence contemplating my coming months, my fate to be a wife to a man for the sole purpose of giving him a son, and for once I have no fucking idea what to do next.
Of all the situations I’ve gotten myself into, all my rebellions over the years, this is one I can’t see a way out of.
Greyson places the items in his hands back in the sink.
He wipes his fingers on the towel I’m holding, then places his palms on my shoulders.
“It’s all going to be fine, Miss,” he says, and his tone is so convincing, I almost believe him.
“We’ll spend one more night here, then tomorrow we will start walking.”
His eyes move to the plastic bag he brought with him from the garage. I had forgotten about it between our conversations and loud silence.
“There were some ladies clothes outside. I brought in a selection. There should be something there a bit warmer than your dress.”
“It wouldn’t be difficult,” I say with a chuckle, stepping back out of his grip. After collecting the bag, I walk in the direction of the living room. I stop at the doorway and glance back over my shoulder. “Greyson.”
He had returned to finishing the dishes, his body twists to look at me.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Thanks.” I raise the bag in my hand.
“No problem. Just doing my job, Miss.”