Chapter 44 Leticia
LETICIA
ITALIAN ALPS
The private jet touches down on the tarmac, and I’m green . . . again.
I rush to the jet’s bathroom before the plane even comes to a stop and manage to hurl in the toilet. I fucking hate flying. Every single time: take off, landing, turbulence — my stomach decides it’s not happy.
“Leticia?” Berto calls, and I rinse my mouth out using a bottle of water I left in here the last time.
“Coming.” I straighten my shirt and smooth my hair before opening the door.
When I step out of the bathroom, Berto is waiting for me. Arms crossed over his chest, he’s in a crisp, clean new suit. It fits him much better than the ones tailored in Chicago. Clearly, it was purchased during the time he’s been in Italy.
“Thought you ran away when I came in and saw just your purse. Should have known you were throwing up.” Berto looks me over, pity in his eyes. “Every time, really?”
“It’s called motion sickness,” I grumble and pick my purse up out of the chair next to where I was sitting.
“You’re just in time. Engagement party today, doing a brunch mixer at a restaurant in town. Mom’s already picked out flowers for your wedding, but they want to go into Milan to try on wedding dresses later this week.”
There’s no ‘it’s good to see you’ or ‘I’ve missed you,’ and there never will be. But giving me the lowdown on the chaos my mother has already been stirring is, in his own way, showing he cares.
“And Dad?”
I wait for Berto to go down the stairs of the jet before me. I follow him, and then he offers me a hand for the last step.
“Dad is extremely pleased with this deal. I really like having you as a little sister. Be a good wife to Steffano and don’t fuck it up,” Berto mumbles, and I realize why.
Standing a few yards away by two luxury cars are Dad and Steffano. My stomach lurches, and I place my hand in front of it. Please behave, don’t vomit on his shoes.
I’ve seen Steffano, and his previous wives, in passing before. He’s always given me that snake-oil-salesman vibe. Sleazy and fake. But most of Dad’s friends are that way. There’s been no differentiation.
The information I could find on his wives revealed two very different women. One was subservient and meek. She looked like someone was going to hit her at any moment. The other was fiery and fought with him in public.
Two things Mafia men don’t like. Women who show fear and women who show too much courage. I guess neither of Steffano’s late wives passed for perfect, and now they’re gone.
I’ll do whatever I can to split the difference between the two. Like Berto said, don’t fuck it up.
Berto leads me over for the formal introduction.
“Steffano Bianchi, I present to you my daughter, Leticia Alexandra.” Dad sounds so pompous and arrogant. He takes my hand away from my stomach and offers it to Steffano.
I dread Steffano’s touch. The second between Dad raising my hand and Steffano taking it moves too quickly. I can’t pull my hand away in time. Steffano grips it, almost politely at first, as he raises it to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
Our eyes meet. His are a deep dark shade of brown, nearly black, that eats at my flesh, gnawing to the bone.
If that was where it ended, I’d be fine, but then he turns my wrist over and kisses the inner part like Royal did. It’s too much like those moments that I claimed for myself. The special piece of me I gave to Royal. And I can’t help but pull away.
“I’m so sorry.” I put my hand over my mouth before lowering it to my chest. “I feel sick after traveling.”
“Perhaps this will help.” Steffano reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something small, pinched between two fingers. He then extends it to me.
The rock glistens in the sun. It’s easily four carats of cushion-cut sparkle set in a single gold band. I offer my left hand out, and instead of sliding it on my finger, he tucks it into my palm.
I push it onto my ring finger myself. The band is a little small but not too uncomfortably so. But I know better than to complain. It would seem ungrateful and unobedient, or something Father would have to apologize for.
It’s easiest if I play the perfect wife from the first minute we meet.
“Come, wife,” Steffano orders like I’m a dog, turning and opening the door to the sports car for me. “We must arrive at the party together, look happy as newly engaged people should look.”
Wife. My stomach churns and threatens to bubble over with bile.
Marry me. Royal’s voice echoes in my head, and I regret being four thousand miles from home, I regret saying no, but I don’t regret keeping him safe.
I lower myself into the sports car and wait as Steffano closes the door with a soft click.
My purse vibrates, and I dig out my phone.
Royal:
Be safe. Enjoy Italy
Be smart. Connect to the Wi-Fi when you arrive.
But as soon as I see that message, it changes.
Royal:
Be safe. Enjoy Italy.
I rub my eyes, sure I’m hallucinating the disappearing text message, but I managed a couple hours of sleep on my flight.
When Steffano closes the driver’s door, his presence is suffocating. I tuck my phone away.
He looks over at me. “I can either make your life a living hell or like a princess in a castle. How you behave determines that. Do not embarrass me, and you’ll get a taste of what it’s like to be my princess. I’ll give you everything you desire. Money is no issue.”
Ew.
The latter sounds like just as much of a living hell as whatever the former implies.
But my initial response, a single ‘ew’ when being threatened, should be a telltale sign that I’m no longer cut out for life as a made man’s wife.
I’m already too different from who I was before Royal.
I don’t have the fear I used to have. Fear that I really need to have.
But I bow my head subserviently and look away. “I understand, Steffano.”
“Good. How is your Italian?” He starts the car.
The engine hums in a low purr, and the rumbles through the seat bring me a dirty yet delicious memory of my time with Royal.
“é buono o cattivo quanto vuoi che sia.” I look over at him with a soft smile. My Italian is far from perfect, but the more I speak it, the stronger it gets.
“Don’t be smart with me.” He glowers. “Guests at this party will mostly speak in English. Until you get the accent perfect, perhaps you do the same. They’re expecting an American wife. But I want one who is well rounded.”
“Yes, Steffano.”
No one’s ever told me my accent is bad. I regularly get mistaken for a native Italian, but apparently, it offends him.
I’m just tired. I’m emotional. It’s a big change. Let it go. I coach myself through every technique I’ve used when Mom and Dad get upset with me. I’ve spent my whole life learning to be neutral and passive. Now is the time to put those skills to the test.
Royal would have never made you feel like this, a little part of my heart yells.
“Ah, there she is, my new wife.” Steffano opens his arms as he sees me approaching.
It’s been three hours at this brunch party that’s officially lapsed into lunch, and I was headed to the bathroom to decompress. But with a smile, I step into the open space, and he wraps his arm around me, the dark ruby liquid in his wine glass sloshing.
I smile and rest a hand on his chest, playing the doting, loving fiancée. “Here I am.”
“Show them the ring, princess.” Steffano gives my arm a little squeeze.
Princess. It grates on my nerves, but on command, I pull my left hand from Steffano’s chest and present the mammoth rock to an older couple.
“How beautiful. You’re a lucky girl.” The woman looks at the ring over the top of her glasses.
“And the diamond isn’t half bad either.” The man laughs and gives me a rueful smile.
“Thank you.” I smile politely.
“As I was saying.” Steffano’s hand falls off my back, and I’m given the space to step away.
I take it without a second thought, continuing on my course to the bathroom.
Inside, door closed, slumped against it, I finally draw a full breath of air. Out of habit, I dig into my purse and look at my phone.
Royal:
Ahhh, in a public restaurant, I don’t need access to their Wi-Fi. I can see you just fine.
I hate how his hands are all over you.
Also, this is my first time doing some serious overseas stalking. I thought it’d be harder.
I snort reading the messages.
Leticia:
Friends don’t stalk friends.
Royal:
I’m really bad at being just friends.
“Leticia?” My mother’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard. “Are you in here?”
“Just a few minutes, Mom. I’m not feeling too good, you know me and flying.” I tuck my phone back in my purse, the message exchange with Royal tugging at my heartstrings.
This is my life, stolen moments in a bathroom, the most connection I’ve ever had to another human being, someone who isn’t even human, with four thousand miles between us.
I start listing the usual lies to get me through this.
It’ll get easier. Royal will lose interest in me. I’ll be married and focused on being perfect for Steffano. It’s not going to hurt forever.
Except that last lie I’m not sure I can make myself believe.
Tears well in my eyes, and this time I let them fall. I’ll blame it on the jet lag, the motion sickness, or the joy of being a new bride.
Only I’ll know I’m in mourning. Only I’ll know it’s the loss of love and what could be. I played with fire, and now I have to feel the cold from its absence. From his absence.