Papa chides, “Your wife might feel differently.Don’t forget that.”But just in case I make the mistake of thinking he actually cares, he adds, “I don’t need her calling her father and crying about how mean her husband is.Keep her happy.”
Keep her happy.That’s his advice?More than thirty years of marriage under his belt, and that’s all he can offer?Then again, his marriage is an anomaly to people in our line of work.Mama is more than arm candy, capable of pumping out successors or an ornament to sit, smile, and be a credit to the family name.
He doesn’t know what it means to sit here and wonder whether I should set the terms early on.Whether it would be better to fulfill my duty to the bloodline and have a few kids, then discreetly go on with my own life while she has hers.Or should I demand her faithfulness while I fuck around on the side, the way I know Giorgio does with his wife?
I don’t exactly do relationships.Monogamy.At least, I haven’t for a very long time.
Clearly, Papa is bored with the direction of our conversation, since he changes it with his usual abruptness.“I confirmed with Giorgio.The movers will be here by eleven.It’s only a small van.The girl is not bringing much with her.”He doesn’t bother looking up from his desk as he fires off this information like it’s an afterthought.
Not that it should come as any surprise.He’s treated everything about this arrangement like it means nothing, like we’re going through something as simple as a trip to the supermarket or a short family vacation.It’s as if there’s no deeper planning that needs to take place, and certainly no consideration for how this has thrown my life into a tailspin.For fuck’s sake, I had to clear out an entire bedroom closet for a girl who looked like she would rather spit on me than accept my hand in marriage.
Typical spoiled princess.Arrogant, full of unearned confidence.There’s no doubt in my mind she has been the pampered apple of Giorgio’s eye, incapable of doing anything wrong as far as he is concerned.
Checking my phone deepens my scowl.“It’s almost eleven now.”Rising from my chair, I walk to the window overlooking the grounds.From where I’m standing, the front gate is almost visible at the end of the curved driveway.I can almost make out my house to the far left.A house that won’t be mine much longer.It will beours.I’ll be living with a stranger who will shatter the peace I’ve worked hard to cultivate—my personal version of hell.
The phone on Papa’s desk rings twice, meaning the call is coming from somewhere on the estate.He lets out a surprised sound before hanging up.“Front gate.The movers are here, on their way up.”
His announcement’s timing is perfectly matched to my first sight of what is not a van.“There is a fucking truck pulling up the driveway,” I almost growl, barely biting back the worst of the bitterness welling in my chest.
“Oh, is there?”he asks, distracted.“They’re early.”
Motherfucker.Could he be any less interested?Do I need to throw a tantrum the way Guilia would?Maybe that would earn me a little attention.“I guess I better go look after things.”I’m already on my way out of the room before Papa grunts an acknowledgment.
Luca can’t let it go.“Let me know if you need any help,” he calls out before chuckling.The sound brings to mind nails on a chalkboard, but he’s easy to ignore.I’ve had practice.
The world around me is going red around the edges as I march out of the house in time to watch the truck pull up in front of my front door.A fucking truck.I could probably fit the entire contents of my home in that thing.
I’m not the only one heading toward the truck, either.Three of our guys approach from different directions, trotting along the gravel path.“They’re expected,” I call out, diffusing the tension that’s starting to grow.The men fall back but don’t leave.They’re watching closely as the doors open.
The sound of a second engine rolling up the driveway makes me turn to watch a cherry-red Mustang pull up a few yards behind the truck.I know who’s going to step out before I can catch sight of anyone behind the tinted windows.That’s exactly the kind of car I would expect thelittle princessto drive.
If only somebody had warned me she was coming, but that would mean being granted a sliver of consideration.Surprise makes me blurt out, “What are you doing here?”as soon as she steps out from behind the wheel in a much more casual outfit than the suit she wore when we met.Her ripped jeans and baggy T-shirt are a far cry from the polished look I’m sure her father forced her into.Still pricey but casual.
Lifting a pair of large sunglasses and nestling them in her thick waves, she scowls.“Hello to you, too, Dante.Silly me, thinking I could supervise my belongings as they’re being loaded into your house.I thought you’d be too busy to worry about something so trivial.”
I can do without the heavy sarcasm that makes me want to cave in her windshield.“I was told you would only have a van,” I grunt, folding my arms as the movers lift the sliding door to reveal what’s inside.“You are fucking joking,” I mutter, looking up at rack after rack of clothes, stacks of boxes, even what looks like a few pieces of furniture covered in protective blankets.
“All right.I’m confused.”She takes one look at my folded arms before mirroring me, even puffing her chest out.Whether she does it on purpose or not, I can’t help but notice the way her tits are pushed up.Nice tits.Nice body in general.
“About what?”I ask, carefully lifting my gaze to meet hers.
“I’m supposed to marry you.Move in here with you instead of finding a home ofourown thatwepick together.And now, I’m not allowed to bring my own belongings intomynew home.Does that about sum it up?”she demands.
If there weren’t people around, witnesses, I might have to shove her up against that shiny car and set her straight on a few things.For starters, how I will accept being spoken to?My fists tighten, but I keep my hands to myself.I’ve never laid a hand on a woman, and I wasn’t going to start now.But watching her follow behind two movers wheeling clothes racks into the house, I can’t help but feel the surge of frustration.
My house.
My sanctuary.
Homey.Without bloodshed and violence.
Ever since Papa had it built for me when I turned twenty-one, it’s been my refuge.Somewhere I’ve looked forward to retreating to after a long day.We might be in the middle of a war, but there was nothing but peace inside these walls.
Now, my soon-to-be bride stands in the center of the living room with her hands on her hips, turning a slow circle as the two idiots mutter back and forth over what to do about taking an entire rack up a staircase that turns ninety degrees halfway up.“Can’t you take the things off the rack and carry them up?”I ask sharply enough to make the men stand at attention, almost looking guilty.“You’re not going to get those racks up there.”
“How about I unload everything down here, and I’ll take care of it?”Sophia turns toward the row of dresses and grabs an armful, but not before I catch sight of her scowl.
Wonderful.Instead of having a bunch of dresses strewn all over my bedroom, I’ll have them flung across my sofa and armchair instead.The guys look more than happy to have a job to do, and it’s not long before they’re wheeling the empty rack back out to the truck.
