“Right,” he replies, squeezing my hand. “I appreciate your honesty, and I won’t ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
I inhale, feeling better about this already. “So, in that case, I would appreciate you introducing me to the right people, but please don’t force anyone to hire me.”
He grins. I feel like we’re two teenagers conspiring to elope. We want to make sure our parents aren’t aware of our plans, but we also need to be practical about where we’re going to live.It’s not like I’m making a deal with the devil,I tell myself. Francisco is just a man, and it’s clear from his body language and his reaction to my list of demands that he cares to some extent, but to what extent I’m not exactly sure.
“I’d also like to go to Italy,” I say.
He seems shocked. He drops my hand and sits back, looking at me with new eyes. I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks and realize I must be blushing. I didn’t mean to shock him, but now that I have, I’m pleased with myself.
“It’s just that until now, I didn’t know I had any family left,” I explain. “I’d like to meet them.”
“Obviously,” he replies. “This marriage is as much about them as it is about us.”
“Right,” I mutter. All the stars are aligning in my favor. He’s said yes to everything I’ve asked of him thus far. I just have one more stipulation, and it’s the hardest one to put into words.
He hit the nail on the head when he said that the marriage is as much about our families in Italy as it is about ourselves. We’re not a traditional couple by a long shot. Though I suspect he has some deeper feelings at play, the only thing he’s said to me thus far is that the marriage is one of convenience and protection. It will bond our two great families and provide assurances for Brandon and me. Beyond that, it seems like an act of charity for Francisco. He’s offered his life in exchange for mine, and I’m honored. But I have to be clear.
“This isn’t a romantic wedding,” I begin, unsure how to even say what I want without insulting him.
He doesn’t respond, which leaves me questioning my own motives. I want to shake him, to ask him the question point-blank. Does he care about me, really care? Is there any shred of honesty in his proposal, or is he as cold as he seems on the outside? Though I can hear the desperation coming through in my voice, Francisco doesn’t react.
“So, I would like it to be…” I’m not even sure what words to use. “I would like sex to be off the table.”
That gets a response from him, though it’s subtle. He raises his eyebrows, but quickly recovers, returning to the neutral expression that he probably uses in his business dealings.
I feel like I need to explain myself, so I hurry on, nearly vomiting words all over him. “I mean, if we agree that this is just a business relationship, there’s no reason to pretend that there’s any passion between us. Right.”
He remains silent, but the way he’s looking at me causes me to reconsider. There is passion, or there has been in the past. I remember our kiss in my apartment, and the vivid dream I had several nights ago. Of course, Francisco isn’t privy to my dreams. But he did hold me close as we danced at the party, so that must count for something.
Still, if he insists on pretending that he’s got no dog in this race, I’m not going to throw him a bone. I’m not interested in becoming a prostitute, in selling my body for all the money and advantages he’s promised. If he’s really only interested in protecting me and in making an alliance with my family back in Italy, then we might as well have separate bedrooms. We wouldn’t be the first couple to operate without any sort of romantic attachment.
“If that’s what you want,” Francisco says with a calm face but his voice is strained. I struggle to pick up on the exact emotions he’s conveying. There’s an abundance of patience, a little bit of concern, and maybe even a touch of pain. Did I hurt him by asking him to keep his distance? Am I even capable of drawing blood in that way?
“It’s what I want,” I confirm.
“Then I accept your terms… for now,” he responds.
A chill goes through me at those final two words.For now.He’s agreed not to touch me, to support my brother in college, to allow me to pursue my own career, and to take me to Italy to meet my family.For now.Later on, I understand we may need to renegotiate the terms. And I’m pretty sure which bullet point he’s going to focus on when the time comes.
I can’t decide whether the thought of sex with my future husband is appealing or distressing. I want to protect my heart, just as much as he wants to protect my life. And I’m afraid that if I let him into my body, then he’ll take up residence in my heart. Which will make things much more difficult if he persists in this sham of a wedding.
But what can I do? He’s said yes to all my stipulations. I should be happy. I’m getting everything that I want, and then some. I’ll be treated to a life of luxury, with servants and flashy cars and an enormous mansion to call my home.
I give my fiancé a brave smile. “All right then, I’ll marry you.”
CHAPTER 20
FRANCISCO
The clinking of glasses and whispered conversations create a sophisticated backdrop in one of my downtown restaurants. I’m seated at a table near the kitchen, my back to the wall, of course. Giovanni sits beside me, neither of us foolish enough to sit where we can’t see the door. I’m sure that if any of the other patrons cared to notice, they would peg us for gangsters right off the bat. Who else sits side by side rather than facing each other at a table for two?
But there’s another reason I want to look out over the restaurant. I own it. I like to see how it’s functioning, how the waiters are doing, and how quickly the busboys can clear a table. I’m pleased that the place is nearly full. People are calling in reservations, and that means more money in my pocket.
Of course, there’s another reason I own the business, and it’s not because I’m interested in the food service industry. Restaurants take in their fair share of cash, and they make perfect fronts to launder money I receive through gambling and other illegal activities. Legitimate businesses are also a great way to pay taxes and keep the IRS off my back. I can always point to sucha successful enterprise when I need to explain my standard of living.
No one blinks an eye when they learn that the owner of The Focaccia is living large. Of course he would. That place is a premier five-star Italian restaurant in the city. So I go there periodically to check up on my investment, but also occasionally when I need time to relax.
It’s an upscale place that seems like a world away from my problems. I only brought Giovanni to have someone to dine with. But he’s giving me a hard time about my relationship with Marlena.
