"This way," the tattooed man says, wrapping his fingers around my arm and guiding me up the steps. His firm touch burns through my sleeve. It almost feels possessive and even though I’m scared, that thought sends a small thrill through me.
The massive doors swing open before we reach them, and awoman stands in the entrance with a wide smile. She's older, maybe in her fifties, with warm brown skin and a cloud of salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a loose bun. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she sees me, like she's genuinely happy I'm here. It throws me off-balance, making me miss home even more.
"Ah! You must be Liana," she says with a sharp accent. "Welcome, welcome. I am Lupita, but please, call me Pita."
I manage a tight smile as the tattooed man finally releases my arm. "Hi. It’s nice to meet you, Pita."
Behind me, I hear footsteps retreating and I turn just in time to see the driver already heading back to the car, my suitcase abandoned on the marble floor. He doesn't even look back, not even to grunt a goodbye. He just slides into the driver's seat and pulls away, his tires crunching on gravel.
"Seriously?" I mutter. "Not even a 'have a nice life'?"
I turn red when I realize I spoke out loud but Pita just laughs before speaking.
"That's just Ricky. He’s like a ghost, that one. One minute he’s here and the next, he’s gone before you know it. Been that way since he was a small child."
Ricky. So that's the driver's name. Not "the help" or "the chauffeur" or whatever I'd been expecting. Weird.
"Ricky," I repeat, testing the name. It sounds too friendly for the quiet man who'd driven me here, even if I did catch a smirk or two. "Is he…I mean, if he's not one of the guards watching me, then who is he?"
Pita's eyebrows shoot up.
"Ricky? A guard? No, no. He's Rio's cousin."
"Rio's cousin?" I frown. Uncle Alessio never mentioned that. "But then…"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean by a guard to watch you," Pita says, her gaze shifting over my shoulder, confusion clouding her features.
I turn to find the tattooed man standing closer than I expected, his presence suddenly like a wall at my back.
"Of course there is a guard," he says, voice low and smooth. "Rio instructed me to watch over the girl while he is gone."
I bristle at being called "the girl," but before I can snap back, Pita makes a small noise…something between a gasp and a hum. When I look at her, the confusion on her face is slowly morphing into something like bewilderment.
"Ah, of course," she says carefully. "Pancho…he is just the man to watch over you…"
Pancho? I look back at the tattooed man, who's now scowling at Pita, his jaw tight. That is not the name I was expecting for this gorgeous man I’ve been checking out the entire drive. It certainly doesn’t suit him. I’m not sure what I was expecting…definitely not Pancho, though.
"You can call me Frankie," he says to me directly, ignoring Pita entirely. "I have a few things to do. Pita will show you your room and give you a tour. Feel free to look around the estate. Everything here is at your disposal except for the left wing. That area is off limits for now."
“But…” I start as I look at Pita in confusion. Unfortunately, she looks just as confused as I am as we both watch him stride down a hallway without another word. He leaves me alone with Pita and a thousand questions buzzing in my head like angry wasps.
"Well," Pita says after a moment, clapping her hands together. "Let me show you around, yes? This place, it is easy to get lost in."
She's not wrong. The house is a maze of sleek corridors, giant rooms and staircases that seem to float without support. Everything expensive and utterly impersonal. It’s like a luxury hotel that's never had actual guests. There are no familyphotos. No trinkets or knick-knacks. Zero evidence that anyone actually lives here.
Pita chatters as we walk, pointing out rooms I'll probably never use. There’s a home theater with seats that could fit twenty people, a gym that looks like it belongs in an Olympic training facility and a wine cellar with bottles older than I am. Fitting for the grandpa I’m about to marry.
My room is a huge suite, similar in size to my old one in Italy. It’s on the second floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley.
‘At least the view is nice,’I think as I sit on the bed.
It’s massive and draped in crisp white linens that belong in a hotel. There's a sitting area with plush armchairs, a desk, and a bathroom, surprisingly bigger than the one I had back in Italy. This family definitely has money, maybe even more than my family.
"I'll leave you to settle in," Pita says after showing me how to work the complicated shower. "Dinner will be at seven. The kitchen is downstairs, first door past the sitting room with the grey couches. If you need anything before then, just call. She points to an intercom system on the wall that makes me cringe. No way am I speaking into that thing anytime soon.
And then she's gone too, her footsteps fading down the hall as I stand in the middle of the room, suddenly, achingly alone. The silence presses in on me from all sides. I could scream, and no one would hear me. I could run, but where would I go? Miles of desert with no escape. It’s not like I could go back home to Italy after-all. I truly am stuck here. I stare at the book I laid on my bed before grabbing it and holding it close to my chest. I could head out to explore. Anything is better than sitting here drowning in my own thoughts.
The estate is even more impressive outside. The pool is huge, with an infinity edge that makes it look like the water simply vanishes into the sky. Next to it, a waterfall tumblesover artfully arranged rocks into a smaller pool below. I peer over the edge and see what looks like a cave entrance behind the cascade of water, dark and inviting in the afternoon heat. Beyond the pool area, there's a full tennis court, its surface pristine green, and a basketball court with a hoop that looks like it's never been used. Everything is perfect. Too perfect. It feels empty.
