Faro remains once they’re gone, and it’s me who soon feels like the intruder. I recall Carlo said he’s the man who taught him and his brothers to fight, the man who tortured him to toughen him up on his father’s behalf when he was a boy. He's younger than I expected based on that, probably around thirty. Of course, boys in our world are expected to become men very young. He’s got dark eyes and a chilling glower though he’s not unattractive… if a girl is crazy enough to prefer dangerous men over so-called bad boys.
The pair of them speak in rapid Italian that outpaces my minor grasp of the language while shooting occasional glances my way. When the volume and their body language suggest they’re on the verge of an argument, they move outside to the rooftop terrace.
I’m too numb to care as I stare at my wedding band in a state of intense disbelief. It’s a beautiful ring. My husband has good taste.My husband?I should throw the ring down the garbage disposal and then find a butcher knife to rid myself of him. I wonder what Sofia will think if she hears of this. I wonder where the hell she is and if she finds her freedom nearly as sweet as it sounds. God, Ronan will lose his shit for sure when he learns of my marriage.
I drift around the penthouse while the men talk, exploring. Past the kitchen and dining area, there’s a hallway with guest bedrooms and a separate bathroom. There’s another door that’s locked. His office, I suppose.
I head upstairs to his bedroom, not knowing where else to go. I want to rip this white dress off and stomp on it. Maybe burning it would send a clearer message. But I have nothing else to wear beyond thered dress I wore here last night. I’m not a fan of that one either at this point.
“Carlo instructed me to take you to the hotel to collect your things and then take you shopping.”
Startled, I turn and find Faro standing in the doorway outside the bedroom with his hands shoved in his pockets and a scowl marring his face. “Shopping?”
“For whatever clothes you want until the rest of yours arrive from Nevada.”
“Where is Carlo?”
“Business.”
Faro’s gruff answer adds to the unexpected sense of abandonment I feel over the fact that he left without saying anything to me so shortly after we exchanged our vows. I knew he’d have me and forget me. So, why did he have tomarryme?
“Will it just be us on this outing?”
“Just us,” he confirms. “Carlo has named me your personal bodyguard. A great honor.” He doesn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm. Maybe he’ll be careless like Enzo’s men around me.
***
Unfortunately, my daydreams of making a dash for the airport to catch up to my mother and cousin and plead with them to take me home are quickly squashed. Faro may not relish being my bodyguard, but it’s soon obvious he’s vigilant.
“Have you always worked for the Vicini family?” I ask once we’ve retrieved my bags from the hotel and I’m dressed in a pair of jeans and sensible shoes.
“Sì.”
“How long?”
“Sixteen years.”
“So, you’ve beenin the businesssince you were…”
“Fourteen.” Faro isn’t very chatty, that’s for certain. He’s barely spoken a dozen words since we left the penthouse.
“I haven’t eaten a bite since last night,” I mention. "I'd hate to shop on an empty stomach."
Faro nods, gesturing toward a nearby Italian restaurant. We slip inside where the atmosphere is cozy and quiet compared to the bustling Manhattan streets. It’s kind of romantic to be honest, the sort of place I’d imagine going on a date… if I had ever been on one of those.
A server hurries over, a girl my age, and then a taller woman with graying hair who could only be her mother, steps out of the kitchen. Both openly stare at me before acknowledging Faro with respect. He mutters a few words in Italian to them before telling me in English that the older woman is the owner. Pleased to meet a female entrepreneur, a rarity in our world, I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back.
We’re seated in a corner booth. I open the menu, not feeling the slightest bit hungry when I realize every employee that passes by stares intently at me. “Do they know about the wedding already?” I ask, wondering if there’s some underground mafia blog in New York that updates events like that regularly.
“No, they know who your father is,” Faro answers.
My stomach sinks as I glance around again. It’s not curiosity but animosity shining in their eyes, a look I'm familiar with by now. “Did my father…”
“The current owner’s husband died in prison last year. Her son is serving ten years, so that the rat might scurry away and live free, Mrs. Vicini.”
I jerk back in my seat. “So, you brought me here in order for them to poison me?”
He scoffs, sounding amused. “They wouldn’t fucking dare.”
