“You haven’t hurt me,” he says, coldly.
“Bullshit. We both know you were hurt when you thought I cheated.” That unhinged, possessive look blazes in his eyes at the suggestion. “I would’ve been devastated if you… Iwouldbe devastated if you ever did.”
His mask cracks, perhaps in ways only I can see. “When I thought you had…” His mouth quickly clamps shut, but I know what he must have felt.
“I’m not sorry for wanting to protect my brother. I’m not sorry for trying to meet him even if it was foolish under the circumstances. But I am sorry that I wasn’t honest with you about it.”
“How long have you been betraying me?” he asks, gruffly.
“It was the first time I’ve seen Ronan since Sofia fled, I swear it.”
“But he didn’t just happen upon you in that park, did he?”
Of course, he didn’t, and we both know it. How much more do I confess? I can’t throw Maeve to the wolves.
It doesn’t matter because the song ends. With an audible sigh of relief, Carlo walks me toward Alessio and Caterina so he can hand me off to my cousin for the next dance. Ouch. Has his intense need to claim me already faded for good? Does he already regret our marriage as I feared?
Alessio’s eyes bore into me as our dance starts. “How do you like lying in the bed you’ve made now, Frankie?”
“Shut up,” I tell him, my fake smile firmly back in place. He shakes his head and spins me around. My groom is dancing with his mother. Traditionally, I would be dancing with my father now. Or Ronan would take his place. I dig my fingernails into my palm where it rests on my cousin’s shoulder to fight against unwanted tears.
His brother Luca asks me to dance next while Carlo dances with my mother. As the new bride, at least I don’t lack partners for once. “How have you been?” I ask Luca, unsure what to say but knowing he’s close to Carlo.
“Busy.” It’s the only response I receive, and I don’t have the heart to draw more words out of a Vicini who hates me.
The following dance, Carlo is dancing with his Consigliere’s younger daughter. I remember her sister, Margareta Morelli, and her tragic end, but I’ve forgotten the girl's first name in the sea of people I’ve met tonight. Every time she looks my way, there are daggers in her eyes.
I ignore her to focus on Renato who claimed the next dance after Luca. “What’s up, little sneak?” he asks me with a sly grin.
I'm grateful for the teasing. “You can’t call me little when I’m older than you.” He raises his dark eyebrows because we know his size more than makes up for me being two years older. “Just dance with me,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He complies, whirling me around wildly until I’m dizzy and laughing. Several older guests appear shocked by our behavior. I’ll probably be in more trouble for this later, but I can't say I care. I only wish my dance with Carlo could've been joyful this way and not layered with so much frost.
43
Francesca
Once I escape the dance floor, I make my way over to my mother. “I think it’s going well, don’t you?” Mom asks me.
“Yes, Mrs. Vicini outdid herself.”
"Carlo looks very handsome in his tux."
Mom’s comment rivets my attention back to him. Even with his cold-bastard expression going, he’s undeniably handsome. He’s currently surrounded by a group of important members of the Trio in a corner on the far side of the room.
One of them is Caterina’s brother Nico who looks ready to start the next war over whatever the men are discussing. Cat’s other brother Dante is absent, along with their parents and Nico’s twins. They may all be in Chicago where the Morellis rule, but there’s rumors that Dante has been in Italy a good deal lately. Why exactly, Caterina isn’t sure.
Thinking of those who are missing makes me think of Sofia. She would have excelled at charming the elite of New York’s Trio while gracing Carlo’s arm if not for his actions at Alessio’s Seconda.And if he hadn’t randomly decided he wanted me.
A few of the other men in the group glance my way with dark amusement shining in their eyes. Carlo scowls at them, and my stomach tightens with nerves. Didn’t I warn him they’d think less of him for marrying me?
Forcing myself to turn away, I compliment my mother’s dress. “You look lovely in turquoise, Mom.”
“Thank you, but you’re the one who’s dazzling tonight, Francesca.”
“Dazzling with sore feet,” I admit.
“You still hate high heels. I remember feeling the same way at my wedding,” she says with a wistful smile. “Beppe insisted I dance barefoot when it was his turn to dance with me.”
