Fina, who reappeared at the last possible minute, smothers a laugh before Santini leans in and says something in her ear. The soup spoon in my sister’s hand knocks against her bowl, but she smiles at him through gritted teeth.
The servers come and go, removing plates and bringing fresh dishes. Time ticks on. When Francesca finally returns, she’s wearing a new dress. This one is dove gray and embellished with tiny gems.
She takes her seat just as the desserts arrive, but barely touches hers, even though she missed the main courses. I do note, however, that she’s guzzling wine like it’s the Prohibition era and supplies are limited.
Vivian makes polite small talk, but mostly she sits staring at her husband, who ignores her while chatting with my father and a second man I vaguely recognize.
I’m curious about why Remington is suddenly all cozy with my father. Dad’s never paid much attention to him before. He always said Remington was small fry and not worth bothering with. So what’s changed?
To my surprise, Chiara keeps her head down while my father talks over her head. He seems more interested in acting like the big man for his guests. A typical narcissist.
Once the servers have cleared away the dessert dishes, he stands and clears his throat loudly.
“We gentlemen will take our coffee in the drawing room while you ladies can enjoy your coffee in peace in the garden room.” A few of the ladies titter.
I catch Chiara rolling her eyes, but she keeps her opinions to herself for once. Dad leaves the table, ignoring Francesca’s pathetic attempt to capture his attention. Fina stays in her chair as Santini stands. His hand slides down her arm. Then he stares straight at me while squeezing her wrist hard enough to provoke a pained squeak.
My teeth grind so hard it’s a wonder they don’t turn to dust. The asshole needs teaching a lesson.
Not tonight.
But one day soon, I will kill the fucker.
33
Chiara
Past me would have laughed if she could see present me now, wearing head-to-toe couture while making polite chit-chat with women I can’t stand.
I swish over to the tall glass windows and stare out into the gardens. Thanks to pretty glowing lights everywhere, the shimmering swimming pool, the palatial pool house, the manicured lawns, and in the distance, the edge of the lemon grove are all visible.
It’s a beautiful garden. One that deserves a full-page spread in an architectural magazine. The armed guards don’t quite fit the aesthetic, though. Or the huge devil dog sat gnawing on a bone.
Wait…
Why is the bone wearing scraps of denim?
I look away quickly, not wanting to attract the attention of the man-eating dog. The alcohol I’ve consumed sloshes around in my stomach uncomfortably, reminding me I’m very drunk. Oops.
“Once Angelo comes back, we’re leaving,” Kane tells me in a low voice. While I’ve been staring outside, he’s moved closer.
“Good. This place gives me the creeps.”
“Imagine how Angelo felt living here,” Kane chuckles. He glances over at Fina, who’s acting like she’s having a ball while sipping herbal tea under the guise ofstomach problems.
Considering her fate if we can’t figure something out, Fina’s coping remarkably well. I wasn’t nearly as calm when I discovered Vivian had sold me into marriage.
The woman herself stands by a bookcase with a glass of wine. She’s talking to a tall, gaunt woman and smiling like she’s living her best life.
Fucking evil bitch.
“Relax, kitten. The hard part is over.” Kane’s calm voice rolls over me and settles some of the anxiety in my gut. He’s such a steady presence in my life. Whereas life with Luka is a rollercoaster of extreme emotions, Kane never loses his shit, and I know that whatever happens, I can rely on him.
I take a step toward him, needing to soak up his particular brand of comfort. If we weren’t stuck in the middle of this nest of vipers, I’d wrap my arms around him and rest my cheek on his pecs, but I can’t take the risk someone will notice. Even though I’m steaming drunk, I’m not insane.
I am Angelo Di Rossi’s wife, after all.
So I settle for second best and shift a little closer until our fingers touch. It’s a tiny gesture, but I can’t help but smile when he brushes his thumb across my wrist.
