I struggle to pull free from his hold but fail. “Davide, what’s going on? Who were those guards?”
“Some of them are our men; others, like the dick,” he grits, “are here because your father has visitors.”
Shit.
“Who?”
“Important people.” He pauses at the steps that lead up to the house.
Marble steps that look like they’re inlaid with gold; straight up screaming ‘I’m rich’. Not to mention, they’d be treacherous when it rained. But I ignore the over-the-top house and focus on Davide.
“Be on your best behavior.” His eyes skate over me, taking in my messy ponytail, no make-up, and my way-too-casual and rumpled clothes, and he shakes his head. “Why do you always have to rebel, Gina?”
I bristle. I don’t know him well enough for him to be this forward with me, plus I don’t like how he eyed me like I was a disappointment. Just like I know my parents will.
That foolish, nostalgic longing for the parents and family we used to be rises, but I shove it away as Davide pulls me up the steps and into the entrance of the house.
I’m about to hit him with a snarky rebuke, but I stop and gawk. Dear Lord, the inside is worse than the outside.
The marble floor is polished to a blinding shine. There are gold accents everywhere—the window handles, picture frames, the light fixtures—and it makes me squint. And it looks like an art gallery exploded, with almost every available spot on the wall hanging some sort of painting.
I spin around, taking in the over-the-top grandeur of the home. What thehellhas my father been doing to afford all this?
“Go up to your room and change into something appropriate.” Davide points at the curving staircase. “I’ll go break the news to your father that you’re here early.”
Indignant anger flushes my cheeks. How dare he order me around as if I’m a child. And my clothes are perfectly fine.
But before I can put him in his place, there’s a sharp gasp.
“Gina?” Shock fills my mom’s voice.
I slowly turn around and face her. “Hey,Mamma.” I haven’t called her that in years, as she preferred the English version when they moved to the States, preferably Mother because it was more formal and ladylike.
She’s beautiful, willowy, and perfect as always. Dressed in a fine evening gown that seems way too elaborate for dinner at home, even if they have guests. She floats toward me, ever the poised wife. However, panic has replaced her shock as her eyes travel over me and take in my less-than-posh appearance.
She waves toward the stairs. “Hurry. Get upstairs and change.”
Stubbornness roots my feet to the floor. I just traveled for over twenty-four hours, so yeah, I’m not put-together like the princess they like to pretend I am.
“Why? Who’s here?” I ask.
And why is she shaking like she’s scared?
Both she and Davide push me toward the stairs, and I stumble a step before re-rooting my feet. “It’s great to see you, too, Mom.” She cringes like I knew she would, at my calling her that. “Geez, it’s been months, and yeah, sorry you and Dad couldn’t make it to my graduation from the snobbish school you forced me to go to.”
Yeah, I’m not bitter. At. All.
“Now is not the time,” she hisses.
“Gina Isabella Caruso.” My father’s voice doesn’t boom, but it slaps me with the anger in his words.
My mother trembles and steps behind me while I turn to face him.
What the actual hell, Mom?
Since my father’s mild stroke and theBabboversion of him died, he hasn’t been a loving man, but why is she acting like she’s afraid? Afraid of him?
Franco Caruso isn’t overly tall, and I got his short stature instead of my mom’s tall, willowy frame. His dark hair is grayer at the temples than I remember, the lines deeper on his face. He storms over to me, his polished shoes harsh on the marble floor.
