Zia avoided my gaze. “You ask too many questions,bella. A habit you should try to break.”
I accepted her decision the way I accepted everything that happened to me but she knew if she didn’t tell me the truth, no one would. Two days later she pulled me into my ensuite and ran the shower and bath at the same time.
“What are you doing, Zia?”
“Shh!” She drew me close, her voice barely audible over the pounding water. “You want to know why Mr. Parker sits beside you?”
I nodded.
“Mr. Parker is a billionaire. I don’t know what he does, your stepmother says it’s computers or something. Anyway, he met your father at a party we hosted for the mayor of New York. Mr. Parker and your father became friends. He was having trouble making connections. Your father told him he was ‘new money’ and he would have to wait to gain the kind of reputation he wanted.”
“Was he angry?”
“Very. A month later he came back to the house and demanded to marry into your family.”
My eyes went wide. I was only eight when daddy died, so I must have been a baby when they were having these talks. “Mr. Parker wanted to marry me?”
“He wanted to marry your sister. Margot was fifteen, there would have been less time to wait—no, don’t make noise,bella.”
Zia pressed a hand over my pleading mouth, suppressing my moan of horror. Her eyes were fixed on mine. “Be quiet and let me finish. Your father didn’t refuse Mr. Parker. But he didn’t encourage him either. But then he died, God rest his soul.” Zia whipped a quick sign of the cross.
“But Mr. Parker came back?” I pressed.
“He did,bella. He waited a year, then returned to negotiate with your stepmother. She offered Margot’s hand in marriage, but Mr. Parker said she didn’t have the right attitude for a wife. He knew Margot had just been suspended from school. I almost dropped the tray of roast potatoes I was carrying when he suggested you instead. I expected your stepmother to tell him todi andare a fanculobut she ordered me to bring you into the dining room. You probably don’t remember. You were very young.”
She looks at me hopefully and I shake my head. “I don’t remember.”
“Good.” Zia shudders. “I woke you up and carried you to the dining room. I was hoping you would wet yourself in front of him. That you would fall down or beg for a glass of milk. I even pinched you, trying to make you cry, but when I put you down in front of Mr. Parker, you answered all his questions like a little lady in your nightdress and I saw there was nothing I could do. He liked you. Your mother agreed to the marriage that night.”
I could have asked why, but I already knew. Money.
The Whitehalls are seen as ultra, mega wealthy, but we’re a large family and our fortune is spread between dozens.
“Asset rich,” my Uncle Titus once said at a Christmas party. “But cash poor. That’s half the Whitehall dregs these days.”
Mom would sooner die than admit it, but we were once those dregs. After daddy died there was no one to work or negotiate our yearly share of the family fortune. We stopped going to our vacation homes. Zia Teresa became not just my nanny, but a cook and housekeeper. Mom and Harris constantly argued about his Audi, mom telling him he’d have to pay for gas and repairs out of his trust fund.
After mom promised me to Mr. Parker, everything changed. One minute mom was screaming we needed to sell our house in Big Bear, the next she had a silver Bugatti and there were four hundred people at my ninth birthday party. I didn’t have to ask where the money was coming from. When I was ten, I heard mom asking our accountant “Is Zachery’s quarterly payment here yet?” I just didn’t know why he was giving us money. And then I did.
I don’t blame mom. She was alone with three houses and four children to take care of. She had a responsibility to look after our family and so did I. At least Mr. Parker wanted to make me a part of his family. All Eli Morelli offered was a ruby necklace on loan and a few nice outings.
And to be touched by him…
I shove the thought away. He kidnapped me, had my bodyguard killed, and locked me in this basement.
I get up and clean myself as best I can. I wash with water from the bathroom sink and rinse my wedding lingerie, leaving it on the towel rail to dry. I wrap the thin blanket around myself and return to the bed, putting my St. Christopher next to the lamp. My stomach rumbles. If I could only escape with Eli’s necklace. I’d pawn it then go straight to the nearest deli and eat everything behind the counter. Then I’d book a hotel and take a bath. Call Zia and say, “I’m coming home!”
And then Mr. Parker would find me. And we would be getting married again.
My chest tightens. “Don’t,” I tell myself. “You would rather be his wife than stuck here.”
A clattering scrape makes me jump. Extra light floods into the basement and footsteps clang on the metal stairs.
“Hello?” I call out, trying to sound strong. “Who is it?”
“What’s up, Tesorina?”
My heart sinks as Doc emerges from the shadows. He’s still barefoot and in ripped black jeans, but his T-shirt has changed. It’s another sleeveless one that shows off his tattooed ribs. He must be very proud of the sides of his body. I wrap the blanket tighter around myself. “Hello, Mr. Valente.”
