Honestly, maybe Giulio should have hired someone to play his wife. It probably would have been easier. I tilt my head to the side, though, as I look back atPapáStefano. “You told him he had to get married, right?” I ask. “Why?” Giulio jerks his gaze to me, but the question is already out there now. There’s no taking it back.
“Ah.”PapáStefano sits back in his seat. “That is the question, isn’t it?
He lifts his fork and points it between Giulio and me. “See?” He nudges the tongs at us. “He makes a good husband, and you have only been married a short while.” His smile mimics that of a cat that ate the canary. Then, he stabs the fork into his crab cake. “I tell him that a man without ties has nothing to lose. A man without a partner does not truly know family. But does he listen?”PapáStefano shakes his head. “Of course not. So, I make the decision for him. If there is one thing my son values, it is his work. So, I threaten that, and now, he is married. All is well.”
As I cut into the crab cake in front of me with the side of myfork, I try not to snort at that last bit. All is definitely not well. I cast a sidelong look at my husband, but he’s focused on eating his own food.
PapáStefano hums as he swallows a mouthful of crab cake, and when I glance up, his gaze is on Giulio. It softens a bit, and he smiles, but Giulio stiffens next to me at his next words. “As you two get to know one another, he will understand that what I have done, I have done for the betterment of his life.”
The betterment of Giulio’s life? Me?Oh, poorPapáStefano has no idea how wrong he is. I resist the urge to laugh or snort—though I feel like either of those would be a better reaction to Don Luciani’s words. Instead, I just lift a bite to my mouth and then try not to orgasm in front of my new father-in-law, brother-in-law, and husband as the crab cake suddenly becomes my all-time favorite food in the entire world.
Who knew?
9
DAISY
The Cheesecake Factory rich is the ultimate rich.
Eyeballs. Hundreds of beady, little, staring, gooey eyeballs. Why are there so many? And why are they all around me? Dead bodies, I can handle. I mean, in theory, I can. Actually… technically, in practice, I know I can. The whole cadaver thing in college hadn’t freaked me out the same as it had my classmates. Eyeballs, though? Especially ones separated from a head or body or face and just randomly floating around me with that pink bundle of nerves sticking to the back of its ping-pong-ball-sized shape? No, thank you.
“Daisy.”
Reaching out a hand, I slap at the zombie currently trying to drag my arm away from my body and into his decaying mouth. It has no eyes. Or are the eyes above it, staring down at me, a part of the undead creature?
“No,” I grumble, annoyed. “Stop it. Bad zombie.”
“Daisy, wake up.” The zombie drops my arm, and then ashadow falls over me. Through bleary, sleep-heavy eyes, I look up and realize that it’s not a zombie at all calling my name but Giulio.My husband.
Damn, I’d almost forgotten all about that.
Blinking, I stare past him to the ceiling over my head. It’s not the same pockmarked tile ceiling of my bedroom with the oddly elephant-shaped mystery stain that I’m used to seeing every time I wake up. No, this ceiling is painted a perfect cream color with molding that circles the room and an indention from which a heavy chandelier, glittering with glass baubles, dangles down.
I don’t remember this ceiling. I remember going to lunch with Giulio andPapáStefano. Then, I’d gorged myself on the crab cakes and mimosas, scarfed down the entrée, and even asked for second dessert. By the time Giulio had led me out of the Madison Park restaurant, I was well on my way to a food coma. Had I fallen asleep on the way back? No, if that were the case, I’d be tucked up in my bed, wouldn’t I?
“Where am I?” My question comes out on a croak.
Giulio hears it and understands it well enough to give me an answer. “You’re in my home,” he says, disappearing from view as he steps back.
“I am?” I blink some more. “How did I get here?”
“I took you to grab something to eat and brought you back here,” he says matter-of-factly. “Then I gave you some port and—”
“I don’t remember a port,” I say, interrupting him. “I think I’d remember getting on a ship.”
A beat of silence passes, and then Giulio’s face is over mine,one dark brow arching. “Not that kind of port,” he says tartly. “The liquor kind.”
“Oh.” I continue to look at him. “Did I get drunk?” That’s the only explanation I can come up with for my lack of memory.
He nods. “Yes, though the port wasn’t what did it. I stepped away to answer a phone call and by the time I returned, you’d raided my entire liquor cabinet.”
With a wince at the sudden pounding in my head that seems to corroborate Giulio’s story, I turn to the side and slide my gaze around the rest of the room. “I’m surprised my head doesn’t hurt more,” I comment lightly. The dull, achy throb is there, but not as bad as it could be considering my blacked-out memory.
“You’re young still,” Giulio replies. “I also gave you some medicine before I put you to bed in here.”
“That was nice of you…” My words drift off as I stretch a palm out on the sheets and blankets surrounding me. I’m lying on the most scrumptious bed to ever exist in the lifetime ofever. With a pleasured groan in my throat, I sink further into the mattress and roll from side to side, relishing the cool sheets.
“What are these?” I find myself asking. “They’re delicious.”
