Matthew cleared his throat and offered her his hand. ‘Shall we,SignoraD’Adamo?’
Sarah’s eyes darted between his proffered hand and his handsome face. His wedding band gleamed in the weakening beams of the descending sun. She glanced down at her own identical white gold ring. ‘Probably too late to say no, right?’
He smiled. ‘Waytoo late.’
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered, catching his grasp.
Maurizio, at least halfway across the piazza now, didn’t see their hands fumble as they tried to find what felt comfortable. Keeping an eye on Maurizio, they held for a moment, readjusting before settling.
‘Let’s catch up,’ Matthew said, gently leading Sarah to follow.
The piazza and its life and energy were suddenly muted, Maurizio was a blur. All Sarah could concentrate on was Matthew’s hand; strong, guiding, warm. Even as he walked a step ahead, she felt as if he were carrying her. Caught off-guard, she felt her breathing shallow.
Matthew turned, obviously sensing the change in her. ‘Are you ok?’
‘Fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Just a little dizzy. Jet lag.’
He stopped, his green eyes catching the early-March sun. ‘Sarah, no matter what happens, I’m here for you. We’re in this together.’
‘I know. It’s just . . .nowit’s real for me.’ She swallowed deeply to clear her dry throat. ‘Come on, Sarah,’ she said, steeling herself.
‘It will all be fine. I promise.’
‘I know.’
The Palazzo Vecchio, with its medieval bell tower and turrets, stood to their left. In front was the Loggia dei Lanzi, filled to the brim with tourists marvelling at its intricately detailed sculptures.
Just to the right of the Loggia, beyond a handful of restaurants with alfresco dining, stood an elegant palazzo with a cream façade and gold revolving doors. Above the entrance flew a series of flags: the Italian flag, the flag of the European Union, the Giglio di Firenze and a crisp white flag emblazoned with gold lettering.
‘That’s the one,’ Matthew said, nodding in the direction of the building. ‘Home.’
‘I Signori D’Adamo,’ Maurizio announced to a pompously dressed doorman as Sarah and Matthew finally joined him.
The doorman nodded his acknowledgement and caught the revolving door mid-spin with his right hand. ‘Prego,Signore,’ he welcomed, ushering Matthew through the door.
Sarah had bent over to retie one of her shoelaces. On bended knee, her attention was immediately drawn to the red semicircle carpet fanning out from the doorway. In the middle, ornately stitched in gold interweaving lettering, were the initialsDA. Righting herself, she glanced upwards at the starched flags whipping loudly in the breeze. The largest of the flags, being the white with gold lettering, hovered overhead. The fabric danced in the wind, unfurling momentarily for her to recognise the sameDA.
The doorman, noticing the direction of Sarah’s gaze, said, ‘D’Adamo,naturalmente,Signora.’
She smiled, though her insides began to churn. It wasn’t until he welcomed her through the door on the following revolution that it truly hit her; the magnitude of her decision, the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. She tucked her hands behind her back so no one would see them tremble.
Matthew stood waiting for her, but she didn’t see him. He didn’t exist. Stepping forward, all Sarah could see was the opulent lobby of Palazzo D’Adamo, one of the world’s most exclusive hotels and operational headquarters of the D’Adamo Hotels and Luxury Residences group. The scent of gardenia and pear roused her, and her eyes widened at the white Carrara marble tiles gleaming under the light of a three-tiered crystal chandelier hanging effortlessly from the vaulted wooden ceiling. Gold textiles in the same thread as the flag were scattered across navy velvet armchairs and ottomans. Glass countertops and bevelled-edge mirrors were placed with purpose, designed to catch and reflect the light of the dozens of white pillar candles lining the lobby walls.
To Sarah’s right and slightly set back was a dark bar and intimate sitting area. To the left was a porter’s station and series of locked cloakrooms, each marked with a rich mahogany door. In front stood the reception desk, the grandest feature of the lobby. At least ten-foot wide, in one immaculate expanse of the whitest marble Sarah had ever seen, it practically glowed under the overhead pendant lighting. The natural veins of the marble had been etched and in their place ran a web of 24-carat gold lines. A large mirror, again engraved withDA, hung behind the reception desk, where navy-dressed staff busied themselves.
‘Shit,’ Sarah whispered.
Matthew chuckled. ‘Welcome to my world.’ He checked over both shoulders before shooting her a playful wink. ‘C’mon, let’s check in.’
A pale man greeted them at the desk. ‘Buonasera,Signor D’Adamo!’ His welcome was familiar and warm.
‘Salvatore,come sta?’
‘Bene, grazie. It has been too long. How was your flight?’
‘Also very long,’ Matthew sighed. ‘Even in business class.’
‘I shall have you upstairs and relaxing in just a moment.’ His dark eyes narrowed in on Sarah. ‘And is thisSignoraD’Adamo?’ She couldn’t decide if he was scrutinising her or if he had misplaced his glasses.
