"I can see that."
As Damiano comes back into the room, I notice his trousers are dirty.
"Met the goats, did you?" my grandfather asks.
Damiano's jaw twitches and I stifle a laugh. He nods toward a photo on the shelf. "Violetta has her father's eyes."
My grandfather nods. "But none of his character. That's the important thing. She's a fine young woman. I hope you know what a treasure you have in her."
"I do." Damiano replies without hesitation, and I find I actually believe him.
"She has convinced me to sell up. You may tell the feckless playboy I'll accept his latest offer."
Insulting Lorenzo is probably a bad idea, but Damiano doesn't react to my grandfather's provocation. Whether that's out of deference to his age or consideration for me, I'm not sure. I hope it's the latter.
"Lorenzo isn't a feckless playboy, Grandpa." I'm not sure what made me address him that way, but it feels right. "He's a reformed man."
"Good, good, but I still want the terms he offered. Tell his lawyer to contact mine."
He offers his hand to Damiano, who takes it and shakes firmly. I get up and move to Damiano's side.
"We will meet again, Violetta," my grandfather says.
"Soon," I confirm.
He narrows his eyes at Damiano. "You be good to her. I may be old, but I can still fire a shotgun."
I'm sure Damiano has killed men for making less obvious threats, but he simply smiles and leads me to the door. As he always does, he helps me into the car before he takes the wheel himself.
As we drive away, I let out a long breath.
"Thank you for giving us time alone. I think we needed that."
"You're welcome."
As silence settles over the car, the weight of everything that's happened presses down on me. I need to lighten the tone. Turning to Damiano, I flash him a wicked grin.
"So, Signore Volante. Tell me about the goats."
EIGHTEEN
Violetta
I never imaginedI'd be the sort of woman who watches the clock while waiting for her husband, but here I am. Damiano was supposed to be back by seven thirty to have dinner with me, but three courses of delicious food came and went and he didn't show up.
So here I am, sitting alone with a glass of wine and a book I can't concentrate on, wondering why I'm so damned disappointed about that.
It's not as if we're a conventional couple enjoying our honeymoon phase. He has business that takes him away at all hours. A sensible woman would reconcile herself to not having him around.
But when it comes to the husband I didn't even want, my common sense seems to fly out the window, because I miss him far more than I should. It’s foolish to crave those moments when our fingers brush as we both reach for the wine, or his eyes finding mine and giving me that rare half-smile of his. But I wanted them anyway,
At eleven thirty, I decide I'm being pathetic and go to bed alone. As I set my glass down, Damiano walks into the room. I frown as I take in his disheveled state.
He left this morning as he always does in an immaculately tailored suit. Now he's wearing black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, an outfit I never thought I'd see him in. He looks younger and somehow more dangerous. In a suit, I can fool myself he’s just another businessman.
Like this, I see the man who lies beneath the polished exterior. The one who’s unafraid to get his hands dirty. It’s unnerving.
He crosses to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a Scotch. Standing there, facing the wall, he drinks every last drop. Then he pours two more glasses and comes to offer me one. As I take it, I notice the grazes on the backs of his knuckles. He sees me staring, but neither of us says a word about it.
