"No, of course not."
Lukas leads me into the house. It's cool inside, which is a relief because the Roman summer is hotter than I'm used to. Thehouse is obviously large, with a grand staircase leading up from the entryway and corridors going off to the left and right. It's not shabby but it is a little dated.
Bratva leaders tend to live in more opulent surroundings than this. Perhaps it's a nod to tradition, a reminder of the illustrious heritage of the Volante family.
The décor may be muted but the antiques appear old and valuable and there are some landscapes on the walls that could be by notable artists.
When we're halfway along a corridor, Lukas stops and opens a door. He steps back to allow me to pass.
"There's coffee on the table. Help yourself."
I glance up at him. "You're not coming in?"
"Do you need me to?" He echoes his earlier question.
"No."
I walk into a large room that's either a study or a library. There's a large wooden desk at one end with a leather chair behind it and a closed laptop at its center.
There are two Chesterfield sofas upholstered in green leather with a low wooden coffee table between them. It reminds me of one of those stuffy gentleman's clubs, not that I've ever been in one.
The walls are lined with book-filled shelves. That makes me smile. I love to read. I step forward and run my fingers along a row of spines. Russian would have been too much to hope for but I thought there might be something in English.
Sadly these are all in Italian, the titles and authors as foreign to me as the land itself. I gnaw my bottom lip. I should learn the language if I'm going to live here. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
As I take a seat on one of the sofas, something moves in the corner of my eye. I gasp and jump to my feet as I spot a man in the far corner by the window.
The room seems to shrink as he moves forward and pauses as if deciding whether to show himself or remain in the shadows. For a moment I don’t breathe. I don’t move, waiting for him to speak.
"Did I startle you?" he asks as he steps into the light.
"Just a little. I didn't see you there."
He nods and stands there appraising me the same way I examine him. Gabriele Volante is tall and muscular, the right side of his face telling me he was devastatingly handsome before he was attacked.
Scarring runs from his temple to his jaw on the left side. It's not from a single slash. Someone took time to carve him up.
The skin on his cheek is pale and tight, a map of sickening violence. A black patch covers his eye. I can't help but stare, not because of some grotesque fascination but because the man beneath the scars exudes a power I can't turn away from.
"Sit, please."
It's an instruction rather than an invitation and I quickly obey. He moves closer, but doesn't take a seat.
"Coffee?" he enquires.
"No, thank you."
With my nerves running rampant, coffee would make me ill. I'm used to being scrutinized. People in our world spend a lot of time weighing each other up, looking for potential threats, trying to sniff out weakness. Gabriele's gaze is unsettling. It's like he's trying to strip me bare.
"So, Ekaterina…."
"Katya," I interrupt, having always preferred the diminutive of my name.
He inclines his head. "Katya, tell me why you're here."
"Oh." That catches me off guard. Is he planning to treat this like a job interview? "I hear you're looking for a wife and I want to be considered."
He nods. That much he knew. "Why?"
