Page 50 of The Strength Of A Woman

A place filled with history, peace, and calmness––so misleading in a way––with antique furniture, handcrafted art, and framed old photographs on the wall, and long Italian lace curtains––Tende in Pizzo Rinascimento.

Renaissance style, delicate lace curtains.

The hallway is dimly lit, as is the house, and the more we walk, the more the stairs squeak.

Eventually, we reach the last floor, and he invites me into a room where candles in brass candlestick holders on a chest of drawers cast a glow in front of an antique oval mirror.

Looking outside, a man is waiting for me, with his arms crossed over his chest, the satin back of his waistcoat hugging his torso flatteringly, his stance a little wide, more than suggestive.

He may be angry with me, or he may have reached, as I have, the point where he understands that our stories are tied together, whether we like it or not.

I stop in the middle of the room, waiting for him to turn to me and speak.

The news I bring to him is huge, but the fact that he allowed me to come here is even bigger.

Now that we’re here, only he and I, I wish I could make this moment last forever.

I wish this could be more than a secret meeting about a practical matter.

I have an important name for him.

Maybe that will unfreeze his heart a little. Maybe he knows more about this man than I do.

Stefano Varela.

He spends a few more seconds looking into the distance as if pondering, and not being aware that I’m in the room, before heslowly uncrosses his arms, slides his hands into his pockets, and turns around.

His eyes catch the candlelight and glint like the moon, while his face seems frozen, forbidden to show any emotion.

He flicks his chin toward one of the chairs in the room as he slowly walks in my direction.

“Take a seat,” he says, his voice quiet like the edge of a blade moving through the shadows.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

Icicles float in the air from his voice as he stops a couple of steps away from me.

“What brought you here?”

I look at him, not knowing how to prolong this moment. How to make it about more than this trivial piece of information.

My brain can’t come up with anything significant, so I give him the information without much fuss.

“They want to marry me to Stefano Varela,” I say, my eyes fixed on his face.

Something happens to his expression.

Only moments ago, he seemed unemotional, carved away from this world, and now something simmers at the edge of his awareness.

His eyebrows move slightly into a questioning look, his eyes warming in realization before narrowing into a dark look.

“What’s your source?” he asks point-blank with the sharp instinct of a businessman.

Have I questioned Julian’s credibility since he gave that name? A dozen times, maybe more. I never trusted that weasel.

Julian is the product of a fucked up life.