She smooths her apron. "You made a choice when you brought her here."
"I know."
"Then you will do well to remember that she didn't choose any of this." Her voice doesn't rise. "One way or another,principino, you were the one who placed a crown that she never wanted on her head. And it’s up to you to make it easier for her to wear it."
8
NICO
Growing up,I hated this dining room.
Father insisted that we take our dinners together here as a family, even though there were only five of us for sixteen chairs.
He’d sit at the head of the table, and my older brother Vincent at his right hand. Mother always sat on the opposite end, while Gia and I sat closer to her but never next to her. On occasions when I would get too far from him, Father would demand that I come sit closer.
I knew better than to be too slow on those occasions.
We were anything but the stereotypical Italian family. Dinners were eaten in silence, and everyone walked on eggshells, stealing glances towards Father just in case he flew into one of his angry outbursts that ended with smashed plates, smashed glasses, or a split lip for either myself or Vincent.
Now I’m sitting where he did, staring at the empty seats. Candlelight flickers and I look down at the simple gold bandglimmering on my finger while I wait for Lydia to join me for our first dinner as husband and wife.
I wonder where she’ll sit.
Giorgia has prepared a wonderful pot of Italian wedding soup, and even put it in a warmer pot so that it’ll simmer cheerfully by the candlelight. My fingers drum impatiently against the table as I wait.
Then, the door opens and Lydia walks in. My fingers stop mid-drum when I see her.
She's exchanged her white dress for the cream blouse and grey sweatpants that she wore when I brought her here in the first place. Giorgia had washed them of the mud and blood, and there’s a light clean scent clinging to her skin as she takes Mother’s old seat across the table.
The blouse slips low at the collar as she sits down, enough to show the full line of her collarbone. When she leans forward to reach for her water glass, the hem rides up, and a narrow strip of skin peeks through.
My mouth goes dry when I see it, and I make an involuntary fist around my spoon before tearing my gaze away.
A servant rushes over to fill a bowl for her, places it in front of her without a word, and retreats back to the side of the room in silent obedience.
“Thank you.” She smiles warmly.
As soon as she turns to look at me, the smile is replaced by an icy glare.
She picks up her spoon, stirs the contents of her bowl, but doesn’t bring it to her lips.
“Is the food not to your liking?” I ask, and then add, “Wife?”
“I’m thinking,” she replies as she continues to stir. “Husband.”
"You can think and eat."
She stops stirring. "Is that an order, Don Nico?"
“I think we both know that there’s nothing I can ever order you to do.”
“And yet.” She brings her spoon up and lets a meatball fall back into the soup. “I’m forced to sit at this table sharing a meal with you.”
“It’s customary for husband and wife to share dinners together, especially on their wedding night.”
“I was under the impression that a man usuallyasksa woman before marrying her,” she retorts. “So maybe let’s not talk about what’s customary?”
I reach for my wine and take a sip. “Then what do you want to talk about?”
