by Lisa Cardiff
“Sal.” I drew out his name and punctuated it with a sigh. He was already mad at me about the stupid kiss at our engagement party. There was no reason to add fuel to his jealousy. “We already talked about this. I’m doing what I have to do so we can be together, and I’ve never initiated a single kiss.”
“So that’s a yes.” A chuckle laced with enough bitterness to tilt my stomach trickled into my ear. “Did you ask him about his girlfriend? Or don’t you care that he’s making a fool out of you?”
“I asked him about Sarah, and he’s not making a fool out of me because we’ll be gone soon. He’s the one who will look ridiculous.”
“What’d he say?”
I rolled forward and stretched on my belly, my bare feet tucked in between the wall of dresses hanging from the rod. I rested my forehead on my forearm. “That they were friends and she was there with one of his associates. That’s it.”
“You actually believe him?”
Strangely, I did trust Marcello’s explanation. He didn’t offer me anything other than his word and a flimsy explanation, and yet, something compelled me to have faith in him.
“I didn’t give him the third degree or anything. So yeah, whatever.”
He snorted. “Okaaay. So he tells you a lie, and you accept it. Jesus, Em, he’s walking all over you, and you don’t give a shit. She probably waits for him in his hotel room every night and they laugh at how naïve you are.”
“And tell me why I should care again? In another couple of weeks I’ll never see him again so he can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. I don’t love him. I don’t even know him. Why do you keep bringing it up? Are you having second thoughts or something?”
My stomach knotted, recognizing the deceit in my words. Even though I didn’t like it, Marcello evoked feelings in me that were becoming harder to deny. Feelings that urged me to turn my back on my plans and take a chance on him. Feelings that threw an uncomfortable spotlight on the chinks in my relationship with Sal. Feelings I desperately hoped would vanish entirely once Sal and I left together.
“Shit, Em. No. You’re right. I’m sorry I keep bringing it up. I can’t stand this.”
“Me neither, but it’s almost over, and he’s leaving soon.”
“When?”
“After my birthday.”
“Three more days. God, that seems like a lifetime.”
“Yeah. Why don’t you come over tomorrow? My dad’s not going to kick you out if you show up on his doorstep.”
“We both know that’s not a good idea.”
“Why? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Are you serious? Marcello could come after me again. He’s a fuckin’ lunatic.”
“Wait.” I scrambled to my feet. “What do you mean come after you again? Did something happen that you’re not telling me about?”
“He stopped by the bar after he left your house and we exchanged some words tonight. Things got a little heated and he took a cheap shot at me. I’m fine. No need to make a big deal about it.”
I squeezed the phone until the edges of my hard shell case dug into my palm. “Jesus, Sal. I’m sorry. When he asked about us, I had no idea he’d confront you.”
I heard his tires squeal, followed by a loud thump that sounded like his hand slammed against the steering wheel. “The fuck? You seriously told him about us?”
“He knew. He saw us at my piano concert.” The silence thickened, and I wondered if he disconnected the call. “Sal, are you there?”
“I’m here.” His voice sounded strained.
“Are you mad?”
“Mad? I don’t even…what the hell were you thinking?”
“He said he didn’t care the about my past as long as it didn’t happen again.”
He scoffed. “And you believed him?”
The silence stretched thick and heavy, adding more than physical distance between us. More than ever, my plan to run off into the sunset with Sal felt like a house of cards. One unpredictable wind and everything would collapse.
“Yeah, I did. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
Sal sighed. “No, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault. I’ll see what I can do about stopping by tomorrow. I have a birthday present for you and since your party was canceled, I need to find a way to give it to you.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything. Running away with me is the only present I need.”
“Too late. It’s already wrapped.”
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.” Only after I hung up did I remember he said my father had canceled my birthday party.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marcello asked.
I looked up from my lasagna. The cheese had morphed into a congealed mess over the last thirty minutes. With my stomach twisted into knots, I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. Sal had ignored all of my texts and calls for the last two days, and he hadn’t stopped by to see me. My relationship with Sal was crumbling, and I had no one to blame except myself.
Over the last week, Marcello had systematically kissed me into idiocy, and I lost touch with why I wanted to skip out on this life minute-by-minute. Everything about him—his touch, his smiles, his voice—felt right and wrong at the same time.
“Huh?”
He gestured to my plate. “You haven’t taken more than a bite. Your father said this was your favorite. I could’ve ordered something else.”
“It is her favorite,” my dad interjected. I hated how he hovered over us, watching and commenting on every interaction like he had nothing better to do.
I laid my fork diagonally across my plate, the ringing sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous dining room. “Sorry. It’s just…well, I was thinking about my birthday tomorrow.”
My father leaned back, folding his arms across his chest and his red and black checked tie bent sideways. “What about it?”
“I talked to Sal a couple of days ago.” From the corner of my eye, I caught the frosty look Marcello directed at my dad. “He thought you canceled my party. Did you disinvite him?”
“No.”
“Then why did he say you had?”
“Because I canceled the party entirely.”
My puzzled gaze met my father’s. “Why?”
He took a deep sip of his ruby red wine and shifted in his seat. “I wanted to get through dinner and dessert before we discussed this.”
“Discussed what?”
Marcello dropped his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor and putting me on edge. “Emilia,” he finally said, “I have decided it would be best if you left with me tomorrow night.”
Dread inched up my throat. “Tomorrow? I can’t leave with you tomorrow,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “I have things to do. I’m not ready. I’m not even packed. How can you expect me to leave my home of nearly nineteen years with less than twenty-four hours’ notice?”
“It’s settled. I already bought you a plane ticket. You will be staying with my sister until we get married.”
“No.” I jumped out of my chair, and it tumbled backward. “Did you hear anything I said? I haven’t packed. I haven’t said goodbye to my friends and family and—”
Marcello arched an eyebrow. “Sal?”
Swallowing hard, I glanced at the floor. “Sal doesn’t have anything to do with this. This is about us.”
A harsh sound tore from his lips, and he clenched his teeth together, his expression stony. “This is the way it has to be. It’s best if you make a clean break from your life here. You can come back and visit in a year or two when you have settled into your new life.”
Pain ricocheted through my chest like a pinball. Bending forward, I clutched the edge of the dining room table. “I don’t want to leave. Does that count for nothing? Does what I want matter at all? Why are you two so intent or ruining my life?”
“Emilia, don’t embarrass yourself or me.” My father got
up and circled the table, pausing in front of me. “You’re out of options, and this is what’s best for our family. I wish things were different, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“This isn’t the eighteenth century. You don’t get to force me to marry someone. I am my own person, not a piece on a chessboard to move as you see fit.”
My father sighed, his chest heaving outward. He looked weary with the dark circles under his eyes and his pinched mouth. “Marcello’s promised to take care of you, and he’ll be able to give you more freedom than you have here. He’s arranged for you to resume your piano lessons under a famous pianist, Martha Giles. You’ve probably heard of her. She’s fantastic, almost as good as your mother. You can start performing again. You’ll have a nice life there. You’ll see.” He forced a smile.
The corners of my eyes burned. “Why are you doing this to me, Dad? What did I do to make you hate me so much?”
“Don’t look at this as a punishment. Look at it as an opportunity. You can start over in Chicago without the shadow of your mother’s death or the Trassato name hanging over your head. Marcello will take care of you.”
My heart breaking, I pressed my hand to the front of my shirt, imagining I could hold the shattered pieces together. “But I don’t love him. I love Sal. I know you don’t want to hear—”
The open palm of my father’s hand collided with my cheek. “Don’t act like a spoiled child, Emilia. I raised you better, and this is bigger than you and what you want. You need to show some respect.”
Pain radiated through me, and I reeled backward, cupping my face with my hand and pointing a finger at my father with the other. “I hate you. I can see why Mom killed herself to get away from you. I’d do the same thing if you were my husband. Oh, wait, maybe I got that wrong. Maybe you stuffed those pills down her throat so she couldn’t leave you. I heard what she said that night. She wanted out of this life, and you didn’t give a shit about her or our family. You only cared about power and money, and that hasn’t changed. She hated you, and I can certainly understand why. You’re a monster incapable of love. You might as well be a fucking robot. As for respect, respect is won not demanded, and you haven’t won mine.”
His mouth twisted into a snarl. “Shut your mouth. You don’t know a damn thing about my relationship with your mother. And as for this marriage, I did everything I could to find another way.”
“Dominick,” Marcello snapped, his hand coming down on my father’s shoulder, hard and unforgiving, “I need to talk to you.”
They headed toward the entryway, stopping in my line of sight, but far enough that I wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation word for word. Marcello rested his hip against the wall, his blue eyes glittering with so much hatred my breath caught.
A scorching tirade in Italian spewed from Marcello’s mouth, and I silently cursed myself for refusing to continue my language lessons after the third grade. While I knew some slang, phrases, and enough to have a shallow conversation, Marcello’s rapid-fire words made no sense. My father’s answer was short and curt. Marcello gestured to the front door and switched to English to tell him to give us some time alone. My father’s lips thinned and he walked right past me without making eye contact.
“Where are you going?” I called after him.
“Out. I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for me.” His far-reaching strides ate up the floor, and the service door to the garage slammed shut less than a minute later.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Marcello crossed the room and righted my chair at the kitchen table. “Sit.”
I was more than a little bewildered by what I witnessed. Nobody treated my dad like that, and if they tried, he made damn sure they were six feet under so it wouldn’t happen again. Yet, after a few harsh sentences, he caved to Marcello. I didn’t get it.
He tapped his fingers on the wooden-slatted back. “Please.”
“What happened with my dad?” I slipped into the chair rather than argue with him. If the last minutes told me anything, it was that my rebellion would be futile. Complying was the fastest way to end this interaction.
“Not yet.”
He moved into the kitchen, opening cabinet after cabinet.
“Can I help you find something?”
He popped up holding a clear bottle and two shot glasses. “I found it.”
“What’s that?”
“Sambuca. My nonna made me drink it when I didn’t feel well.”
“She gave you shots of alcohol?” I said, utterly incredulous.
“Not shots, more like a tablespoon here or there. Don’t knock it until you try it.”
He set everything on the table next to me and filled the glasses until they were seeping over the rim.
I waved my hand flippantly. “I’m not going to drink that crap. It tastes like black licorice.”
He slid one of the glasses closer to me with two long fingers, leaving a small puddle of clear liquid pooling on top of the table. “So what’s your point?”
“I hate black licorice.”
“Humor me.”
I rolled my eyes. Somehow this man always found a way to trick me into forgetting my bad mood.
“One shot and then you’ll leave, and I’ll go to bed.”
“Three.”
“No.”
“Yes. Three shots for three truths. You can ask me three questions about anything. For every answer I give you, you’ll take a shot and vice versa.”
“Two truths,” I countered.
“Two truths and three shots. One before we start, the rest with each question.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Three shots won’t do anything except help you relax.”
I raised my hands in the air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t weigh that much.”
“You’ll be fine.” He nudged my glass with his knuckle and lifted his glass to his lips. “Ready?”
I poured the syrupy liquid between my lips, holding it in my mouth for a few seconds, and then let it slide down my throat. He followed suit. When the last drop hit my tongue, I placed the shot glass on the table accompanied by a thud. I shimmied my shoulders to ward off the warm, fuzzy sensation. He refilled both of our glasses.
“You first,” I prompted him.
“What do you know about the motivations for our marriage?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Nothing, except that it must somehow benefit your family and mine.”
“You didn’t hear any details when I found you hiding outside of your dad’s office that night?”
“No, nothing but raised voices. Is there something I should know?”
He chugged another shot of Sambuca, his peacock blue gaze skittering to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Is that your question? Because it’s a little subjective.”
“Fine. Then, I’ll ask the same question I’ve been asking since our engagement party, and maybe you’ll give me a real answer.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll do my best.”
“Why do you want to marry me? I’m a complete stranger. You know nothing about me. Not really anyway.”
“I know a lot about you, little Emilia. You have a penchant for black, or at least have since your mom died. You hate seafood. You love Limoncello. You play the piano beautifully. You had two scholarship offers at music conservatories. Your father nixed the first one, and you haven’t done anything about the second. While you think you’re in love with Sal, you don’t know a damn thing about him or you’d quickly disabuse yourself of that notion.”
My brow furrowed. “Like what?”
He chuckled and his full lips curved upward. “I’m not answering that. You can ask Sal yourself. I know he fed you the story about Sarah, but I don’t work that way. I want to win you based on what I do, not what he did. Now drink your next shot.”
I did as he ordered. “The next question is yours.”
“Do you want to play the
piano or do you do it because you think your mom would want you to follow in her footsteps? By the way, she wouldn’t care. She’d want you to be happy. That’s it.”
My heart squeezed and I lurched out of the chair, planting my hands on my hips and somehow knocking over my empty shot glass in the process. It rolled off the table, and Marcello caught it before it hit the hardwood floor.
“What do you know about my mom?”
“Answer my question first, then I’ll answer yours.”
“I love playing!” I yelled, my right eyelid twitching. “At one time, I suspected I was playing for her. When my father refused to let me take more lessons, I realized I was wrong. Playing piano is in my blood. I need it to feel whole.”
“Piano, not Sal,” he taunted refilling both of our glasses.
“I’m not talking to you about Sal anymore. Now answer mine. What do you know about my mother?”
He scooted back his chair, the wooden chair creaking when he stretched out his long legs, crossing them at his ankles. “Your mother, Ava, was a very close family friend before she married your father. She even lived with us for six or so months while she was doing performances in the States. She actually met your father at a performance at my house. I was young at the time, only five or six, but I have fond memories of her.”
A thread of sadness crept through me, and my eyes stung with the urge to cry. I wouldn’t, though. I’d shed so many tears over my mom. I remembered her as this larger than life, beautiful, insanely talented woman with a smile that lit up a room. Yet so much about her would always remain a mystery to me. While I wouldn’t describe her as a neglectful parent, she always had a wall around her, blocking anyone from knowing the real her.
“Thinking of my mom makes me sad.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’ll never get the chance to know her.”
“What do you mean? She didn’t die until you were thirteen or so.”
“Honestly, we didn’t spend much time together outside of her teaching me to play the piano.” I swallowed hard. I had no clue why I admitted this. I didn’t want him to pity me or think poorly of my mother. In spite of all that, the confession rolled off my tongue like I had guzzled a truth serum instead of two shots of Sambuca. “She delegated the rest of the stuff—homework, learning to read, doctors’ appointments, teaching me Italian—to my father, a nanny, or tutors. I guess she had more important things to do with her time than hang out with a dumb kid.”