The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  ‘Papà.’ She smiled, hoping to deflect the criticism she knew was coming. As he kissed her on each cheek she inhaled the potent mix of cigar smoke and citrusy aftershave that remained in every room he visited long after he’d left.

  ‘Why are you not with your sister?’ He frowned. ‘Today of all days I want to show both my beautiful daughters off to the world.’ His dark eyes softened. ‘I know it’s hard for you, piccioncina mia, watching your sister leave home, and I know you think it’s all been too quick, that she’s a little young to be married...’

  Imma felt her smile tighten, and her father’s voice seemed to fade into the hum of background chatter. It wasn’t just Claudia’s youth that made her feel anxious about the speed of her marriage. It was something more personal: a promise made...

  Only neither her father nor her sister wanted to hear her tentative reservations about how fast everything had moved. Cesare had pursued and married their own mother at the age of seventeen, and as for Claudia—she was a dreamer.

  And now her dreams of love and a handsome husband and a beautiful home had all come true.

  But what about my dreams? Imma flexed her fingers against her cool glass, trying to ignore the pulse of envy beating inside her chest. When will they come true?

  Hard to say when she actually had no dreams. No idea what she wanted. No idea who she even was.

  For her, there had never been any time for thinking about such things. She had always been too busy. Trying to be some kind of mother to Claudia, studying hard at school and then university, and always mindful of the wishes of her father. For without a son to fulfil his dreams Cesare had made her the focus of his ambitions.

  All his ambitions—including having his say on her choice of future husband, and that was never going to be some local boy made good, like Ciro Trapani, or his rakish older brother.

  Not that Vicenzu would ever be interested in her, she thought, her gaze fluttering fleetingly over the perfect angles of his profile. Being in charge of her father’s household and a mother figure to Claudia had made her seem far older than her years. And, although she actually shared her sister’s shyness, her brief, disappointing interactions with men—she couldn’t really call them dates—had left her so wary that she knew her shyness came across as remoteness or disdain.

  Hardly qualities that would tempt a man like Vicenzu who, if the internet and the tabloid press were to be believed, was like catnip to women.

  But why would she even want to let anyone get close to her? She was tired of being hurt and humbled. Tired of men running a marathon from her when they realised her surname was Buscetta. Tired of never being good enough, pretty enough, desirable enough for them to face up to her father and fight for the right to be with her.

  But her sister’s beautiful, romantic wedding was not the time to be letting such thoughts fill her head and, taking a quick, calming breath, she looked up at her father.

  ‘Just at the beginning, Papà.’ She took his hand and squeezed it.

  Cesare smiled. ‘You’ve been like a mother to her, but marriage is right for Claudia. She doesn’t have the temperament for studying or business.’

  Imma nodded, her momentary stab of envy instantly swamped by remorse. More than anyone Claudia deserved to be happy, for although their father indulged his youngest daughter, he also found her easy to ignore. Now, though, for the first time in her life, she was in the spotlight.

  ‘I know,’ she said quietly.

  Cesare grunted. ‘She’s a homebody and he’s a good man for her. Strong, dependable, honest.’

  Her father’s chest swelled and she could tell he was almost bursting with satisfaction that his daughter had made such a good match socially.

  ‘Come.’ He held out his arm. ‘Let’s go and join your sister—it’s nearly time to eat.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ It was Claudia, hurrying towards her, clutching the hem of her dress. ‘I was just about to send Ciro to find you.’

  There was a slight unevenness to her voice, and Imma felt her heart squeeze. She might be a married woman now, but Claudia was still and would always be the little sister she’d comforted whenever she was sad or hurt. Papà was right. Today of all days Imma needed to be there for her—because tomorrow she would be gone.

  Pushing back against the ache in her chest, Imma took her sister’s hand.

  ‘I just wanted to check in on Corrado,’ she said quickly.

  Corrado was the Buscettas’ Michelin-starred chef, and he had been extremely put out by Cesare’s insistence that other Michelin-starred chefs must be flown in at incredible cost from all over the world to help him cater for the wedding breakfast.

  But Cesare had been unrepentant. It was his daughter’s wedding, and no expense would be spared. He wanted the whole of Sicily—no, make that the whole of Italy—rendered speechless with envy and awe and so, as usual, it had been left to Imma to pour olive oil on troubled waters.

  ‘No, there’s nothing wrong,’ she added as Ciro and Vicenzu joined them. ‘It’s just difficult for him, having to share his kitchens, and I didn’t want him sulking in any of the photographs.’

  ‘If he does that he’ll be looking for a new job,’ Cesare growled. ‘And he can forget about references. In fact, he can forget about working, full stop. If he doesn’t have a smile pinned on his face every second of today I’ll make sure he never works again.’

  A short, stunned silence followed this explosion. Claudia bit her lip and Ciro looked confused. Vicenzu, on the other hand, seemed more amused than unnerved.

  ‘Of course he won’t be looking for another job, Papà,’ Imma said firmly. ‘Corrado has been with us for ten years. He’s one of the family—and we all know how much you value family.’

  ‘And we share those same values, Signor Buscetta.’

  Imma glanced sharply over at Vicenzu. For a few half seconds she had been distracted by her father’s outburst, but now she felt her stomach swoop down like a kite with a broken tail.

  He sounded and looked sincere, and yet she couldn’t help thinking he was not. Quickly, in case her father began thinking along the same lines, she said, ‘Isn’t that how we all ended up here today?’

  As she pasted a smile on her face, her father grunted. ‘Forgive me. I just want everything to be perfect for my little girl.’

  ‘And it is.’ Ciro took a step forward, his deep voice resonating in the space between them. ‘If I may, sir, I’d like to thank you for making all this so special for both of us.’ He turned to Claudia, who was gazing up at him, her soft brown eyes wide with adoration. ‘I promise to make my marriage to Claudia equally memorable.’

  Beaming, his good humour restored, Cesare slapped him on the shoulder and then, flicking his ostentatious gold watch free from his cuff, he glanced down at it.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. And now I think we should go and eat. Ammuninni!’

  Her father held out his arm to Imma, but as she moved to take it Vicenzu sidestepped her, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, his mouth curving into a question mark.

  ‘May I?’

  Imma felt her father tense. She knew his opinion of Ciro’s older brother. Vicenzu’s hedonistic lifestyle and his reputation as a donnaiolo—a playboy—had been her father’s one and only real objection to Claudia’s marriage.

  Before she could reply, Cesare said stiffly, ‘I think I would prefer to escort my daughter myself.’

  There was a short silence, and then her heartbeat accelerated as Vicenzu’s teasing dark eyes rested on her face.

  ‘But what would Immacolata prefer?’

  Imma froze, his words pinning her to the ground as if he had cast a spell rather than asked a question. Around them the air seemed to turn to stone, and she could sense Claudia’s mouth forming an O of shock.

  No one, certainly not her father, had ever asked about Imma’s preferen
ces before, and she had no idea how to respond. But she did know that her father was expecting her to refuse Vicenzu, and maybe it was that assumption, coupled with a sudden longing to indulge in a little impulsive behaviour of her own, that made her turn to Cesare and say calmly, ‘I think you should escort Audenzia, Papà. That would be the right and proper thing to do.’

  More importantly, it was exactly the right thing for her to say. When he was a young man, her father had just wanted to be rich and powerful, but now what he wanted most was to be accepted in society on an equal footing by people like the Trapanis.

  ‘Of course—you’re right,’ he said, and Imma felt her heart begin to beat faster as Vicenzu held out his arm.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said softly.

  Her heart bumping into her ribs, she wondered how he managed to imply so much in two little words. And then, doing her best to ignore the hard swell of his bicep, she followed Claudia and Ciro towards the circus-tent-sized marquee, where the wedding breakfast was being held.

  Inside it was impossibly romantic, and Imma felt her stomach flip over as Vicenzu led her to their flower-strewn table. She was already regretting defying her father. Vicenzu Trapani probably flirted in his sleep and she needed to remember that—not let the emotion of the day or his dark eyes suggest anything different.

  ‘So, Vicenzu,’ she said quickly, before he had a chance to speak, ‘I’ve heard so much about your hotel. Tell me...how many people work at La Dolce Vita?’

  Dropping down next to her, he frowned. ‘Well, Immacolata, that’s a tricky one. Let me see... I guess, on a good day, probably about forty percent of them.’

  The smile tugging at his mouth was impossible to resist, and of their own accord her lips started to curl upward, like the sun rising in the morning sky.

  ‘I know—you think they should all be working. And you’re right. I need to crack the whip a bit.’

  As his smile slowly unfurled, she felt her stomach flicker like a flame in a breeze. ‘I meant—’ she began.

  He was grinning now. ‘I’m just teasing. The answer is I don’t know or care. All I know is I get to enjoy your company for the foreseeable future. And, as you’re the most beautiful woman in this tiny, unassuming tent...’ he glanced mockingly around the vast marquee ‘...that makes me the luckiest man on earth.’

  A cool shiver ran over her skin. Her heart was suddenly beating so fast she felt it might burst free of her ribs.

  ‘Really?’ She met his gaze calmly, even as his words resounded inside her head.

  ‘Really. Truly. Absolutely. Unequivocally. Did I say that right?’

  She saw his eyes light up as she smiled. ‘Yes, only that doesn’t make it true.’

  ‘But why would I lie?’

  His tone was still playful, but he was staring at her intently.

  ‘Look, I’m not good for much—just ask anyone who knows me...’

  He leaned forward so that he was filling her view, and she felt her skin grow hot and tight as he stared down at her steadily.

  ‘But I am a connoisseur of beauty, and you are a very beautiful woman.’

  For a second or three the world seemed to stop—or at least the hubbub in the tent faded to a dull hum beneath the uneven thump of her heartbeat. He probably said that to every woman he met, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from hoping that he was telling the truth.

  He took her hand and she felt her stomach flutter. But he didn’t kiss it. Instead he turned her arm over and examined the skin on her wrist.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Looking for chinks in your armour,’ he murmured.

  There was a brief shifting silence, and then he glanced up as waiters began filing into the marquee.

  ‘Great—it’s time to eat.’

  His eyes met hers, soft and yet intense in a way that made her breathing knot.

  ‘Let’s hope the food is as delectable as my hostess,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been hungrier...’

  * * *

  The food had been incredible. Seven courses accompanied by a note-perfect string quartet. Then there had been speeches, and now Claudia was leaning into Cesare as they slowly circled in the traditional father-and-daughter dance.

  But Imma had barely registered any of it. Not the food, nor the music or the toasts. Of course she had gone through the pantomime of raising her glass to her mouth and smiling and nodding, but inside she had been too busy trying to work out the enigma that was Vicenzu Trapani.

  She’d expected to like him—obviously. A man didn’t get the kind of reputation he had for no reason. And this must be how he was with every woman. She was no different in her response to his easy charm and lush beauty.

  And yet although she had wanted to find him shallow and spoilt, flirtatious and flippant—and he was all of those things—she felt she might have misjudged him.

  Particularly in those moments like now, when he seemed to forget that she was there and his eyes would seek out his mother at the far end of the table.

  Her breathing lost its rhythm. Of course she missed her own mother, but his loss was so recent...still raw.

  Glancing over at him, she said hesitantly, ‘It must be difficult.’

  ‘Difficult?’ He raised one perfect eyebrow.

  ‘Today. I mean, without your father. I know Papà wishes he’d come to him sooner.’

  Vicenzu’s handsome face didn’t change, but she could sense an immediate tightening beneath the surface of his skin.

  ‘It’s no harder than any other day.’

  The lazy amusement had left his voice and her cheeks grew warm. Wanting to kick herself, she glanced across the dance floor to where Ciro had taken over from Cesare. Watching him gaze down into Claudia’s upturned face, she felt an ache of the loss to come.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vicenzu—’

  ‘It’s Vicè—and, no, I’m sorry.’ He frowned, his face creasing without impairing its beauty. ‘You’re right. It is hard without him, and I should have expected it to be, but I’m an idiot.’

  Maybe it was the bleakness in his eyes, or perhaps his earlier defiance of her father, but she felt suddenly protective of him.

  ‘You’re not an idiot for missing your father. I miss my mother every day.’

  They were so close she could feel his warm breath on her face, see the stubble already forming on his jaw. For a full sixty seconds they stared at each other, wide-eyed, mesmerised by the bond they seemed to have formed out of nowhere, and then, standing up, he held out his hand.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said slowly. ‘But I will be an idiot if I leave this wedding without having at least one dance with you.’ He hesitated. ‘That is if you’ll dance with me?’

  Her mouth felt dry and her blood was humming in her ears. She could feel a hundred pairs of eyes on her. But her eyes were fixed on his and, nodding slowly, she stood up and took his hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BREATHING OUT, VICÈ pulled Imma against him, keeping his beautiful face blank of expression. It was all part of the plan, he told himself. The first step in his great seduction of Immacolata Buscetta.

  But inside his head a war was raging between the man he was and the man he was trying to be and needed to be.

  No change there, then, he thought irritably.

  Except this time there would be no second chances.

  It should be easy—and had it been any other woman it would have been. Women liked him. He liked them. But Imma wasn’t like other women. She was the daughter of his enemy—and as such he’d expected to hate her on sight.

  Everything he’d seen and heard about her in advance had made that seem likely. He’d expected her to be cool and reserved, less overtly aggressive than Cesare, but still her father’s daughter. And she was definitely a princess. Watching her with her staff, it had been clear to him that her quiet wo
rds and the decisive up-tilt to her jaw held the same authority as a royal command.

  Her dark, demure dress seemed to confirm the message that she wanted to be taken seriously—only it couldn’t hide her long, coltish legs.

  He felt his chest rise and fall.

  And as for that long dark hair... It might be neatly knotted at the nape of her neck but he could all too easily imagine running his fingers through its rich, silky length, and her bee-stung parted lips definitely seemed to contradict the wariness in her green eyes.

  In short, she was beautiful. Just not the cold, diamond-hard beauty he’d anticipated.

  And that was the problem.

  He’d wanted to go in for the kill—do it quickly and cleanly like a shark—only it was turning out to be so much harder than he’d anticipated. Particularly with Imma’s smooth, supple body pressed against his.

  His chest tightened and, catching sight of his mother’s face again, he closed his eyes, wishing it was as easy to shut out the confusion he felt on the inside.

  Could he do this? Could he actually pull this off?

  They were the questions he’d been asking himself for weeks now—ever since he and Ciro had sat in that bar drinking bourbon.

  Ciro was his brother and his best friend. There was less than a year between their birthdays, so he couldn’t remember a time when Ciro had been smaller, weaker, slower than him.

  Maybe he never had been.

  It had certainly felt that way for most of his life.

  Opening his eyes, he watched his brother dance past, his hand wrapped around Claudia’s waist, his face gazing down into hers.

  He looked every inch the devoted husband—and he would look that way right up until the moment when he told his new wife the truth and her world came tumbling down.

  And, even though he would have preferred to take things more slowly, when the time came he would do the same to Imma. He wanted vengeance every bit as much as Ciro.