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“Just… leave me alone,” she mutters weakly, studiously avoiding my eyes.
“You can kick and scream—you can turn this place upside down if you choose to—but none of it will change the fact that this is your new home.” I hesitate, both of us churning with more things we desperately want to say but refuse to let loose into the world. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Bee and I have a dinner to attend.”
Then I walk out of the kitchen before I do something really stupid.
Like kiss her.
19
DMITRI
“This blouse makes me look like a grandma,” complains Bee.
I keep my eyes on the road. “I don’t know any grandmas who wear miniskirts or four-inch heels.”
“Well, I had to compensate for this billowy potato sack of a shirt, didn’t I?” she snaps. “I don’t even know why I own it. I can’t even remember buying it.”
“That’s because I bought it for you. Your wardrobe needed some filling out. Especially to accommodate your fake pregnancy stomach.”
She twists in her seat, jaw agape in horror. “You went into my closet?”
“Had to be done.”
“You never go into a woman’s wardrobe without permission. That’s a sacred space, Dmitri Egorov.”
She’s an alley cat backed into a corner right now, all bristling fur and bared fangs. But I’ve known Beatrice Zanetti long enough not to take it personally. It’s just a natural reaction, born out of our nearing proximity to her father’s estate. Every foot closer to him makes her another fraction wilder, crazier, more afraid.
She squirms in her seat. “I need a smoke.” She quit smoking ten years ago, but she always starts craving cigarettes whenever she sees those intimidating black gates. “Do you think Little Miss Fake Boobs will be there?”
“She was at the last three dinners. Safe to assume that streak will continue.”
She starts mumbling unintelligibly to herself, though I do manage to catch a couple of words here and there, mostly variations on the same theme. “… fifteen years younger… fucking ridiculous… pathetic… embarrassing…”
The gates swing inward as we approach and I steer us to a stop in the circular courtyard. The façade of the mansion is typical Italian Renaissance, all fluted columns and ornate pilasters, pediments, entablatures, arches, domes, with an extra bluster of self-importance layered on for good measure. “Why have bare marble when you could paint gold leaf on top of bare marble” seems to have been the guiding philosophy here.
Then again, when you meet the owner of the mansion, it makes perfect sense.
The butler shows us into the grand living room, where Vittorio Zanetti reclines on a gold velvet sofa, surrounded by his usual army of sycophants. His brother and consigliere, Alberto, is on his left, indulging in red wine and the company of a giggling, scantily clad brunette. His underboss, Valentino, is on his right, leaning forward and rolling joints on the gold-legged, glass-topped coffee table. Dante lurks somewhere in the shadows.
Bee sighs tiredly beside me. “It’s always the fucking same,” she mutters just before Vittorio spots us.
“Figlia!” he cries, throwing his arms out in welcome. “My daughter! How wonderful it is to see you.”
He leaps up and embraces Bee tightly while she stands stiffly in place, her smile a mere ghost of what it usually is. “Papa.”
He raps her lightly on the cheek with many-ringed fingers. “What is this hideous blouse you are wearing? How can I say I have a pretty daughter when you dress like a paisano?”
She just about manages to quell her scowl. “Perhaps you could say you have a smart daughter instead?”
“Ha!” he bellows. “Women don’t need to be smart. In fact, it is better if they are not. Like your mother, my dear. She was the perfect woman. Beautiful as a rose… and stupid as a doorknob.”
As Vittorio turns back to reclaim his seat on the sofa, Bee’s face twists with anger. “You?—”
“Thank you for having us tonight, Vittorio,” I interrupt, throwing my arm over Bee’s shoulders and reeling her against me.
Vittorio regards me coldly with his watery, pale blue eyes. His smile is tempered, more calculating than sincere. “Son-in-law. Dante tells me you’ve been keeping my daughter happy.”
If I clench any tighter, I might just break my jaw. I take a deep breath and blow out some of the tension. “I’m relieved to hear Dante is satisfied with the state of my relationship.”
