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‘I need to see how my doctoral research paper is received,’ she said. ‘Its reception may determine what offers I’m made, and by whom.’
‘I’m sure they will be clamouring for you from all quarters!’ he said gallantly.
Francesca laughed, and so did her parents and siblings.
The meal passed in similar convivial fashion. Everyone was pleased. Her parents were highly satisfied—for them, their daughter’s marriage to him would ensure she stayed in Italy, and that was their preference. Francesca seemed pleased too, and he was glad of it. Her choice had not been made without inner conflict, but she had made it all the same. And in his favour.
And as for him—well, of course he was pleased. How could he not be? How could anyone not wish for Francesca as his bride, his wife, his contessa, the mother of his children, the companion of his life, his entire future...
Just as he’d anticipated, all his adult life...
The image he had banished earlier came into his head again, like a spectre haunting him.
Carla...
He sliced it off at source. Asked another question about astrophysics.
The evening ended.
Francesca and her family repaired to the guest quarters.
He would woo her later—do all that was necessary between them to make her comfortable with him in that respect. Their respective pasts were irrelevant. With the decision made between them, all prior involvements would be severed. Terminated.
That guillotine sliced again.
Ruthless. Lethal. Permanent.
Because it had to be.
* * *
Carla stood, her back stiff, her face stiff, talking, sipping mineral water, refusing canapés, posing for photos. Her mother was entertaining—fare uno mostro—putting on a show, as she so loved to do.
This time it was for the director of a museum to which some of the choicest pieces of Guido’s extensive collection were being donated. Her mother was in her element, Carla could see, being very much the gracious hostess, the generous patroness of the arts.
Across the large salon in her stepfather’s opulent villa Carla could see her step-cousin, Vito, only that day arrived back in Rome from his tour of the European hotels, with his mother, Lucia. The latter looked icily furious, the former was visibly ‘on duty’.
Carla had said very little to him during the evening. She was not in a talkative mood.
The reception went on and on. There were speeches—her mother’s, in careful, laboured Italian, and then Vito stepping forward, clearly intent on representing the official side of the Viscari family. And there was posing for more photos, herself included, standing right next to Vito. The only saving grace was that she would not be writing this up—that would be too nepotistic.
Anyway, she hadn’t been to work for days now. Citing a bug...a touch of flu.
Whether anyone believed her or not, she didn’t care. She doubted the gossips did. They knew exactly why she was out of circulation.
Her mouth tightened.
Francesca delle Ristori—that was what Cesare’s bride-to-be was called. The gossip columns were already full of open speculation. And after all, why not? What was there not to speculate about?
A vicious light glared in Carla’s eyes.
She’s the granddaughter of a duke, the daughter of a marchese, a family friend from for ever—she has long fair hair down to her waist and she has a PhD in astrophysics! Dear God, is there anything she hasn’t got?
But there was only one thing she wanted Francesca delle Ristori not to be—only one.
Cesare’s fiancée.
The knife thrust again into her guts. Eviscerating her. Her hands clenched at her sides.
