They’re halfway to the door when Dante gives me a sharp glance over his shoulder, realizing I’m behind them.He stops in his tracks, turning to face me.
“What are you doing?”
I narrow my eyes. “Heading into the office, obviously.”
Dante smirks. “You don’twork for Bellanti Vineyards.”
I don’t find anything funny about the sarcastic amusement in his voice. “Well, maybe not yet, but I—”
He turns away from me and straightens the cuffs of his bespoke suit jacket. “Bellanti women don’t have to pretend to work for their money. You’ll find a credit card on your dresser.” Looking my elegant suit up and down, he adds, “Buy something more appropriate to wear.”
With that, he strides out the door.
My eyes sting. Armani is still here, so I hold it together. His brown eyes are soft, apologetic even.
“You just got married, Francesca. Maybe take some time for yourself today, buy some nice things. It’s okay to spoil yourself a little. You deserve it for putting up with him.”
He winks and then leaves, the door closing with a soft click that seems to echo in the huge dining room. Steeped in humiliation and grappling with a hurricane of emotions, I stare blankly at the door. I hate my husband. I detest him. He might claim ownership of my body, but he’ll never have more of me than that.
Armani is right. I’m going to have to put up with Dante for the rest of my life. I might as well take advantage of the situation however I can.
And I’m going to start by finishing my breakfast.
11
Frankie
Dante’s goingto pay for his comment about my “inappropriate” attire.
It’s now my mission to find out how long it takes to max out a credit card. I’m hoping a few solid hours of nonstop shopping will do it, but I’m willing to go to more extreme efforts if that doesn’t do the trick.
I’m going to make my husband regret ever giving me this platinum card. He thinks my clothes are too outdated? Fine. His eyes are going to cross and his bank account is going to cry when he sees the amount of clothing I bring home. And I’m not stopping there. Oh no. He wants me to be a proper Bellanti wife? I’m going all out.
All. Out.
Because fuck him.
I change into a flouncy red sundress with a slim gold belt around the middle, a pair of Italian leather sandals, and a floppy hat, and then head downstairs to go about getting a ride to my father’s house so I can pick up my car. If it’s still there, that is. I know my father is desperate enough to have tried selling it, but I’m not sure how many buyers would line up to make an offer on a shitty 1994 Volkswagen Golf with a sticky manual transmission. Honestly, I’m not even sure the engine will turn over for me after three years of sitting abandoned in the back of the garage, but it’s worth a try. With a car, at least I’d have a little freedom.
One of the staff members is dusting the sideboard in the hall, and gives me a confused look when I mention what I need.
“Mr. Bellanti has made Donovan available for all your transportation needs today, Mrs. Bellanti.”
“Great. Except I don’t know who Donovan is or how to find him. Do you maybe have a number where I can reach him, or…?”
Her cheeks go a little pink, as if she’s embarrassed on my behalf. I mean, I’m just the wife whose husband has told her absolutely zero about how his household is run. I’m sure there are a hundred things at my disposal that I’ll never know about until I suss them out on my own. Dante can’t be bothered, obviously.
My wedding ring should have come with an instruction manual.
“I—no. Donovan is the family driver, Mrs. Bellanti. There’s no need to call. I just saw him in the kitchen having coffee. I’ll fetch him for you.”
She hurries off before I can thank her, a man appearing much quicker than I would have imagined for a man enjoying his coffee. I suppose being at the beck and call of this family requires superhuman response times to a summons, or else.
The man gives a little bow, his dark hair graying at the temples. His face is pleasant, with deep crow’s feet beside brown eyes suggesting years of constant smiling. He looks around my dad’s age, but a bit on the sturdy side. Something about him makes me feel I’m in good hands.
“Mrs. Bellanti. Very pleased to formally meet you. Where may I take you today?”
“I just need a ride to my father’s so I can pick up my car. I have some errands to run.”
