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I shake my head, still anxious. “Save me some, please,” I tell her. Her biscotti are the best I’ve ever had, and my mouth waters to taste some. “I can’t eat them, not now.” Not when I’m wearing this dress.
“Here,” Marialena says, twisting the top off a protein shake. She plops a straw in it. “Sip this. Don’t need you withering away.”
Nonna rolls her eyes and mutters something about skinny girls and thick thighs.
“What is she talking about?” I ask Marialena.
“I have no damn clue,” she responds. “I think she thinks you need fattening up. Thinks you’re sick or something.”
“I’ve actually gained six pounds since moving into The Castle!” I inform her. The food’s just too damn good. Maybe I need Tavi to train me with his gym regimen.
Maybe.
“She lives to feed people, relax. It’s just her way. Geez, it’s like you’ve never been around an old-school Italian nonna.”
“I haven’t,” I remind her. I had cooks and nannies and tutors and bodyguards, but never the presence of real family.
“Ah, right. Lucky you.” Mario, dressed in designer jeans and a tight-fitting tee, walks in next. When he sees me in my wedding dress, he covers his eyes with his hand.
“Jesus, is this bad luck?” he asks me.
“Not unless we’re the ones getting married, so you’re good. Can’t say the groom won’t beat the shit out of you, though, for seeing me before he does.” He very well might.
“Good point. You girls should warn a guy.” Mario turns right around and heads for the exit. “Marialena, Santo said you and Rosa don’t have the tracking on your phones activated and neither of you leave here until you do.”
The door shuts with a bang. Marialena rolls her eyes. “And no overbearing, bossy brothers either?”
“Nope.” Nothing. Just Angelina and Piero.
The memory of Piero fades with each passing day. I both hate and am grateful that it does.
On the one hand, I wrestle with guilt over marrying another man. I wanted to be Piero’s for the rest of my life. On the other hand, I’m glad to have a new chance of life with Tavi. I know that if Piero couldn’t have me, he’d at least want me to settle down with a man that would take care of me.
Or is that just what I tell myself?
I feel as if I’ve shared so much with Tavi, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell him the whole truth about Piero. He knows that I escaped, and he knows that Piero aided me in that, but he can’t know everything. If he did… As always, I shove the thoughts away.
“Girls, before we go to dinner, can we head to the new store?” Tavi’s put me in touch with Santo, who’s had me ordering new inventory for the retail store they plan to open after the wedding. My email tells me the handbags I ordered arrived today, and I’d love to look at the stock with my own eyes. We’ll be in the same general area, so it makes sense to stop by.
“Santo would definitely prefer if we did,” Rosa says. “He’s completely obsessed with the new store, isn’t he?”
I nod in agreement. The man has a focus that even an atomic bomb couldn’t rattle.
It’s a little astounding to me how quickly Santo and his men have prepared these buildings for retail. Tavi looked into it, and apparently this is part of my inheritance. The Regazza family didn’t advertise the fact that we owned retail property in Boston. Santo found it through a series of investigations. Tavi’s given this to me, and Santo will help manage it.
It didn’t need as much work as we thought it would, and after a deep cleaning job, a new coat of paint, and some new fixtures Santo had brought in, the shop is looking beautiful.
Something plagues me at the back of my mind though. I remember when Tavi showed it to me. I saw those sunglasses… They looked like Piero’s. I bought a pair just like them. He had them when we were in Tuscany, but I was confident that he no longer had them when he was taken from me.
I didn’t see Piero killed. I saw his body, though.
How could his sunglasses end up in Boston? It isn’t possible.
I was the one that found Piero. I felt his lifeless wrist under my fingers. I put my head on his chest, so still, too still, and wept for him, moments before I realized my own safety was compromised and ran to call Angelina.
Rosa unzips a small garment bag. The jarring sound of the zipper drags me back to the present. I focus on the soft unfolding of the bag, revealing Natalia’s little flower girl dress. It’s a soft, petal green, adorned with hand-sewn flowers. It was once traditional for a bride to wear green the night before her wedding, so we gave a little nod to old Italian tradition with my flower girl.
