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‘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.’
