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15
Elsa
Twenty minutes later, we are in his car-slash-SUV, the one with the baby-seat, and on our way back home. And my lips are tingling from that hard yet tender kiss that seemed to go on and on. My heart still feels raw from the emotion he seemed to pour into it. My gut is in knots.
What is the meaning of all this? Why is he complicating an already messed up situation? Like it isn’t enough I need to focus on my daughter, or the fact that soon I’ll be married to this almost-stranger, or that if he finds out what I’m doing to him and his family, he’ll definitely hate me—there’s also the other thing. The one that’s the cause of this mess I’ve landed in. And I’ve been trying so hard to be good. I've been trying not to slip up, and I’ve succeeded over the last year, by staying away from all temptation and ignoring the yearning inside of me. Then, he has to come along, and open up the vault to all of my secrets. Argh!
I must make a noise because he side-eyes me. "Stop thinking so much," he says in a mild voice.
"Ha, easy for you to say. You weren’t put on the spot by an alphahole who thinks he can manipulate you and get away with it."
"Do you think I manipulated you?"
"Why else would you propose to me in front of your entire family?"
"You already agreed to marry me," he reminds me.
"I know." I wring my fingers in my lap, and spot the ring on my left hand. "It’s just… It seems so much more real."
"That’s exactly why," he murmurs.
"Oh." Something deflates inside of me. Of course, it was all a charade. He wanted his family to believe we’re in love. He didn’t mean any of that—not what he said, not the beautiful ring he gave me. I hold up my fingers, and the late afternoon light catches on the yellow sapphires in the ring. It’s beautiful, exactly the kind of ring I’d have chosen for myself. How did he know the sapphire’s my birthstone?
"I guess I should return the ring, now there’s no one here to watch us?"
I move to take off the ring, and he makes a sound deep in his throat. "It’s your ring," he says in a hard voice, "and as long as you are my wife, you’ll wear it. And as I’ve already told you, there are no divorces in theCosa Nostra."
I firm my lips. "Is that an order?"
"Do you want my help in ensuring Fabio doesn’t get sole custody of your daughter?"
I turn on him. "Is everything a transaction with you?"
"If it's needed to get my way."
I turn and face forward, watching the houses go by. How could I have thought he meant anything he said earlier? And I almost believed him when he said those words. We ride the rest of the way in silence.
When we reach the house—his house—I push the door open and get out without waiting for him. He follows me, pausing only to speak with the security detail outside. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to living in a place with so much security, but it does make me feel safe. Surely, there’s an oxymoron somewhere in that statement, considering I’m in the heart of the Mafia clan. Then again, maybe it’s just ironic. Dontcha think?
One of the guards pushes the door open for me. I thank him and walk through. The door shuts after us, and the noise echoes around the space. I walk past the hallway, and toward the stairs that lead up to my room. His house is big, one of those common Italian homes built in the early 1900s. It’s built from sandstone in a style that is Arab-Norman, so typical of the homes here.
It’s a beach-front house, offering a panoramic view of the ocean from my room, while the sliding doors on the far side of the living room lead to a deck with stairs leading down to the sand.
I reach the hallway on the second floor and stop at the first door. I peek inside of the room with a crib on the far end. The rest of the furniture is expected by Friday. He told me he engaged an interior designer to make sure the space is completely set up by the time I bring Avery home for the weekend. Her room is across the hall from mine, while Seb’s room is next to mine, the two connected with an adjoining door I made sure to lock last night.
Footsteps sound, then come to a stop behind me. "She’ll be home this weekend."
"I know." I brush past him and head toward my room.
"You’re a good mother, Elsa," his voice follows me.
I walk inside my room and head to the window.
"You’re worried about her?" he murmurs.
"I only get to see my daughter on weekends. What do you expect?"
"You also put your own happiness on hold by entering into this arrangement; and you did it so you could ensure the future of your child."
