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Candace nods in sympathy. “I’ve heard he’s fiendishly busy. Don’t take it personally.
Rosaline screws up her nose. “Are you serious? How can she not take it personally? What a dick.”
Everyone turns to her with shocked expressions, including the store assistant. Sophia strides over, snatches the glass of champagne from Rosaline and pours it into a potted plant.
“Hey! I was drinking that.”
“You’ve had enough.”
I take a last look at myself in the mirror, my nerves in a snarl. I suppose it’s normal to feel nervous before a wedding, but there’s nothing normal about my marriage to one of the most notorious men in Coldlake. There’s nothing normal about the almost indetectable lump in the back of my neck, either. Ten months later, the humiliation still burns.
How I hate my father. Once I’m married, I’m never going to speak to him or look at him again.
“I’ll have everything sent around to your home tomorrow,” the assistant tells me with a smile. “And happy birthday for tomorrow, Miss Romano.”
My stomach lurches as the girls kiss me goodbye and I get into the waiting car alone. I’m not allowed to go anywhere unless it’s with the driver that Dad pays for. I’m dreading my birthday tomorrow. One whole year since Mom was killed, and it’s beginning to feel like she never existed. It’s rare that anyone talks about her to me. If Dad skates close to the subject then I feel like I’m going to throw up.
My hatred for Dadburns.
As the sun sets on another awful day, I pace around and around the house, my head full of last year and my heart in turmoil. The evening is warm and my restlessness is making moisture bead on my top lip. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep at all tonight. All I can picture is Salvatore’s fists as he beat that Geak to death. I wish I were strong so I could sink my fist into Dad’s stomach and watch the color drain from his face.
Then suddenly, Salvatore’s there.
He strides across the dining room toward me, looking as breathtaking as he did the very first time I laid eyes on him. I open my mouth to speak. Before I can utter a word, he takes my face between his hands and his lips descend on mine in a hungry kiss. There’s only Salvatore, and I’m breathing him into my heart and opening my mouth so he can taste me.
He pulls away and whispers against my mouth. “I couldn’t stay away. I kept thinking about what happened last year.”
So many things happened last year. “What were you thinking about?”
Salvatore frowns, puzzled by why I’m puzzled. “Your mom. I know it didn’t happen until tomorrow, but today must be just as hard for you.”
Tears sting my eyes and I throw my arms around his neck. My heart gives a painful, grateful double-thump. When Ophelia died, was everyone reluctant to speak her name, too? Does he feel the anniversary of the moment of her death drawing nearer every year?
“This day last year was my last happy day with her,” I whisper.
Salvatore strokes my hair and kisses behind my ear. I glance at the clock on the wall. Nearly thirty minutes past eleven.
Tick tock.
I draw back from him, but keep my arms around his neck. “Can you get me out of here for an hour? I don’t care where, but I don’t want to be here when—” But my throat locks up.
When the minute hand ticks over and it’s finally my birthday.
Salvatore strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Of course, baby.”
Taking a firm grip on my hand, he starts walking toward the front door and calls out to my father, “We’ll be back in an hour, Mayor Romano.”
Dad appears in the hallway wearing a frown. “At this hour?”
“Chiara wants some fresh air.”
He doesn’t look happy but he glances at his watch and goes back into the lounge. “One hour, Fiore.”
Wherever we go, Dad will be able to track our movements online by following the blue dot on his computer or phone screen. Sometimes when I’m out I swear I can feel the pressure of his hateful gaze.
In Salvatore’s car, we drive in silence for several minutes, and then he reaches out to take my hand. “Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere. I don’t care.”
