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“It’s odd you’d say that. My mother used to often tell me,” he mused quietly after a moment, his eyes on hers. “People are like chess pieces. Anyone on the board is of consequence.”
Amara shook off the little tremor that started at the base of her spine. “And you think I’m on the board?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said softly, still watching her avidly.
There was silence after that. What did one even say to something like that? Amara broke their stare and looked down at the scuffed toes of her boots, in front of the shining shoes he had on. The mud at the bottom of those expensive shoes just screamed how usual they were for him. They weren’t for her. Her usual was thrift stores and second-hand books and used furniture. Though the Maronis paid well, she and her mother lived modestly. Mostly, her mother put savings in the bank for their future. Gazing down at the differences between their lives laid out at their feet, Amara wondered why he was even talking to her.
Clearing her throat, Amara looked up at the man she had been infatuated with since before she knew the word and accepted a healthy dose of reality. He might be nice enough to check in on her but he was also the man who owned this entire hill they were standing on, the man who had buried a girl he’d been intimate with. They existed in different planes. Guys like him didn’t have an interest in girls like her. They liked the daughters of their rich business partners, elegant beauties they could have on their arms and make soft, sensual love with while playing power games with their families.
She needed to get over this, whatever this was.
“If that’s all, Mr. Maroni?”
“Dante,” he corrected almost absently. “Seriously, why are you avoiding me?”
Amara shook her head, sighing. “I’m not.”
“Liar,” his eyes darkened, his gaze lasered on her. “It bothers me.”
Amara felt herself becoming surprised at that, but she stayed on track. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s very nice of you to check in on me, but unnecessary. Have a good day.”
With that, she left him standing there and simply walked to her door without looking back at him, her emotions in turmoil in her chest. She entered the house and closed the door behind her, leaning against it and taking a deep, long breath.
“Everything okay?” her mother asked, looking up at her from the dough she was kneading.
Amara nodded, taking the wrap off her shoulders.
“You want to talk about it?” her mother asked, voice gentle. Amara went around the counter and hugged her from the back, taller than her by a few inches. Burying her nose in her mother’s skin, she smelled the clean scent of the citrus soap she used, the moisturizer, and the sugar. She smelled of home.
Feeling something inside herself unknot at the scent, Amara reassured her. “There’s nothing to talk about, Ma.”
“Of course,” her mother chuckled, continuing to push the dough. “Not like you fancy him or anything.”
Amara pulled back, disbelieving. “Did Vin tell you that?” her voice came out a little too high for her comfort. Pitch control, her music teacher’s voice reprimanded in her head.
“He didn’t have to,” her ma shrugged, giving her a little look. “Pass the cinnamon.”
Amara absently took it out from the shelf, handing it over silently. “Then how did you know?”
“I’m your mother,” her ma stated, as though that was explanation enough. It was, in a way. Her mother saw too much where she was concerned.
“It’s just a crush, Ma,” Amara said casually. “It’ll pass.” She really, truly hoped so.
Her mother didn’t call her out on the fact that it hadn’t passed in five years, and for that, Amara loved her a little bit more.
A few days later, she came out the back door of the mansion with some supplies for the gardener when she saw him sitting with his usually absent brother in the gazebo, playing chess of all things. She started to spin on her heels when suddenly he called her out.
“Amara, come meet my brother.”
Amara sighed. While she really kind of didn’t want to stay in his space, it would have been very impolite, outright rude, to his brother whom she’d never met. Pasting a smile on her face, she walked forward towards the gazebo and immediately noticed the similarities between the two boys – the same dark hair, the same tall build, the same cut of the jaw. They were brothers, alright.
She also noticed that his brother hunched over slightly, keeping his gaze super focused on the chessboard.
“This is Damien,” Dante said in that voice that sent butterflies rolling in her tummy. “Damien, this is Amara.”
“Green Eye Girl,” Damien said in an almost toneless voice.
Dante chuckled, turning to the side, casually leaning against the marble pillar. “Yeah, Green Eye Girl.”
