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By the time the coffee finishes brewing, there’s more noise than ever out in the living room. I look out to find an even larger cluster of men dressed in black coming in through the front door. What is this, some kind of convention? A bunch of undertakers getting together to talk about how sullen and creepy they all are? Because these are not friendly men—they’re all scowling. A few of them glance my way with cold, hard eyes that make me shiver.
And then the crowd parts, and it’s just Enzo and a man with a head of amazingly thick, silver hair. He’s a proud man, with the bearing of somebody who’s used to being in command. Even at his age and with all his wrinkles, he doesn’t walk with that slightly stooped posture people his age normally develop. He keeps his square chin high, too, inspecting the many boxes waiting to be unpacked. So I was right. He has something to do with that.
He turns to Enzo and murmurs something. Enzo glances my way, our eyes locking for a second. I wish I could read his expression, but one thing is clear: the question was about me.
Nobody has to tell me who this man is. And frankly, I’ve wanted to set eyes on him. When he turns around and looks toward the kitchen, where I’m standing with a mug in my trembling hands, my skin crawls a little, and a wave of cold fear washes over me. Why do I get the feeling I just stepped into the snake pit?
He takes a step my way, and Enzo falls in step beside him, but the old man thrusts an arm out to stop his grandson from advancing. Oh God, help me. He wants us to have a little alone time. I wait for him, fear gnawing at me, twisting my stomach. I don’t want him to see that, though something tells me he would anyway. Those dark eyes of his are much too shrewd to miss anything.
“So here she is,” he says as he enters the room, offering a brittle smile that I guess is better than him being nasty or cruel.
“Hello. Here I am.” What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to behave in front of him? What’s expected of me? Why is he even here? I guess he wanted to get a look at me before this supposed wedding of ours.
He takes a seat at the kitchen table, and two guards hover behind him. Nobody has to tell me that’s their job. They might as well have it tattooed on their foreheads, burly men who’d look more at home in a wrestling ring or guarding the front door of a bar or club.
What am I supposed to do? There’s an expectant sort of energy in the air like he’s waiting for me to make a move. I wish somebody had told me the rules of this game in advance.
“Can I get you some coffee?” I offer, for lack of anything better to say.
He scoffs, and right there, I see the influence he’s had on Enzo. I wonder how many times he’s watched his grandfather do that, but it’s been so frequent that he picked up the habit himself. “Coffee? I need a little something stronger than that. Two fingers of whiskey on the rocks.”
It’s a little earlier in the day than I would have my first drink, but I guess a man of his age has every right to decide for himself. I go over to the bar cart, glancing in Enzo’s direction when I do. He’s talking with more men, his body half turned in my direction. Like his attention is split, though he doesn’t want to show it. There’s no way he can be as anxious about this as I am, is there? I wonder why.
I pour the drink, adding ice cubes from the little bucket on the cart, then take the glass to the table. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you. Please, have a seat. I’ve been anxious to get to know you better.”
Yes, I just bet he has. There’s an almost playful tone in his voice, like this is all a big joke—but it’s more like the way a bully would laugh as he pins down his target. At least that’s how it sounds to me right now when I’m trying so hard not to shake. What happens if I mess up, and he figures out this has all been a big lie?
I lower myself into a chair at his right hand while he savors the first sip of whiskey. “I never was much of a coffee drinker,” he explains, rattling the ice in the glass. “Nowadays, my doctor would rather I avoid it. Blood pressure, and all that.” I nod for lack of anything better to do. His doctor is more than likely right. The man has to be at least seventy years old.
“Tell me about yourself,” he continues, eyeing me while wearing an expression I can’t read.
“What would you like to know?” Oh, this is bad. This is so bad. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.
“Are you generally in good health?”
A strange way to lead off, but at least I can answer this one without having to make anything up. “Yes, I always have been.”
“No serious illnesses?”
“Not really. The normal colds, that sort of thing. An ear infection or two when I was younger.”
“And what about your reproductive system? Is everything in order there?”
Surprise widens my eyes for a second, but I manage to keep a handle on myself. “As far as I know.”
“Everything working normally?”
“Yes, always.” My skin’s crawling, and I want more than anything to be out of this room, away from this man with his intrusive questions. Next thing I know, he’ll point me to a table with stirrups set up at the end. Maybe the whole setup is waiting in one of those boxes.
He folds his arms on the table, leaning a little closer. But there’s no intimacy in the gesture. It’s not like we’re two people having a private and slightly uncomfortable conversation, so he wants to make it easier on me. No, he’s closing in on his prey, is all. He can pretend all he wants, but I see right through him—and it’s terrifying. “Tell me about your family.”
Fear skitters down my spine, and I’m afraid I’m going to scream. My heart’s pounding against my ribs, and my throat tightens until I know I won’t be able to get a word out. A sip of coffee helps loosen me up a little. “What would you like to know?” I manage to whisper.Oh please, God. Don’t let him be what ends me. As much as I would rather cut off an arm than marry Enzo, I don’t need to lose my life over this.
“Have you any siblings?”
I don’t know what the correct answer is because I don’t know who they think I am. What if I say the wrong thing, and he knows right away that I’m lying? All I can do is tell the truth, I guess. “No. I was an only child.”
