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I look down at myself, still barefoot, wearing nothing but the nightgown from the night before.
“Hello? Who is it?”
“Your future mother-in-law, dearest. Open the door, please. Are you decent?”
Salvatore’s mother. The way he seemed on edge when he found out she was here gives me pause. Does he know she’s come here? Will he be angry? Still, it would be rude not to answer.
I quickly go to the door. “I’m so sorry, I’m still in my nightgown.”
“Oh, I don’t mind about that,” her voice coos. “Open, please.”
With a trembling hand, I open the door.
A petite, frail-looking woman with eyes much darker than Salvatore’s stands holding a platter of food. She’s dressed impeccably in a fitted navy skirt and jacket, her hair pinned back in a merciless bun.
“Oh, my,” she says quietly, then arranges her features in a smile that looks not unlike Salvatore’s predatory grin. “Well, are you just going to stand there, or may I come in?”
Charming. I feel awkward and uncomfortable, and I wonder again if my future husband approves of her visit. Still, I quickly move to the side and gesture for her to come in as if I actually live here.
“Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
My own mother is no saint. She had to learn survival skills married to my father with his vicious, tyrannical ways. She taught us to be resilient and strong. But even my mother has a trace of warmth in her. Natural maternal instincts. It’s a well-known fact in my family that if any of the babies have trouble falling asleep, Mama’s the one who will rock the fussiest baby until they’re drifting off to Lalaland.
Salvatore’s mother is carved from ice. If I had a baby, I wouldn’t want her to come anywhere near it. I’d be afraid she’d freeze it to death with her nearness.
“Agnesia Capo,” she says, extending a well-manicured hand to me, her nails painted bloodred. “Pleased to meet you.”
Why would she lie about such a thing? I can tell she doesn’t mean a word. What does she have against me or my family?
“Marialena Rossi,” I finally say awkwardly, taking her hand because it seems that’s what she expects of me.
“I know. Have you eaten?”
I look down at the platter of food she’s brought and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since the plane, hours ago.
Little paper cups with egg bites topped with melted cheese, mini cinnamon rolls with thick vanilla icing, and a large fruit salad with melon and cantaloupe cut into the shape of flowers are piled on the platter. There’s a silver pot of what smells like cappuccino and a small pitcher of cream, as well as a semi-circle of flaky pastries and a jar of peach preserves beside a crock of butter. One little juice cup and a small, covered pitcher of orange juice sits beside the cappuccino.
“Oh my,” I say, my mouth watering. “I could eat this whole platter.”
She frowns slightly. “Well, I wouldn’t dothat,” she says with a laugh that chills me. “You do have a dress to fit into later.”
I feel my cheeks flush slightly. “Do I? No one measured me for a dress.” I’ve always had a hearty appetite, and I’m not going to let a little bird-like woman shame me out of it. Salvatore actually seemed pleased that I like to eat. The Rossi family likes their food.
“Your mother was kind enough to give us your measurements and size,” she says, pulling out one of the chairs by the little table near the balcony. “Eat up, dear, you won’t have much time until this evening.”
“Oh?” Something tells me she doesn’t really mean theeat uppart, but I’m starving and it looks delicious, so I fill a plate. I ignore the way she eyes me. I eat one of the egg bites, followed by a pastry, before I swallow it down with a small cup of juice and continue our conversation.
“This is delicious. My compliments to your kitchen staff.”
“Oh, didn’t he tell you? Salvatore prepares all the food he eats himself.”
“For everyone?”
“No, most of us aren’t as paranoid as he is, but he insisted on preparing your food himself.”
Wow. When did he have time? I eye the platter a bit differently, knowing my future husband made my food.
