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Her headache bloomed a bit brighter, but she kept moving through the house despite the pain. It was dark and quiet now, no carols playing softly. Instead, she could smell all the pine trees and the wax of the candles that burned in the windows. It was like creeping through a Christmas card, and she didn’t know whether she should find that a bit creepy or so sweet it might make her cry.
Instead of succumbing to all the tugging on her heartstrings, she thought about what she would do now. She wouldn’t stay in Italy this time. That was just asking for trouble, and if Rome had proved anything to her, it was that she couldn’t be trusted not to crumble at the first sign of adversity. And luckily, no one knew she was married to Ago. No one would be on the lookout for a hugely pregnant British woman, thinking they could use her against him.
She would be safe as houses and also the size of a house, and that thought made her giggle a little, even through the headache.
The baby moved again, and she had to stop then. Because there was an ache inside, first sharp, then dull, and it didn’t feel like the usual game of football with her internal organs. She held on to the nearest wall, ignored the Picasso, and breathed a bit more. Until, eventually, the clench of pain eased a little.
“Come on, baby boy,” she muttered. “We have to be a team on this.”
And this time, as she passed all the portraits of the Accardi ancestresses, she felt as if they were judging her. Becausetheyhadn’t left.
Even, perhaps, when they should have.
But was that what she wanted for herself? Was Victoria really required to martyr herself to the legacy of this place, this family, just because her husband saw no other way to live? More importantly, was that the life she wanted for her son?
Or maybe the real truth, she admitted as she heaved herself down the stairs, was that she wanted the life on offer here far too much. Because she might not have been able to go out and find work, the way others her age did. Her father would never have allowed that. But she had spent her life engaged in charity work instead, because that was what was open to her. And she had loved it.
And so she knew that a legacy shared was less like a curse and more like something magic, made better because it drew those who carried it closer together. Or it could be.
But Ago didn’t want that.
She might love him, but he didn’t love her.
He wanted only to convince her that more was happening here than it was. He wanted her to lose herself in this, in him. He wanted to make her so dizzy and deliriously in love with him that it wouldn’t occur to her to do anything but obey him.
He was just like her father. And in many ways he was much more insidious.
Because her father wasn’t playing any games. She doubted he was capable of that kind of subterfuge. Her father hadn’t pretended she was anything but a pawn since she’d hit puberty and it had been clear she was the kind of pretty that he could leverage.
Meanwhile, Ago had been playing her for a fool since Rome.
And that was the part she couldn’t forgive.
The main stair in the villa was long and dramatic. And tonight it was lit up so brightly by the moon outside that she felt as if all the paparazzi that Ago had been avoiding all this time had found her at last and were blinding her on purpose. No wonder her headache wouldn’t quit.
It was one more indication that she absolutely should not stay here. Because she already felt weak and ashamed and like she would really prefer to just turn around and hurry herself right back into bed.
Who knew what he could make her do if she stayed here, and let him play the role of doting father? She had no doubt he would do it well enough. To make her believe. To make herimagine.
To make her tell herself even more stories, then believe them even though she knew better.
That ache inside her bloomed again, sharper than before. Her head pounded.
But she had come to a stop on the stair, and that was the part that seemed the most like an indictment. Like shame.
“Come now,mia mogliettina,”came the dark voice she most and least wanted to hear, seeming to envelop her from above. “You do not truly believe that I would allow this to happen again, do you?”
She was so close to the bottom of the stairs, but she’d stopped. Had she sensed him? Had she known he was near?
Why did she want that to matter?
“Let me go, Ago,” she said softly.
It was more as if she felt him move than actually heard it. The weight of him, as if gravity hung differently from a man hewn from steel and so many centuries. The force of him, so intense, so bold, and tonight, wrapped up in a dark fury.
She did not have to turn around to know he came down the stairs behind her. And when he spoke again, that he was closer only made the storm in him seem to rage through her, too.
“Surely you understand by now that I have no intention of ever letting you go, Victoria,” he said, like he was handing down judgment and a sentence in one. “Did you imagine I would?”
