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I was too nervous to face his mom alone. I was pleased when he did as I asked, leaving through our adjoining door to go to his own room.
I hurried to roughly dry my hair and get dressed. And was glad now for the abundance of dresses Marco had bought for me from the boutique. I put on a floral print summer dress and draped a light scarf to cover the bruises on my throat. Then ran lightly to my door, a spring in my step.
I was really doing this! I was giving it a shot. And the crazy thing was, it didn’t feel mad at all!
The singing in my heart crashed to a stop when my door refused to open.
“What the hell?” I murmured, and then heard a key turn on the other side.
Marco was outside, looking chagrined.
“You locked me in?” I accused, my heart beginning to race again.
He nodded. “Last night. Sorry, force of habit.”
“You locked me in!” I said again.
He ran a flustered hand through his hair. “I was scared you might try to leave again, and you might get into trouble. Please, carissima.”
“Don’t lock it again. I won’t stay as your prisoner.”
He nodded.
He looked so sorry that my indignationmelted. When he offered me his arm, I took it.
We were smiling when we entered the breakfast parlour, a fact which caused his mother’s face to sour. Her eyes lingered on our linked arms.
“I see you are feeling better today,” she said coolly.
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
Her eyes, as dark as her son’s, pierced mine. “Would you care to offer an explanation of Saturday night’s events?”
I shot a startled glance at Marco. Had he not told his mother what had happened?
“Mamma, I already explained what you need to know,” he said, unconcerned.
Her mouth tightened a little, but she took a bite of crisp toast and proceeded to ignore us.
“Where is Amara?” Marco asked.
“Her driver has already taken her to school. If you had wanted to say good morning, you would have been on time. She was disappointed.”
Her jaw tightened. Though she didn’t look at me, I knew she blamed me for the little girl’s disappointment. My cheeks flushed. No doubt she was fully aware of what we had been up to.
“I’ll make it up to her,” said Marco.
Chiara raced into the room in a flurry, gasping, “I’m off now. I can’t sit to eat, Mamma. I’m going to be late!”
“Nonsense. I’ve made you a plate. You can spare a few minutes.”
Chiara must have known it was a losing battle because she dumped her satchel on the ground and flung herself into her chair, and shovelled toast and eggs into her mouth.
She cast me a curious glance, swallowed, and said, “What happened to you the other night? The police were here, but Mamma wouldn’t tell me anything about it.”
I had a feeling that her mother wouldn’t be happy if I said anything about it either.
“They wanted my statement about something that happened at the party we went to,” I said vaguely.
