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I don't wear heels. Walking in them makes my hip ache like really, really.
Carlotta insists on putting my mousy brown hair up in a messy bun leaving tendrils to curl around my heart shaped face, but I put my foot down when she wants to put makeup on me.
I don't have to imagine what Papà would say. The last time I wore make up, he shook his head and asked of no one in particular, "What's the point of gilding a turnip? It still looks round and like it was grown in the dirt."
I knew he was talking about me. I didn't let it make me cry though. I don't let him see me cry at all anymore.
We run into Zia Lora coming out of her room and she stops to look at us. "Don't you both look lovely?" She cocks her head to one side looking at me. "Wait, I think I have a pair of earrings for you."
She rushes back to her room and is back only moments later with a pair of teardrop pearl earrings in her hand. "Put these on."
So, I go down to dinner wearing my aunt's earrings and my sister's blouse.
"At least my underwear are my own," I grumble.
My aunt and sister laugh.
Zio Giovi comes down the hall. "I see I have three gorgeous women to escort to dinner," he says gallantly, putting his arm out for Zia to take.
Carlotta and I take each other's hand and follow them. My sister's palm is sweaty and I realize she's perfectly aware of what this dinner might mean. She's nervous and I don't blame her. It's not every day a don comes looking for a wife.
We reach the foyer and Papà points to his side. "Come here, Madonna Carlotta. You will stand with me to greet the don."
"Both of your daughters should stand with you," Zia Lora says, her voice filled with censure. "What will Don De Luca think of you otherwise? That you are ashamed of one of your daughters?"
While it might be true, my father's pride would never allow him to reveal that truth to someone outside the family, particularly his boss.
He glowers, but nods. "You stand beside your sister. It will give Severu a comparison that will highlight what a diamond my princess is."
Carlotta frowns, but soon her expression clears. I do not show any reaction to Papà's stinging comment. Starve a bully of his attention and he will grow tired of tormenting you. That's the idea, anyway.
Zia Lora clicks her tongue. "You have two lovely daughters, Francesco."
"The Don will be spoiled for choice," Zio Giovi says with a warm smile directed at both myself and Carlotta.
Papà just harrumphs.
"We will wait for you in the drawing room," Zia Lora says before she and Zio turn to go.
After a couple minutes of silence, Carlotta asks, "Is the don really coming because he's thinking of marrying me?"
"Do not be so forwardstellina," Papà chides. "That is not a question you should ask."
"I shouldn't?" My sister sounds naïve, but I can hear the undertone of frustration in her words. "Isn't it my life?"
Our father takes her hand and pats it. "It is not something for you to worry about. I will see to your future."
Carlotta's features tighten for just a moment and then they smooth into placid sweetness again. My sister is not as accepting of our father's pronouncements as he believes.
The doorbell rings. A maid answers and leads not only the don, but his mother, brother, and sister toward us. The don's bodyguards take up unobtrusive positions in the hall. One remains by the front door. All are alert and serious.
I've had glimpses of the don before, from a distance when he was let into our house and when he was leaving. I have never actually spoken to him though. Unlike Carlotta, my father has never taken me to a social gathering where I might meet Severu De Luca in person. Not as his father's underboss, nor as the don he has been for the past five years.
This close, he takes my breath away. Don De Luca stands more than a head taller than my father's five-feet-ten-inches. The don has a muscular, broad chest that makes his upper body look like a V. The slacks of his bespoke suit hint at long, muscled legs. It isn't merely his size that fills the space around him though; it is his unmistakable aura of power.
His gaze traps mine and I cannot look away even though I know I should.
He's 35, but there are no smile lines around his eyes or mouth. His brown eyes eerily reflect no emotion at all. Not eagerness to spend time with his potential bride, not pleasure in his consigliere'scompany. Nothing. His masculine lips do not crease in a smile of greeting. Dangerous and intimidating, it feels like he's on alert for any source of danger despite being in the home of a trusted associate.
