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I was supposed to leave David behind in Ibiza. For the last month, I’ve done my best not to think about him, not to miss the nights I spent in his bed, not to wish for more when that’s impossible. It’sstillimpossible—I have no way of finding him, even if I wanted to.
If my mother has found a husband for me, it’s not going to be possible to pass the baby off as his, either—not unless we were to be married abnormally quickly. My mother might push for a quick wedding—the better to make sure the groom doesn’t change his mind—but I don’t think it’ll be quick enough, no matter what.
Telling the truth is an option, but I don’t know what happens then. Idefinitelydon’t like to think about what my mother’s reaction will be, or what it’s going to be like to have to live with it. She might want it taken care of, if only so that she can still marry me off—but I’d rather just handle it on my own, so she never has to know.
Briefly, towards the end of the day, I consider ignoring her instruction to come straight home after class—or trying to, anyway. Whoever it is that she wants me to meet, I’d rather not. I could go over to Claire’s if I can slip past my security, tell her the truth, try to make a plan. But even as I think about it, I know the consequences of defying my mother, especially right now, aren’t worth the momentary freedom I’d have. So I go home after my last class, and unsurprisingly, my mother is waiting for me just outside the foyer as if she’s been counting the minutes until I’d walk through the door.
“I left clothes on your bed,” she says curtly, shepherding me towards the stairs. “I’ll meet you in the informal living room when you’re dressed. Don’t keep me waiting. And wearexactlywhat I left out for you,” she adds, narrowing her eyes at me as she stops at the base of the staircase.
It’s all I can do not to roll mine, but I go upstairs to my room. As promised, there’s a dark green sheath dress with a thin belt on the bed and nude high heels set next to it, and I frown. It’s exactly the kind of thing my mother likes for me to wear and that I hate—something that makes me feel ten years older than I am and far more prim and proper than I ever want to be.This isn’t the hill I want to die on,I remind myself as I reach for it, stripping off the jeans and t-shirt I wore to class and tugging my hair free from the ponytail. There’s a visible crease in it, and I go and plug in my straightener, knowing my mother will have a fit if my hair doesn’t look as perfect as everything else when I come downstairs.
My stomach twists again as I slip into the dress and zip it up. I managed some wheat crackers and ginger ale for lunch, and it stayed down, but the anxiety over what might be waiting downstairs for me has my stomach on the verge of rebelling all over again.Maybe I’ll puke all over whoever she’s dragged in to meet me, I think grimly as I run the hot straightener through my hair, touching up my makeup a little and doing whatever I can to drag the minutes out until I’m forced to go downstairs and face this.Surely, that’ll make them think twice about marrying me.
The truth is, though, that anyone enticed enough by what wealth and notoriety remain to us to look past my family’s recent disgrace probably won’t be put off by that.
I can hear my mother’s voice drifting out past the door that leads to the informal living room, and behind it, a faint, deep male voice that sounds oddly familiar, though I can’t quite place it. There’s the hint of an Italian accent, tinged with that particular Boston flavor—which is unsurprising; I knew my mother was trying to arrange something with one of the mafia families in Boston. I hadn’t thought she was going to actually manage to pull it off.
Here goes nothing.There’s no running away from this, so I might as well face it head-on. I push the door open, and the voices abruptly stop.
As do I, the moment I step into the room and see who is sitting on the floral chintz couch in front of the fireplace.
My mother is there, of course, dressed to the nines and prim as ever, a pleased, victorious expression on her face. And next to her is a man I recognize—a man I could neverfailto recognize, even if years passed before I saw him again. A face I don’t think I could forget, even if I wanted to—and a part of me desperately has.
Sitting next to my mother, in my home as if he belongs there—is David.
11
DAVID
For a moment, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
This can’t be. The world can’t possibly be this small.I’d been told by my father in no uncertain terms to get on a flight to Chicago this morning, and I’d obeyed. A week ago, I was informed that a marriage had been arranged for me, and I’d known that there was no point in arguing. I hadn’t bothered to ask the name of my future bride—it hadn’t mattered to me. If my father had agreed to the arrangement, I trusted it was in the best interest of our family. I’ve understood all along that as the eldest son now, it’s my job to provide the family with an heir to follow me. Half the reason I went to Ibiza was to put off that particular duty as long as possible—but it couldn’t be delayed forever. I knew my father was working on it, and I had simply put it out of my head. I hadn’t bothered to ask Marianne Leone her daughter’s name, either—once again, because I simply didn’t care. I’d find out by my wedding day, and that was really all that mattered.
I hadn’t in my wildest dreams expected that I would see Amalie looking at me from across the room, her face reflecting the same horror that I feel at this moment.
“This is a mistake.” I force the words out through my rapidly closing throat, grasping for a viable reason why. I hear Marianne’s gasp and see her mouth open in protest—unsurprisingly, the woman has been working on my father for months to arrange this. “I can’t marry her.”
“And why not?” Marianne’s hands are already wringing in her lap, and she shoots an accusing look at her daughter, as if Amalie should know why. Shedoesknow why, but from the stunned look on her face, I don’t think she’s going to be speaking up anytime soon.
“She’s not a suitable mafia bride,” I say bluntly, taking some small, cruel pleasure in the way Amalie’s face goes white at that, except for two hot flushes of red high on her cheekbones. “She’s not a virgin.”
“You—” Amalie splutters from across the room, starting to find her voice, but Marianne isn’t looking at her. She’s staring at me now, in utter shock, horror to reflect her daughter’s wreathing her pinched features.
“How do you know that?” she asks coldly, and I wince.
“Because he’s the reason I’m not,” Amalie snaps from across the room. “Were you planning to fill in that part too,David? Or were you just going to shame me in front of my mother?”
“You didn’t seem all that ashamed back in Ibiza.” I smirk at her, and her eyes go wide with a sparking fury that sends an entirely inappropriate jolt of lust down my spine.
Even here in Chicago, a world away from the luxurious, hedonistic week we shared, it seems she still manages to have a similar effect on me.
“I demand an explanation.” Marianne stands up abruptly, glaring first at me, and then at her daughter. “You met on my daughter’s ill-conceived little escape trip? How? Did you know somehow and follow her?”
Amalie lets out a small gasp, and I realize that possibility had never occurred to her. “No,” I say simply, glancing back at her mother. “It was a coincidence. I met her at a bar. She was quite eager. Prowling for someone, even. I hesitate to believe her story that I was her first, honestly—”
“You fucking bastard,” Amalie breathes, and the hatred in her eyes is so clear that for a moment, I wonder if she really is telling the truth. I have a flash of memory—small spots of blood on white sheets after that first morning—and a sick feeling twists in my gut. I’d told myself that it was on account of my size, that she wouldn’t be the first girl who bled a little because she was just this side of too tight for me, but now everything seems called into question.
“Can you give me a moment?” I look at Marianne. “Orus, rather. I’d like to speak to your daughter alone.”
