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CHAPTER 7
Emilia
When we arrive at the Volante’s Westport mansion, I’m irrationally displeased that Alessandro doesn’t carry me over the threshold. He was attentive when we got out of the car, taking my hand to make sure I was safe, but when we reached the front door, he just opened it and walked inside, leaving me to tag along behind him like a stray he’d brought home.
It’s silly to be upset he isn’t upholding some medieval tradition, but a part of me can’t help thinking we’re inviting bad luck by not starting off on the right foot. The way this marriage came about is inauspicious enough. I don’t want to risk anything else going wrong.
I shake off my disappointment and try to admire my surroundings. It’s not as if Alessandro and I are deeply in love. I need to forget about romance and focus on surviving this marriage. I don’t want to relinquish the small slice of independence I fought my grandfather so hard for, and it would be easy to lose myself to a man like Alessandro.
What happened in the back of the car just now was mind-blowing. I came so close to surrendering to him, but I have to stay strong. I don’t want to swap the restrictions of my life with my grandfather for another gilded cage.
“Are you hungry?” Alessandro asks as we walk along a corridor.
The floor is covered by the softest gray carpet my feet have ever trod on and the white-painted walls display black and white photographs, presumably of the Volante family over the years. I haven’t seen much of the house yet, but so far it’s very modern, decorated in a palette of clean, fresh neutrals. It’s as far from the stuffiness of my grandfather’s home as you can get. He preferred deep red tones and dark, heavy furniture. I like this better.
Though the house is an old brick mansion, the interior is airy. It makes me wonder about the Volantes. Does this place represent their approach to the world? Are they a modern, progressive branch of the Mafia, or are they tied to old-fashioned values? Will I have room in this family to breathe?
“Emilia?”
Oh, right, he asked me a question before I got lost in my thoughts.
“Yes, I am hungry.”
“Then let’s get you something to eat.”
His consideration confuses me. One minute I think he’s an utter bastard, intent on bending me to his will and the next he seems sweet. Well, as sweet as six foot four of brooding Mafia prince can be.
We head into a farmhouse-style kitchen, which is smaller than I expected for a house of this size. There’s an old-fashioned stoveat one side and copper pots hang from a rack on the ceiling. There’s a sink beneath a wide window that looks out into a garden area with an enormous greenhouse. They must have staff who tend to the gardens. I can’t picture any of the glamorous Volantes pulling up weeds.
A marble-topped island sits in the center of the room with several stools around it. There must be a dining room somewhere, but I guess this is where people eat when they want to be less formal, because there’s no table in here. There wouldn’t be space for one.
Alessandro pulls out a stool and helps me to clamber onto it, not an easy task in this dress. He ensures I’m sitting comfortably before going to a pantry on the other side of the room. Moments later, he emerges with a charcuterie board loaded with meats, cheeses, and other goodies. He also has a bottle of wine, which he sets down on the countertop in front of me.
“Janetta left this. She looks after the place for us.”
“Oh.” I look over my shoulder as if she’s suddenly going to pop up behind me. “Does she live in the house?”
“Yes, but she’s been given a few days off, along with the other staff. There’s nobody on the property but us and the guards. I have warned them not to disturb us.”
He gives a smoldering glance that tells me exactly what he wants to do with the solitude. The thought of having his hands on me again makes my skin tingle.
“Wine?”
“Please.”
As Alessandro turns to a cupboard behind him and retrieves a couple of glasses, I realize we’re no longer in Italy. “No, wait. I’m not old enough to drink here.”
Alessandro snorts derisively. “It’s your birthday tomorrow.”
Until now, I’d completely forgotten. It should be a momentous occasion, my twenty-first birthday, but I’m not sure I’ll have much to celebrate now.
“Even so, I prefer water, please.”
Alessandro nods. “Perhaps it is better to keep a clear head.”
He’s obviously only referring to me, because he gets a corkscrew from a drawer, opens the bottle, and pours himself a generous measure of red wine. Then he goes to the refrigerator and fetches a bottle of mineral water for me. He unscrews the cap and pours some into my glass.
“Thank you.”
