I don’t know much about their relationship but after this, I’m going to find out.
Gabriela takes the offered apple juice in the decorated flute without a word.
“Stefan,” he says, gesturing for me to take the other flute of champagne.
“I prefer a whiskey.”
Gabriel Marchese gives me a cold grin as people crowd around to congratulate us, the women fawning over Gabriela’s ring, her dress, our apparent whirlwind romance and what a good-looking couple we are. Some even comment on the beautiful babies we’ll make.
I wonder what Marchese’s told them to save face.
As we move through the house and outside to the back garden, we’re separated momentarily. I reclaim her as we make our way to greet our guests, an almost even split of Marchese and Sabbioni family members. My face hurts from smiling and I fucking hate small talk, but I do enjoy Marchese’s cringing every time he’s forced to introduce me to his friends and associates as his future son-in-law.
Gabriela excuses herself to use the bathroom and I take the moment to slip into the shadows, watching the people, making note of who’s who and who will be a problem.
When a waiter appears to refresh my whiskey, I see Rafa walking toward me with Clara on his arm. He’s not smiling.
“Christ. Pretentious much?” he asks, gesturing around him.
I sip my whiskey and watch Marchese. I don’t miss how he, even as he appears to be in intense conversation, keeps one eye on me.
“Just rubbing his face in it,” I say. I turn to Clara.
She smiles, pulls herself free of Rafa and spins to show off her dress. That’s the moment Gabriela returns, and I see how she looks at Clara and remember the other night. I wonder what she thought was happening.
Her face hardens as she comes to stand beside me.
“You look beautiful as always, Clara,” I tell my cousin.
Gabriela’s jaw tightens and she folds her arms across her chest. “I’m hungry,” she says, not quite looking at Clara or Rafa.
I do note that Rafa is watching her more curiously than I like.
“Gabriela, this is my cousin, Clara,” I say. “I believe you saw her at the swimming pool the other night.”
And this is where Gabriela’s upbringing kicks in and she’s lucky that she stands about an inch taller than Clara because it gives her the opportunity to look down on her. It’s just for a split second, just long enough to send a message.
Clara extends her hand, cocks her head to the side and smiles wide. “Lovely to meet Stefan’s chosen bride-to-be,” she says in her silky voice.
Gabriela takes her hand and Rafa and I both watch as Gabriela digests Clara’s carefully selected words.
“Such a close-knit family, you are,” Gabriela says. “The three of you.”
The music stops then, and Gabriela’s father announces dinner.
“Excuse us,” Gabriela says. “So glad you could make it,” she tells Clara, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Gabriela and I sit together at the head table for dinner along with her father. She picks at her food while I eat with gusto and listen as her father toasts us, then make my own toast, being sure to mention my Sicilian roots.
I watch as my family mixes with his, watch his face grow darker and darker as we infiltrate his home and eat his food and drink his liquor.
An hour passes, then another.
I keep a close eye on my fiancée and notice when she slips into the house. I excuse myself a few moments later and follow her, knowing where she’s going.
The last time I crept up these stairs was the night I learned my brother was dead. It was the night I delivered my message.
Tonight, I climb them as if I own them, because in a way, I do.
Her room is dark when I enter, but from inside the bedroom, I see a light and hear the clicking of keys on a keyboard. I walk silently toward it and the way her desk is situated, she has her back to me. She doesn’t hear me enter but is reading whatever is on the screen before scrolling down, clicking on something else, reading that.
When I clear my throat, she stiffens. She quickly closes the screen and sits back but doesn’t turn around.
I set my hands on her shoulders and squeeze. “You slipped away,” I say, leaning down to touch my cheek to hers. “What’s so interesting that you left your own engagement party?” I whisper.
“It’s not a real engagement party.”
I squeeze her shoulder with one hand as with the other I tap the mousepad and bring the screen back to life. On her home screen is a photo of a puppy.
“Your dog?”
“Stock photo.”
“That’s not weird at all.”
I click on the Safari button and her hand flies to close over mine to stop me.
She turns her head a little, so her face is an inch from mine. Her eyes meet mine, then travel slowly to my mouth and she licks her lips.