“Let me do the talking.”
I raised my hand to my forehead and gave him a mock salute. “Got it, Captain.”
He tapped me on the back to push me inside the boutique.
A middle-aged woman with long black hair, wearing a tight red dress that stopped at her knee, strolled over to us with a bright smile. She was pretty and polished. Her smile widened as she appraised Marcello, who looked like he’d just fallen out of a men’s fashion magazine.
“Mr. Salvatore,” she cooed. “Welcome to Caio Bella.” Then she turned her gaze to me. “And this must be the lovely Alexandrea. I’ve heard so much about you.” She extended her hand to me. “I’m Domenica Gallo, the owner of this boutique.”
I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She steered me toward a quaint sitting area at the center of the room. “I set aside Mr. Salvatore’s order. He’s very particular, as I’m sure you know.”
“You mean Luca?”
“Yes.” She pressed her lips together, smearing her red lipstick. “Mr. Salvatore called this morning. He said you left your wardrobe in Haven and needed a new one.”
Funny, he hadn’t called me or returned my text message before Marcello stole my cell phone.
“I can’t wait to see what Luca picked out for me,” I said with a forced smile.
Luca had always controlled every part of my life. Why would my choice in clothing be any different?
“Give me a few minutes to grab everything, and I’ll be right back.” Domenica headed toward the back of the store and called out, “Valentina, champagne for our guests.”
Racks and shelves rounded out two sides of the boutique, with a long row of fabric couches and tables interspersed down the center aisle. It had a homey vibe, bright white with little pops of black, gray, and red.
I held out my palm. “Give me your phone.”
Marcello shoved his hands into his pockets, his jacket opening just enough for me to see the two guns strapped to his chest. “No.”
Moving my hands to my hips, I glared at him. “Then you better call Luca for me, or I’m telling Domenica you kidnapped me.”
“Go ahead.” He laughed. “She’s on my father’s payroll.”
“Who isn’t?” I said more to myself, not the least surprised.
A young brunette emerged from a velvet curtain with a silver tray in her hand. “Mr. Salvatore, welcome back to Caio Bella.”
I assumed this was Valentina, who handed a glass of champagne to Marcello. He took it with a thankful nod and passed it to me, waving her off when she offered him another glass.
“Alexandrea,” she beamed. “Everyone in Devil’s Creek has been talking about you.”
I sipped my champagne and nodded. “I’m sure they have.”
She set the tray on the table beside me. “I saw your last exhibition on Luca’s Instagram. You’re very talented. I would love to hang one of your paintings on my wall, but they are a little out of my price range.”
“Which one is your favorite?”
“Sins of the Devil.” She lowered her voice. “That’s Luca, right? I mean, you can’t make out all the details, but it looks like him.”
Marcello had the same facial structure. It could have just as easily been him in my paintings. And not like I made it that obvious. You could tell the Devil was a powerful man with a strong jawline. But his eyes were different every time, depending on his mood.
“That’s what I love about art,” I said with a smile. “Everyone views my paintings differently. You can interpret them any way you like.”
The first Devil-themed painting started with Luca. But as our relationship progressed through different phases of heaven and hell, my work changed along with us.
When Domenica reappeared, she had at least two dozen items draped over her arms. She called out to Valentina for help, and the pretty brunette rushed to her side, taking some clothes from her. Domenica slid a curtain along a metal bar, and the women got to work hanging everything from dresses and skirts to jeans and expensive shirts on hooks.
The modest-sized dressing room had a comfortable-looking bench and a floor-length mirror that spanned most of one wall. Valentina told me about each piece’s designer. I loved art, not fashion, and zoned out halfway through her speech. Most of the time, my clothes had paint or chemicals on them, so I stuck to cheaper brands. I would never order a three hundred dollar shirt for myself. Ridiculous. But of course, Luca spared no expense for his future wife.
“If you need different sizes, let us know,” Domenica said before exiting the dressing room.
I tried on a skirt that clung to my thighs, pairing it with a sleeveless pale pink top that showed some cleavage. Domenica was spot on with my sizes. I stuffed my feet into ballet flats, jeweled sandals, and heels of varying heights. I changed out of a pencil skirt and blouse and grabbed a lipstick red dress with a small bow on the right hip. The fabric stopped mid-thigh, leaving little to the imagination.