Vittoria stands. Her cheeks are flushed pink, making her look prettier than ever, and I fist my hands by my sides. Unless she makes a mistake, she’s spending the next month under this roof.
One of us will marry her.
One of us has to.
Goddamn it, that has to be me.
Chapter Five
“My only love, sprung from my only hate.” Romeo and Juliet
Vittoria
I stand in the small room, my cheeks flushing so hotly I feel faint. This… this can’t be happening. It’s like a strange, waking dream where I don’t know why I’m here or what’s going on. First, the strange letter to a castle of all places. Then, the odd introduction to this family that I know nothing about.
Are we related?
Then the reading of this will and the archaic laws of the Family. I don’t understand it at all, but I know for a fact that this isn’t going to happen.
I stare at the man who killed in self-protection last night. Who killed for me. Was this all part of some strange conspiracy?
Why?
How?
I’ll have something to talk about when we’re alone, no question.
I clear my throat. All eyes come to me, including the furious gaze of the man they call Papa.
I don’t like him. He looks as if he’d tear my limbs from my body with his own bare hands and not regret it.
Lovely.
“Ms. DeSanto, you’re free to speak,” the lawyer reminds me gently, as if telling me I don’t have to be given permission.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I begin. “I got a letter from an attorney mailed to my P.O. Box. If I ever met Mr. Montavio, I have no recollection.”
No one responds. I’m not even sure what I want them to say.
I fumble with my words, which is unlike me. In my profession and in my personal life, I’m articulate, even if it takes me a while to think of what to say next, to formulate my words clearly. I don’t jump into things headfirst. I think before I leap. I research and study and look at the big picture before I make a decision, so all of this is completely out of my realm of experience.
“I want to know why I’m here,” I explain, “as much as I’m sure you do. And while the idea of staying here is appealing, because it’s a lovely home, I’ll have to decline the invitation.”
The old man with graying hair narrows his eyes on me. “You may not leave, Vittoria.” He rolls the “r” in my name like we’re in Italy. Like he knows me.
I give him what I hope is a cold smile. “You can’t keep me here, Mister…” My voice trails off. I don’t know his name.
“Rossi.” He says the name as if it should make me recognize him, but I still don’t.
I look quickly about the room and note Marialena’s eyes, wide with fear, as if I’m walking on thin ice defying this man. Next, I look to the man I met last night. His eyes are narrowed. Focused. Cold.
“We’ll discuss this privately, Ms. DeSanto,” he says. He crosses his arms over his chest, making the muscles in his suit coat bunch beneath the expensive fabric.
Oh, we will. Yes, we will.
“Despite the unusual… turn of events,” the lawyer says, tapping the sheath of papers together nervously, “I trust that you’ll sort out whatever details are necessary.” He gives me an apologetic look and hands me a small light blue business card with golden lettering. “Please give my office a call if need be.”
The older Mr. Rossi growls under his breath. I want to slap him. I take the card. “Thank you.”
I turn to them.
“I can’t stay here. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Whatever personal interest in my… well-being... Mr. Montavio may have had, perhaps he’s made a mistake. If I didn’t know him, what’s my purpose here?”
The old man’s eyes snap my way. “You’re lying.”
My cheeks flush hotter. “I’m not. I’ve never met him in my life. What makes you think I have?”
“Because Montavio gave fucking nothing away. Maybe you were his bastard child.”
“Narciso!” The pretty woman with the haunted eyes sitting beside him looks at him in shock. Her voice trails off in rapid Italian, which I don’t speak, but I catch the words impossibile and bambina. Impossible. Child. I’m more likely her daughter than granddaughter.
He lifts a hand to silence her, and she flinches before she clamps her mouth shut, silently fuming.
The older woman also called Tosca, clearly the wife of the deceased, clears her throat. She speaks in broken English, but her meaning is clear enough.
“My husband had no other children but Tosca and Francesca.” She waves her hands at her daughter and makes a scissoring motion with her fingers. The youngest of the brothers laughs out loud, ignoring the furious glare from his father.