She’d thought she knew her father so well. His moods, his brusqueness, his maddening and stifling overprotectiveness. Now, though, she felt as if she didn’t know him at all.
Obviously she’d heard the rumours about him, but her father had always brushed them off: yes, some of his friends were a little rough. You had to be tough where he’d grown up—that was just how it was. And he wasn’t going to turn his back on his mates. What kind of friend would do that?
‘That’s why people say these things about me. They’re jealous, piccioncina mia. They hate me for dragging myself up out of the gutter so they scrape over my past...invent stories.’
It reminded her of what Vicè had said about people making up what they didn’t know, and the thought that he had this, of all things, in common with her father made her want to leap out of the car while it was still moving.
Finding out that Cesare had behaved so ruthlessly made her feel sick. But finding out that he’d lied to her had been the reason why she’d finally decided to marry Vicè.
Okay, maybe at first she’d wanted revenge. Part of her still did. And she hadn’t been lying when she’d told Vicè that he was the lesser of two evils. Her father would find her a husband, and she shuddered to think who he might choose.
But all her life she had struggled to know herself, and this revelation about her father made her feel she knew herself even less. Marriage to Vicè would at least give her the freedom to think about what she wanted to happen next.
And so this morning they had met with a notary, to complete the necessary paperwork. And now they were on their way to the register office.
Shifting in her seat, she glanced down at her dark blue polka-dot dress. It was the same one she’d worn to Claudia’s wedding. And she hated it.
Not because it was a little boring, and cut for an older, more mature woman. But because it was so tied up with the now crushed romantic dreams of her little sister, and those few hours when Imma had mistakenly, humiliatingly, believed that Vicè was interested in her.
She could have bought another dress, but that would have defeated the object. She needed this reminder of where vanity and self-delusion led. And anyway she wouldn’t have known what to buy. What was the correct dress code for a marriage of convenience?
Her stomach clenched—doubt gripping her again. She could stop this
now. Tell the driver to pull over...tell Vicenzu to get out.
Only then what?
Go back to the life she’d had?
Pretend that none of this had happened or mattered?
Blanking her mind, she sat up straighter. She didn’t know if she could go back to her old life. And where could she go, what could she do, if she didn’t return to it?
She didn’t know that either. And that was why she would go through with this ceremony.
That way, at least she would have time to find the answers to all the questions swirling inside her head.
* * *
Feeling Imma shift beside him, Vicè felt his body tense. She was a good actress. Not for one moment would anyone guess that she was marrying him out of spite.
The solid rectangular shape of his phone pressing against his ribs reminded him of the brief but reassuring message his brother had sent.
Have secured the house. Keep your promise.
He should be pleased—and he was. And yet it would be such a relief if, just for once, his brother messed up. But of course—Ciro being Ciro—he had turned everything around. So now it was just him hurtling towards a broken bridge on a runaway train.
In the street, a group of young men jostled against the car, shoving each other and laughing at some shared joke. They looked so happy. And free.
He bit down on a sudden rush of envy. A week ago that would have been him. Now he was marrying a woman he hated. And she hated him.
But it would be worth it. For in a year the Trapani Olive Oil Company would belong to his family again.
‘We’re here.’
She turned to face him and smiled, and even though he knew it was for show his breath stuck in his throat. She shouldn’t be marrying him like this. Where was her father now? Her bodyguards? Didn’t anyone care that she was doing this?
He thought back to the way her face had changed when he had taken her that first time. The directness of her green gaze had clouded over, transforming her from sexy to vulnerable. And in that moment, he’d forgotten about her father, forgotten about his. There had been nothing but the whisper of pleasure skimming over his skin and the white heat building between them.