38
Nicole
Romano brings me roses. Am I supposed to fall head over heels for his effort?
They were obviously bought at the grocery store.
He couldn’t even spare the expense of going to a florist.
I hate roses. They’re the color of blood.
My mother had been given a bouquet of red roses on the day she’d been murdered.
Romano couldn’t have known about the flowers or my mother’s death. At least, I don’t think he had any inclination of the two.
I carry the roses to the kitchen and find a vase under the sink. Cutting the stems, I prick my thumb.
Blood oozes into the sink and I run the tap, shoving my thumb underneath the faucet.
“Damn roses,” I mutter to myself.
If I was superstitious, I’d think it was an omen.
But I’m not.
Well, usually, I’m not.
My stomach bubbles, and I contemplate it’s just my nerves that have me on edge. This is the last place that I want to be, with a stranger having dinner at the orders of my father.
If he wasn’t a mob boss ordering an arranged marriage like a steak at a restaurant, I’d be humiliated. I can find my own date. Hell, if given enough time, I could probably find a husband, too.
Of course, being pregnant doesn’t help matters, but I can handle a baby on my own. How hard can it be?
I finish with the roses and take my time sauntering back into the dining room, where Romano waits. He hasn’t sat down yet, and he looks awkwardly out of place.
He’s pleasant enough, but not really my type. He’s short, a bit stocky, and his hair looks like it was dyed with shoe polish. I bet anything that the color will rub off on the furniture.
“I hope you like the flowers, Nicole. I made a special trip to town to get them for you.”
Was I supposed to be impressed? Because I wasn’t.
I don’t answer Romano. His flowers aren’t worth the compliment.
Why did Papa want me to marry him? Was it for a parcel of land and two oxen? This wasn’t the 1800s. I wasn’t to be paraded around and sold at auction.
Except that was precisely what had happened, and Dante had owned me.
Did he buy me, or was it his operation all along?
“Your father tells me you’ve been through quite an ordeal recently,” Romano says. He gestures for me to sit down at the table and pulls out my chair.
Is this how he normally acts or is it a show he’s putting on because every so often, Papa walks by the dining room. His footsteps are obvious on his approach.
“Yes.” I take a seat at the table. There’s a beautiful pristine white tablecloth with lace trim at the edges adorning the table, but the food hasn’t been brought out yet.
Papa has a full-time chef who prepares all our meals. I anticipate the same for tonight.
“I suppose I’m lucky that your father sold you to Dante instead of his original plan.”