The party itself was more casual than I’d first expected. Cristian was always in a suit, always drinking expensive wine, and the home we lived in was all about grandeur. The clothes in my closet, chosen by him, were glamourous. Sexy.
I hadn’t envisioned what the engagement party would look like, but I never would’ve predicted a barbeque.
Granted, a barbeque with staff handing out intricate looking drinks and all of the food on silver platters, but a barbeque nonetheless. The large garden area was cluttered with people.
I recognized a few from when Cristian took Lorenzo’s hand. No Lorenzo, though. I wondered where he was. Alive somewhere, brewing on how to get revenge on Cristian and me, most likely.
Sofia waved at me from across the garden, a knowing smile on her face. Vincentius nodded to both of us.
But Cristian did not move us in their direction. Instead, he went toward a group of well dressed, attractive, unfamiliar people set apart from the rest of the group.
The Bianchi family.
An older man wearing a white linen suit, his hair completely white, long to his shoulders. He was handsome, tall, lean with large glasses on his angular face. His sons were scattered around him, all much bulkier and equally handsome. A woman was speaking in hushed tones to what looked to be the oldest, my guess based on his size and the general air about him. He looked much like his father but with chocolate brown hair, his face plumper and covered with dark stubble. And he looked pissed off.
I guessed he was the one getting married against his will. It satisfied me that the male was not happy about the situation either.
The older man turned to us as we approached. His eyes went south for less than a second before they flickered to Cristian and settled firmly on my face.
He was afraid.
Of Cristian.
A man substantially younger than him. But I didn’t know the specifics of the Bianchi family. How their numbers and power compared to that of the Catalanos.
“Edoardo,” Cristian said as we stopped in front of the man.
The group at large had noticed our approach and were working hard to make sure they weren’t staring. But I felt the younger men’s gazes on me, not as respectful or smart as their father’s.
Cristian’s hand flexed at my waist. “Meet my bride, Sienna.”
Edoardo did not extend his hand. Maybe news of what happened to Lorenzo had spread. Maybe people were afraid to touch me even in greeting. I liked that.
“I understand why you’ve taken so long to take a wife, Cristian.” Edoardo smiled warmly at me. The light in his eyes seemed genuine, but who was to know?
“It’s nice to meet you too, Edoardo,” I replied, a convincingly warm smile on my own face.
He narrowed his eyes at us before he burst out laughing. “Oh, Cristian, I feel you may have met your match.”
Cristian was staring at me. “I am well aware of that,” was his response, no smile on his face.
Things were not warm between the two of them, it seemed.
“Speaking of marriage…” I decided part of my job was to guide conversation between two men more used to trying to kill each other than engage in small talk. “Your son does not look overjoyed at his own union,” I commented.
Cristian squeezed my hip again. I wasn’t sure if it was in warning or because I was amusing him.
Edoardo’s gaze flickered to where the son in question was standing apart from the rest of his family, glowering at his fiancée. I was impressed to see she was glowering back.
His jaw tightened, and his eyes turned stormy for a moment. The air turned thick, and I got a taste of how dangerous this man could be.
But only a taste.
He turned to me once more. “A union that starts with hatred or anger stands better chances at survival than one burdened by the pretext of love.”
I stared at him, feeling the sincerity of his words. “I think I like you, Edoardo Bianchi,” I grinned at him.
He looked to Cristian then back to me. “The sentiment is returned, Sienna Romano.”
I held my glass up. “To a long and peaceful partnership.”
He held up his. “And to a marriage fueled by hatred.”
I clinked my glass to his, smiling but wondering how long my marriage would be fueled by hatred. Whether it was possible for it to be doomed by something as frivolous as love.
I had assumed the party would be catered by the flurry of suited waiters and waitresses running around the garden. What I did not expect was for Cristian to murmur a goodbye in my ear, kiss my neck, walk over to the grill and start grilling.
I knew he could cook, I experienced it every night. Him serving me. I loved that. In so many ways, he expected me to default to a traditional role, but behind closed doors, he gave me other things.