Inherited by Ferranti

‘The wedding is tomorrow, Sierra.’ Violet turned away from her, her hand trembling at the throat of her dressing gown. ‘What can you do? Everything has been arranged—’

‘I know.’ Sierra closed her eyes as regret rushed through her in a scalding wave. ‘I’m afraid I have been very stupid.’ She opened her eyes as she blinked back useless tears and set her jaw. ‘I know there’s nothing I can do. I have to marry him.’ Powerlessness was a familiar feeling. Heavy and leaden, a mantle that had weighed her down for far too long. Yet she’d made her own trap this time. In the end she had no one to blame but herself. She’d agreed to Marco’s proposal.

‘There might be a way.’

Sierra glanced at her mother in surprise; Violet’s face was pale, her eyes glittering with uncharacteristic determination. ‘Mamma...’

‘If you are certain that you cannot go through with it...’

‘Certain?’ Sierra shook her head. ‘I’m not certain of anything. Maybe he is a good man...’ A man who was marrying her for the sake of Rocci Enterprises? A man who worked hand in glove with her father and insisted he knew how to handle her?

‘But,’ Violet said, ‘you do not love him.’

Sierra thought of Marco’s gentle smile, the press of his lips. Then she thought of her mother’s desperate love for her father, despite his cruelty and abuse. She didn’t love Marco Ferranti. She didn’t want to love anyone. ‘No, I don’t love him.’

‘Then you must not marry him, Sierra. God knows a woman can suffer much for the sake of love, but without it...’ She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, and questions burned in Sierra’s chest, threatened to bubble up her throat. How could her mother love her father, after everything he’d done? After everything she and her mother had both endured? And yet Sierra knew she did.

‘What can I do, Mamma?’

Violet drew a ragged breath. ‘Escape. Properly. I would have suggested it earlier, but I thought you loved him. I’ve only wanted your happiness, darling. I hope you can believe that.’

‘I do believe it, Mamma.’ Her mother was a weak woman, battered into defeated submission by life’s hardships and Arturo Rocci’s hand. Yet Sierra had never doubted her mother’s love for her.

Violet pressed her lips together, gave one quick nod. ‘Then you must go, quickly. Tonight.’

‘Tonight...?’

‘Yes.’ Swiftly, her mother went to her bureau and opened a drawer, reached behind the froth of lingerie to an envelope hidden in the back of the drawer. ‘It’s all I have. I’ve been saving it over the years, in case...’

‘But how?’ Numbly, Sierra took the envelope her mother offered her; it was thick with euros.

‘Your father gives me housekeeping money every week,’ Violet said. Spots of colour had appeared high on each delicate cheekbone, and Sierra felt a stab of pity. She knew her mother was ashamed of how tied she was to her husband, how firmly under his thumb. ‘I rarely spend it. And so over the years I’ve managed to save. Not much...a thousand euros maybe, at most. But enough to get you from here.’

Hope and fear blazed within her, each as strong as the other. ‘But where would I go?’ She’d never considered such a thing—a proper escape, unencumbered, independent, truly free. The possibility was intoxicating and yet terrifying; she’d spent her childhood in a villa in the country, her adolescent years at a strict convent school. She had no experience of anything, and she knew it.

‘Take the ferry to the mainland, and then the train to Rome. From there to England.’

‘England...’ The land of her mother’s birth.

‘I have a friend, Mary Bertram,’ Violet whispered. ‘I have not spoken to her in many years, not since...’ Since she’d married Arturo Rocci twenty years ago. Wordlessly, Sierra nodded her understanding. ‘She did not want me to marry,’ Violet said, her voice so low now Sierra strained to hear it, even when she was standing right next to her mother. ‘She didn’t trust him. But she told me if anything happened, her door would always be open.’

‘You know where she lives?’

‘I have her address from twenty years ago. I am afraid that is the best I can do.’

Sierra’s insides shook as she considered what she was about to do. She, who did not venture into Palermo without an escort, a guard. Who never handled money, who had never taken so much as a taxi. How could she do this?

How could she not? This was her only chance. Tomorrow she would marry Marco Ferranti, and if he was a man like her father, as his wife she would have no escape. No hope.