A Dark Sicilian Secret

Jillian flushed. “That she’ll be angry.”

“Undoubtedly.” He shrugged philosophically. “But I am an adult, a man and the head of my family. I do not answer to my mother, and nor should you fear her. As long as you play your part of the doting wife, she’ll eventually be happy.”

The words doting wife echoed loudly in her head. Jillian’s throat sealed closed. What else would she be? After all, she was the eldest daughter of a famous Detroit mobster. Why shouldn’t she be married to the head of the Sicilian mob?

And then she pictured her sister, followed by an explosion of color. Her sister’s blue, blue eyes. The red-and-gold flames of the car burning. The black-and-white ink of the newspaper article covering twenty-one-year-old Katie Smith’s death.

At least her sister died quickly.

At least she hadn’t seen it coming.

“Surely there are other options we could explore,” she said after a moment. “Roles that would require less acting?

?roles that would be less of a stretch.”

“And what role would that be? My son’s nanny? My mistress? My what, Jill Smith? Just what role would you now choose to play in life?”

“Joe’s mother.”

“And you may. Provided you’re married to Joe’s father.”

She cringed at the way he said Joe. He meant for her to cringe, too.

“My family has a disreputable history, a history you’ve thrown in my face. But my father has worked hard to change the past, and I’ve continued his fight. We’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have Joseph inherit scorn or scandal. No one is to know he was born out of wedlock,” Vittorio continued quietly. “He is not to grow up marked by shame.”

They were still climbing but Vittorio downed what was left of his champagne and ignoring the seat belt sign, rose.

“The ceremony will take place in the next half hour, before the baby wakes,” he said, looking down at her. “Find something appropriate in your suitcase for the ceremony, something elegant and festive. Something that could pass for celebratory. I don’t expect you to wear white, but silver, gold or cream would be nice. After all, we’ll want good memories to help us remember our special day.”

CHAPTER FOUR

JILLIAN fumed in her cabin as she confronted her open suitcase. Silver, gold or cream? Something celebratory for their ceremony?

Ha! He was out of his mind. His power had clearly gone to his head. There was no way she was going to dress up in a sparkly party dress for their vows. Because this wasn’t a special occasion and she wasn’t celebrating.

He was the one insisting on the wedding. He was the one forcing her hand.

Fine. Force her. But she wouldn’t meet him dressed up like a shiny doll without a mind of her own.

No, she’d dress for the occasion her way. Which meant she’d find the plainest, drabbest, darkest dress she owned and wear that for their vows. A dull, dowdy black outfit should convey quite nicely how she felt about their nuptials.

Jillian allowed herself the faintest of smiles as she dragged a high-necked black blouse and a long gray skirt from the bottom of her suitcase. Perfect. Gray and black. Perfect colors for mourning.

Thirty minutes later, Vittorio stood in the center of the jet’s living room holding Jill’s hands as he recited his vows. His chief pilot, the jet’s captain, performed the simple service.

Jill, he noted, had dressed as if she was attending a funeral, replacing her gray knit top with a severe high-collared black blouse and the black pants with a long, narrow, charcoal-gray skirt.

She wore the blouse buttoned high on her neck and her pale hair had been pulled back into a low knot at the back of her head. She wore no jewelry or makeup and couldn’t have looked more miserable if she’d tried.

But she did go through with the ceremony, speaking her vows in a clear, almost defiant voice, and holding her hand steady so he could slip the ring onto her fourth finger.

And now his captain concluded the service, pronouncing them man and wife.

The captain didn’t linger. With his mission accomplished, he returned to the cockpit, leaving Vitt and Jill to celebrate together.

The flight attendant appeared with more champagne, and a silver platter of delicate appetizers. Vittorio ate and drank, but Jill touched nothing. It didn’t particularly trouble him. This wasn’t a love marriage—it was about duty, commitment and responsibility, as well as restoring honor to his family.

“Jill d’Severano,” he said, trying it out as he studied her pallor and her brown eyes that looked far too big for her small face. “Mrs. Vittorio d’Severano.”