With This Ring (To Have And To Hold Duet 1)

Servants have cleaned more of the house in my absence. More dust cloths removed, almost the whole of the downstairs looking lived-in now.

The house is huge. Well, it’s a compound, a safe place. It should have been, at least, and it will be again now that I’m back. For all intents and purposes, the island is only accessible by sea or air. Guards are stationed in a watchtower. The building itself is six centuries old. A castle for a nobleman whose name I can’t remember.

Another damn thing I can’t remember.

My family purchased the house more than five-hundred years ago when the owner’s family fell out of favor with the ruling party at the time. We’ve managed to hold onto it since, and the Grigori family has lived in it for all that time. Except, of course, for the brief decade after the massacre when it sat empty.

The Grigori family has been running things in southern Europe for all those years. We’ve lined the right pockets, made the right alliances. And we made the rules for all the crime families to obey. Ones they agreed to adhere to.

Well, agreed is a big word. That’s one thing my father did wrong. You can’t coerce true allegiance, I know that. You either have it or you don’t and if you don’t, you cut it out.

But when the new trade deals were negotiated, I was a kid. Barely ten years old. And it did work for seven years until the De La Cruz Cartel and the Rinaldi Mafia Family joined forces, rounded up supporters, and took us down.

“Cristiano,” Lenore, the woman who manages the house and one of the few people left that I trust, says as she comes out of the kitchen.

I appreciate the interruption and smile, relaxing a little. “Lenore, it smells wonderful.” It makes me realize how hungry I am.

Cerberus goes to her to take whatever treat she has for him. He doesn’t like many people so those he does seem to take a liking to, I remember.

“Thank you. It’s good to be back in my kitchen.” Lenore has been with our family since before I was born and is more like a grandmother than staff. While my mom loved baking, she wasn’t always successful, and she couldn’t cook a meal to save her life.

Crap. What a metaphor.

“You took lunch upstairs?”

“Yes, of course. And she ate every bite.”

“Good. I have a request.”

“You do?” I never have requests so she’s surprised.

“My mother’s crème caramel. Can you make it?” Burnt sugar. I want the memory back.

She appears confused momentarily but then nods, her smile a little sad. I know she loved my mom. “I’ll start on it tonight and have it for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

I turn to walk out of the dining room as a woman begins to set the table for one. I stop and turn to Lenore. “Two. Set it for two.”

“Will David eat here?” she asks, her tone always just a little different when she mentions my uncle. I wonder if she realizes it herself.

“No.”

“Your brother?” Her eyebrows crawl up her forehead. Dante rarely spends evenings at the house.

I shake my head.

It takes her a moment as she figures out who I mean to eat with. She nods, and I walk out of the dining room leaving Cerberus to follow her to the kitchen where I’m sure she has more treats waiting. I don’t stop to look at the portrait of my mother before climbing the stairs to my room where Alec is patiently standing guard.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Nothing. All quiet.”

“Good.”

I open the door not sure what to expect. Well, sure of one thing. It won’t be Scarlett on her hands and knees with her face down and ass up. The thought makes me grin.

She’ll make me bend her.

But I don’t have a problem with that.

I ready myself for an attack but then again, I always ready myself for an attack. Like Alec said, though, all is quiet, and I’m surprised to find Scarlett is asleep on the armchair closest to the window, her head leaning against the wing.

I’m quiet as I make my way toward her. She’s wearing my clothes which look ridiculous on her. She has her feet tucked up under her. Her toes peek out from underneath and I see pink polish.

Her hair’s in a braid that’s coming undone, the shade even darker since it’s damp. She has a book on her lap, thumb in the page.

I take it slowly, look at the cover as she stirs with a quiet moan.

She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. There’s a momentary pause when she opens them, confusion about where she is, I guess. After that, she starts with a gasp, pressing her back into the chair and looking up at me with those pale whiskey-colored eyes.

“You read Italian?” I ask, gesturing to the book.