The Sicilian's Bought Cinderella

‘She could be your sister.’

‘Be sure to tell her that. She might love you as much as she loves her plastic surgeon.’

‘He must be a very expensive plastic surgeon. Her face is amazing.’ Aislin lowered her voice as the couple inched closer to them, their speed hindered by the man’s struggle to walk. ‘And is that your grandfather?’

‘That man, I am guessing, is her latest future ex-husband.’

About to snigger, she noticed Dante’s face had become blank.

The snigger died on her lips.

In all their many conversations, Dante had said little about his mother other than that she’d moved to the Italian mainland when Dante had been small...without her only child.

She slipped her hand into his, suddenly feeling protective of him.

As Immacolata came into clearer vision, walking effortlessly on heels that had to be twice the three inches Aislin had braved, her curiosity intensified.

Probably around the same height as Aislin without the heels, that was the only similarity between the two women. Immacolata was as dark as her son, although Aislin would bet the colouring now came from a bottle. Up close, she looked older than first impressions, but still nowhere near old enough to have an adult child. Elegant and beautiful, her startling blue eyes were bright with mischief.

‘Dante!’ she cried, releasing her partner’s arm to embrace her son and kiss his cheeks.

‘Mother,’ Dante replied returning her greeting coolly. ‘Are you going to introduce us?’

‘Dante, this is Giuseppe, a good friend of Riccardo D’Amore and a very dear friend of mine. His wife has recently departed, rest her soul.’ She made the sign of the cross in a tremendous show of piety. ‘

Giuseppe, this is Dante.’

He didn’t think his mother had acknowledged him as her son since he’d turned eighteen. It would have made people question her own age too closely.

Giuseppe bowed his head and accepted Dante’s dutiful embrace. He was so ancient a gust of wind could have knocked him off his feet.

‘Helping him get over her death, are you?’ he asked his mother in an undertone.

‘I do my best,’ she said with a demureness that would have made him laugh if it had come from anyone but the woman who had carried and given birth to him. ‘He’s almost worth as much as you are, darling.’

‘Where’s Pierre?’ Pierre was husband number five.

‘Pierre’s history.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Bored me.’ She winked at Aislin, who was watching their exchange with a furrowed brow, and then said, ‘Who is this beauty?’

‘This is Aislin,’ he replied, then switched to English. ‘Aislin, this is my mother, Immacolata.’

His mother gave the slightest of winces as he stressed her relationship to him. She didn’t speak English but some words translated into every language.

It gave him a perverse if fleeting dose of satisfaction.

Aislin allowed herself to be enveloped in his mother’s cloud of perfume and said, ‘It’s wonderful to meet you.’

His mother smiled, not understanding a word she’d said. However, she noticed Aislin’s hand and grabbed it, examining the ring on her finger.

Then she turned accusing eyes to Dante. ‘Did you give her this ring?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re getting married? You didn’t tell me.’