Before my mother and father were estranged, I knew enough to witness their loveless marriage. I knew what marriage meant to them, to my aunts, and to my uncles. I’m an only child, so I knew from an early age what was expected of me.
And now it’s my turn.
“Shh, baby.” I startle at the sound of Tavi’s voice. My cheeks flush, and my heart does a strange little leap. But when I look to him, he’s only crooning at the baby. I turn away quickly so he doesn’t see my reddened cheeks.
I thought for a moment he was talking to me, but I should’ve known better. He wouldn’t use that gentle voice, and he definitely, definitely, wouldn’t use a term of endearment. Seems the only soft spot in his whole damn heart belongs to his niece and nephew.
I have to remind myself who Tavi is, because it almost softened me to see him holding his godson. But he scowls every time he looks at me, those dark blue eyes of his narrowed and angry. His muscles tense. While the others laugh freely, and some are even jovial, Tavi never cracks a smile. But when he holds his godson… when he holds that precious little baby to his chest, his eyes begin to soften a little, and I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe—
No. Love isn’t for us. This man imprisoned me. He’s taking me as his bride out of a sense of duty. No more, no less. I turn my back to him, searching the crowd for Angelina, since she’s been swallowed up in the cousins and aunts and uncles that have just met her for the first time.
From an outsider’s perspective, it looks like the most close-knit family you could imagine. Gorgeous, stunning women dressed in designer clothes embrace Angelina and kiss both her cheeks, the Italian custom. Angelina glows beside Orlando, her face flushed pink. I know the real truth, though. I know who these people are. They’re no better than the family I grew up with myself.
Ruthless. Selfish. And the men that lead this family? Monsters.
I hold my head high and walk to the edge of the small garden that surrounds the church. It’s late April in the north of Boston, a bit cloudy but otherwise warm. A scattering of green buds raising their bold little faces upward border the little garden with statues of saints and the Virgin Mary. Someone’s gardened recently, welcoming the advent of spring.
“April showers bring May flowers,” I whisper to myself as I reach a paved pathway that leads to a bench. It’s rained steadily for days. Today’s the first dry day we’ve had in ages.
I sit on the bench, and my wrist begins to heat.
Goddammit.
I’ve strayed too far from His Fucking Highness, and this medieval contraption he’s configured for my wrist has begun to warn me. I reach for the clasp, even though I know it won’t yield to me. It’s locked, and he has the key.
Some twisted, lonely women might find that hot. Like he’s possessive of me? Yeah, no. I find it controlling and manipulative.
Something inside me seems to snap. I hate that I’m his prisoner. I hate that he thinks he owns me. He hasn’t even married me yet, and he already acts like he’s my husband.
I begin to claw at the bracelet, my fingers digging into the skin around it until it’s red and swollen. “You fucking thing,” I mutter, close to tears. “Fuck you.” The warmth increases, as if it can hear me, just as the bracelet seems to suddenly loosen.
I watch in astonishment as the clasp falls open, and the bracelet falls down my hand to my lap. I gasp, and my eyes quickly scan the crowd to find Tavi.
He’d punish me for this, I know he would.
I fold my hand and hide the bracelet on my lap when I see him, then quickly slide it, unlocked, back on my wrist. He stares at me, still holding the baby, but he’s a good distance away from me at this point. I smile at him and wriggle my fingers. He blinks in surprise. It takes me a minute to realize why. I’ve definitely never been friendly to him before.
“Hey, there, beautiful.”
I look up, startled, to see Ottavio’s youngest sister Marialena heading my way. She smiles broadly, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth, and her gorgeous hazel eyes light up. With her light brown hair that hangs almost to her waist, those large eyes framed with thick, exotic lashes, and her slender figure, the woman could seriously model. All the Rossis could, really. And she’s calling me beautiful?
“Oh, hey. You should consider modeling.”
Eh, why pull punches.
She smiles even broader. “Me? But my face isn’t all symmetrical. Don’t you need a perfectly symmetrical face to model?”
“Looks good to me, but I guess you could model your hands or something.”