Page 11 of The Casella King

“This way, Miss Alterio.”

Henry opens the small gate for me, as I make my way to the shiny Porsche with Ezra leaning beside it. He looks phenomenal as always, dark pants and a black button-up, the sleeves rolled up his forearms, showcasing his ink, and a few buttons undone, revealing his olive-toned skin and hard chest. He holds out his hand, waiting for me to accept. Slowly I slide my hand into his as he opens the passenger door for me. Slipping in as gracefullyas possible, I gather the bottom of my dress to ensure it doesn’t get caught in the door as he closes it, walking around the front of the car. There is a small glimmer of something shiny that catches my eye as he walks over to the driver’s side. He wears a large ring on a chain around his neck that looks too bulky for that to be its rightful place. He slips in beside me and starts the car, the engine roaring to life beneath us.

“Henry’s not coming?” I look to the back, but there are only two seats, mine and Ezra’s.

“He’ll follow in a separate car.” He grabs my hand, electricity coursing through my skin up to my head, making me dizzy. Slowly, he presses his lips on my knuckles. “You look sensational.” His husky voice fills my ears, making them burn, the heat travelling from my cheeks to his gaze on my chest.

Oh god, please help me get through this without making a stupid mistake.

I struggle to pick my jaw up off the floor as we walk hand in hand down the dock towards a gorgeous white yacht,Fedelepainted in red on the back. He holds my hand as I climb the stairs, gathering my balance in my stiletto heels. Tilting my head up, I take in the beautiful twinkly lights of the upstairs decks, the gold trim railings glimmering in the night. Goose bumps begin rising on my skin as his arm slides around my lower back, guiding me through the yacht.

“This way.” His husky voice emanates through the air, so close to me. Henry follows us from a distance as I’m led to the table covered with linen with two chairs tucked under it.

“So, this is a datedate?” I ask as he pulls my chair out, waiting for me to take a seat.

“This is an ‘I’m sorry I ripped your dress’ dinner.” He smiles, and it takes everything in me not to smile back. I couldn’t care less that he ripped the dress, but I can’t help but feel good being shown this much interest, even though there’s a different agenda to it. I take a seat, as does he, watching me as I reach for the water jug in the middle of the table.

His hand stops me.

He snaps his fingers, and a man emerges from inside the yacht, wearing a white apron and a chef’s hat, beside him is a younger-looking man, dressed in what seems like a waiter’s uniform. He hurries to the table and begins pouring water into both our glasses.

“Mr Casella.” The chef nods to Ezra. “Tonight we havefiori di zucchinafor the starter,Fettuccine al Pomodorofor the main, andcannoli alla ricottafor dessert.” Ezra nods as the chef walks back into what I assume houses a kitchen, and the young waiter steps back, giving us some space. I understood only one thing from what the chef said, and that was fettuccine. I know that’s pasta, and pasta is great in my books.

“When you’re with me, you don’t lift a finger, understand, sweetheart?” he says, his voice stern.

“I’m perfectly capable of pouring myself a drink, though. Is it really necessary?” I look to the waiter, and his eyes haven’t moved from staring straight ahead. I feel the engine roar to life under me as we slowly begin floating out into the river.

“If you are to be my wife, yes.” He smirks.

His wife.

Never once had anyone called me that before, and it feels nice, wholesome, but I have a nagging feeling that he doesn’t mean it this way at all. His tone veils possessiveness, and although that should have frightened me, it doesn’t. Deep down, I have yearned for someone to want me, want me enough to be possessive over me, to want me for themselves, enough todestroy anything and anyone who would stand in our way, and I thought I had it with my ex. I gave him all of me, but all that ever got me was a broken heart. A year later, the trauma he caused is still there, resting on the surface, constantly waiting to sabotage my life.

“Well, I agreed to be your fake fiancée first. I haven’t decided if I will be accepting the marriage offer just yet.”

I take a sip of my water and wait for his response when I hear my phone buzz in my clutch. Taking it out, I look at the screen, and reality comes busting through thick iron doors. I silence the call and turn my phone off, an irritable feeling now swirling in my head and in my stomach.

“Sorry, that was my father.” I look down at my hands as I rub them on top of my thighs. When I look up, he’s studying me.

“Does he hit you?” His question floors me, his face as hard as stone, his jaw pulsing as he clenches his teeth together.

“What?! No! It’s not like that, he’s just…” I pause, trying to search my brain for the right word, but really, there is only one word that describes him perfectly. “A drunk.”

“Has heeverhit you?” His jaw seems to relax a little, his eyes boring into mine.

“Not me.” I look away because it shames me to say it even though it shouldn’t, because it wasn’t me who was hitting her. “My mother.”

He nods slowly as he stares at his plate, and I have no idea what’s going through his mind right now, which frustrates me. I don’t understand why he would ask such a question without knowing anything about me.

“What?” I ask.

“You shouldn’t be living with him.” He looks to me again, the embers in his eyes flaming brighter than before.

“I can’t leave my sister with him. She has a newborn and is struggling with her husband going back to work,” I confess.

“Is that why you’re hesitating to accept my offer?” A light twinkles in his eyes. “Because if that’s the case, consider it taken care of.”

Before I can protest, he waves Henry over and whispers something in his ear. Henry nods and walks away, dialling a number on his phone.

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