Page 34 of Vicious Union

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When we arrive in Rome, we head to Rocco’s villa.

“It’s our family’s vacation home,” Emilio says as we get out of the taxi.

I stare up at the vacation home—it’s a mansion, for one thing. Decorated with golden, orange paint, it’s the epitome of Italian luxury. It’s three stories tall, with large windows overlooking a grand courtyard.

“This is a home?” I ask. “It looks more like a museum.”

“My family does tend to have more extravagant tastes.”

“How much did this cost?”

“Talking about money is taboo, Caterina,” he says, walking past me to the front steps.

I can only make a face behind his back before I excitedly run up the stairs and enter the vacation home where I’ll be spending my honeymoon.

The place is gorgeous, from the elegant furniture to the tall ceilings and windows. I could honestly stay in a place like this forever.

But I’d probably get bored eventually. I need to have fun.

I wonder how much fun I’ll have on this honeymoon.

“We should go out to eat,” I tell Emilio.

For once, he doesn’t fight me on the idea, but he makes it clear he gets to pick the place.

I huff. “Fine, whatever.”

He leads me back outside and around the house where a car is parked. A very nice, red sports car.

“I get to drive,” I say, yanking the keys from Emilio’s hand and running to get into the driver’s seat.

“No, you don’t,” he growls, but I’ve already shut the door and buckled myself in. “Caterina, get out.”

“No. Now, come on. We’re going out for dinner. Let’s not waste time arguing over who’s going to drive us there.”

“Do you even know how to drive? You’re a New Yorker.”

I mean, he’s not wrong. I don’t technically have my license, but that shouldn’t matter. “Driving can’t be that hard.”

He looks like he might have an aneurysm. “Out of the two of us, only I have a license.”

“But do you have an Italian one?” I pause and wait for him to respond. He just shakes his head, looking confused. “Didn’t think so. Now, get in.”

Finally, Emilio does as I say. He gets into the car, even though he gives off the energy he’d rather be dead.

I drive us to the restaurant with no problems. Ok, so … maybe there was a little problem. I almost hit a kid passing a street on the way there, but it isn’t my fault. Kids shouldn’t be passing streets on their own. Emilio glares at me, but I ignore him.

Soon, we arrive at the restaurant, unharmed, I might add.

We order decadent food, most of which I can’t even pronounce. Emilio orders in perfect Italian—or what I assume is perfect Italian. I don’t actually speak it myself.

“When did you learn Italian?” I ask.

“My family is Italian. It was customary in our house growing up. You’re Italian, too, you know.”

“I know.”

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