Page 23 of Gilded Saint

“Leandro. Father’s worried he’d… Massimo blessed our union, right? Father wouldn’t go against the capo.” That would be unheard of. Orlando said Father would never…

“I was told Massimo is aware.” He sighs and tips the water bottle back and, after swallowing, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. In a tux, he’s breathtakingly handsome, but add in his aloof demeanor, and he’s intriguing. “I believe the concern is Leandro feels slighted. I’ve heard nothing specifically to that effect, but I’m reading between the lines.”

That thought is unsettling. Wouldn’t Leandro obey the capo, like we all do? If Massimo blessed the union, it should be a done deal.

“Don’t worry. Leandro De Luca might be pathological, but he’s not suicidal. Nick’s cautious. If Leandro planned on tracking us, Nick thwarted his plan by switching cars. There won’t be time for him to find you in Rome, and he won’t come after you in London. Such a move would be suicide.”

“Why wouldn’t it be suicide in Rome?”

“Because…” His gaze travels to the passing scenery. “It’s his territory. Who knows? His logic doesn’t matter. Word is Leandro De Luca suffers from extreme rage, but he’ll burn it off long before he finds you. Give it a day or two, and he’ll accept that you’re my wife.”

One corner of his lips rises in a half-smile, and he winks. I feel that wink all over, from my itchy shoulders down to my cramped, sore toes.

He opens a black bag and removes a silver laptop. With the push of a button on the side rest, a desk slowly rises and extends in front of his lap. He puts on a pair of black-framed glasses that shave years. Wearing them, he could be mistaken for a graduate student or professor. An extremely handsome, polished, intelligent man.

He quickly becomes engrossed in whatever he’s reading, so I study him. His hair is a deep brown, and sprinkles of gray dapple his crown. Thick brown eyebrows, shades darker than milk chocolate, curve over deep-set brown eyes. A well-defined jawline tapers to a full chin. While a tux hides all manner of sins, I’ve seen him in only a dress shirt, and he’s fit, with broad shoulders. Judging from how he manhandled Leandro and Papa, he’s strong and capable.

I relax into the seat. Why would this handsome man agree to help me? And is Papa afraid of Leandro? Is that the real reason we held a swift, secretive ceremony? Was that why he was willing to marry me to Leandro in the first place, because Papa was intimidated by Leandro? Did Papa place himself and my family in danger by marrying me off to someone other than Leandro? How badly have I overestimated Papa’s position within the Lupi Grigi?

There are so many questions, and I want to ask Leo, but he’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading. And given how he’s treating me, he’s probably like my father and the other men in that he doesn’t believe the women need to know the details. And what right do I have to ask anything of him? He’s helping me, and he’s getting nothing in return.

He lifts his gaze from the screen. He must feel me watching him. That’s never a good feeling. So I shift, giving him privacy, and zone out, letting the passing landscape blur into a haze of muted, calming colors.

“Willow, we’re here.”

The car door clicks open, and a uniformed man wearing white gloves steps back, holding the door for me.

Familiar marble columns below a series of flags greet me. Yes, I know this place. The black awnings with the striking font and the statement title Le Grand Hotel perch high above. It’s The St. Regis. My mother brought me here for afternoon tea more than once. It’s never been a hotel Papa favored, but it’s beautiful, and I’ve often wondered what the suites and the infamous butler service would be like.

I rub my face, settling into my situation and smile up at the patient porter. I must’ve fallen asleep. A car door slams. The desk is put away, the black bag is missing, and the champagne and food remain untouched.

Leo appears at the side of the car, offering his hand. “Ready?”

I take it, and as he helps me out of the back of the vehicle, a couple standing to the side smile.

Of course they do. I’m in a wedding dress.

The woman says, “Sei bellissima.”

Once we’re in front of the grand entrance, Leo releases my hand and leads the way into the lobby. I speed walk, struggling to keep up in my heels and cumbersome dress.

We should’ve changed before taking this drive, but I didn’t know where we were going. No one bothered to share the plans with me. I doubt anyone shared our plans with Mamma, or she would have purchased a travel suit for me to change into.

I focus on the detached tuxedo-wearing man at my side, far too aware that my dress has attracted the attention of every single person in the lobby. It’s a wedding dress in Rome, and all the visitors are thinking of love.

Or maybe they’re wondering why the groom isn’t doting on his wife. They might envision an argument occurred.

They might observe our age difference and cast judgment. Perhaps they assume I married for money and deserve to be left behind. Could others tell with one glance at us that two decades separate us? I’m not certain. The make-up artist Mamma hired created a mature, elegant persona. I’m guessing most would assume I’m in my late twenties, and passing by so quickly, Leo appears to be in his thirties at most.

In the elevator, the porter accompanying us says, “Did you come straight here from your reception?”

“Straight here from?—”

“Milan,” Leo interrupts.

I let Leo carry the rest of the conversation. He lied about where we came from, because he doesn’t want people to talk. Word might spread about a bride from Atrani who rode hours in a limousine in her dress.

“You’re staying in the Bottega Veneta suite. It’s my favorite suite.” The uniformed employee beams, pride oozing, as if this is his personal space and he’s allowed us entry into his private haven. “May I give you a tour?”

---