Page 69 of Gilded Saint

In her eyes, I had a choice. That’s laughable.

“I’m happier than I could have hoped.” I’m telling her the truth, and it’s an unexpected realization.

“That’s good, then. That makes it all worthwhile.”

Odd.

“Ludovica, who are you talking to?” The man’s voice is familiar.

“My daughter.”

“Mamma, who is that?”

“Security detail.” There’s frustration in her tone. “You have your security with you, yes?”

“I do. Leo insists.” Of course, I won’t allow John to be in the room with me while I work. I need to be alone when I paint. Leo rented the room next to mine for John. There are small cameras installed in the corners, and I’m fairly certain John sits behind his computer in his office, watching me from right next door. It’s something I try not to think about.

“That’s good. How many does he employ?”

“I spend my days in an art studio. There’s one bodyguard with me at all times, and that is more than sufficient.”

She sighs.

“That’s all Papa ever hired for me.” I don’t know why I’m defensive. John has probably never been more bored in all his life. Pretty much all I do is walk between my studio and the flat. “He asked me to use a burner phone when I call Scarlet, in case someone would track it.”

“That’s wise.”

“Is something going on? Is everything okay back home?”

“We’re fine,bella. Do what your husband says. Be a good wife. He’ll keep you safe. Remember, it’s important to listen. The men deal with things we don’t always understand, and we need to trust in them.”

“Mamma, what’s going on?”

“I love you,bella. Stay safe.”

The call ends, and I stare at the blank screen. I’d call Orlando to check that all is okay at home, but he’s in school.

Vicissitude. Variations in circumstances or fortune.

I pick up the burner phone I carried down in my bag and dial Scarlet. She lives in the same house as my parents, and she listens. She rarely speaks to my parents, but she always listens.

“Ciao!” Her excited greeting has me smiling. The rain outside is heavier now, and droplets stream down the glass in rivulets.

“Ciao, bella,” I reply.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” She reverts to English as readily as Orlando and I.

“I got a call from Mamma. Is everything okay there?”

“What did she say?”

Scarlet’s question roils my sixth sense. “What’s going on?”

“Rumors. There are always rumors. What did Aunt Ludovica say to you?”

“She sounded sad. Wanted to know if I’m happy. She mentioned vicissitudes.” I struggle to remember. “We didn’t talk for long, but she sounded off. Wanted me to obey my husband. Her security interrupted us, but she wanted to make sure I had security. Are we at war again?”

When I was much younger, we were at war with the Cosa Nostra family. Hushed conversations not meant for children’s ears would begin, and we’d be sent outside or to the playroom.

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