Page 57 of Scarlet Angel

Nick’s a well-to-do man in his thirties or early forties who is handsome yet single. Admittedly, he lives in the modern world, far removed from our traditions. But there are still expectations. “What about you? How are you not married?”

This earns a prideful smirk. “First, my parents passed when I was far too young for them to push a union on me. Second, where I’m from, if one locks himself down, it’s for love. At least, the perception of love.”

“Do you not believe in it?”

“I’m not an ogre. I’ve seenBridgerton.”

I’m not really the smiling sort, but he’s beginning to make me do it quite a lot.

“My parents loved each other.” The tentative way he lifts his gaze, he reminds me of a young boy with a shy admission. “But marriage isn’t in my future. I quite like the life I’ve laid out.”

“Roaming a quiet country house with a sister who hates you half the time?”

He chuckles. “She’s twelve years younger. We had nannies, but in many ways, I’m the only parent she’s known. So, I suppose that attitude she shows me… It’s not so different from your feelings toward your mother.”

“It’s different.” It’s absolutely different.

“How?”

“You would never marry her to a known psychopath. Vincent hunted feral cats and killed them as a child. He was cruel and disturbed even as a child.”

“What did your mother get from the marriage?”

“My uncle acquired Vincent’s father’s shipping business on favorable terms. Vincent wasn’t only an enforcer. His laundromat business performed well. And what does my mother get? To live at the Gagliano estate in perpetuity.”

“Wouldn’t she get that, anyway? She’s your aunt’s sister, right?”

“My father was my uncle’s younger brother. Still, one would think Uncle Alessio would look out for her.”

All she told me was that we owe Uncle Alessio and that we need to do what’s best for him. The old proverbialwe.

“What did your father look like?”

He’s cautious, tentative even with the question. He’s not the first to ask.

“I’m adopted. At least, I hope I’m adopted and not stolen.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve searched. I can’t find a record of an adoption.”

Now he understands.

“Have you asked your mother?”

“The first time I asked in a fit of fury. I knew I didn’t look like her, but people would say things like the shape of our eyes were the same or they’d comment on the remarkable recessive genes and so I didn’t really believe I’d been adopted. But, when I shouted it, her expression gave her away. But I’ve been unable to uncover a record of the adoption.”

“Did your mother ever admit it?”

“Years later. She said it was a closed adoption, and she didn’t tell me because she didn’t want others to know. She wanted people to see me as a blood relative, although obviously my aunt and uncle know. It was more… I don’t know what she and my father were thinking.”

“What was your father like?”

“I don’t remember him well. He was a Lupi Grigi. Died for them. That says it all.”

“And then they married you off to a monster.”

“A ‘good’ marriage,” I say, the sarcasm thick on my tongue.

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