Page 53 of Promise Maker

He scoffs harshly and looks out the window. “Thatmeans nothing to me right now.”

His biting tone and words hurt to the core.

I hate this cold side of him.

Even worse, he spares me no more attention on thedrive back to his home.

When Rodrigo stops in the courtyard, Domenicotells him not to kill the engine, and they wait for me to exit.

Alump formsin my throatas the car speeds back through the gates.

Damn.

My stomach dips at the thought that I may haveexpanded the shield between us already set in place by my dad.

15

I should have told him how I felt at thewarehouse. I shouldn’t have pushed to accompany him to Catania. But I’mgenuinely concerned about the impact killing has on his mind.

Wanting to explain my actions, I wait in thesitting room since it’s the best way to catch Domenico when he enters the maindoor.

Hours pass, and still, he doesn’t show.

I peer up at the antique clock on the wall,realizingit’sway past midnight.

Giving up, I straighten from the chair and walkout of the sitting room.

The sound of the door breaks my steps.

I pivot, my heart sprinting with anticipation.

But it’s not Domenico that enters.

Francesca is a vixen. Mini cocktail dress, pumps,long hair in a neat ponytail. Even her makeup screams fierce—crimson red lips,copper eyeshadow, and matching blush.

Glimpsing me, she stalls after shutting the door.“What are you doing?”

“Um, I was waiting for Domenico,” I admit. “He’supset with me.”

She offers a partial smile and nods over hershoulder. “Come.”

I follow her down a passage to her bedroom. It’slarge, chic, with soft blue walls and a patterned floor like mine.

Undoing her ponytail, she struts into her massivewalk-in closet to change.

I wander around the bedroom, admiring thepaintings, a shelf with old-fashioned dolls, and antique jewelry boxes on thechest of drawers.

“How are you doing, Solari?” Francesca asks,exiting the closet in her robe. She lowers to the side of the bed, using a facewipe to remove her makeup. “Honestly.”

“Hm.” I settle on the comfy bench at the dresser.“I guess I’m hanging in there. I never thought I’d lose my dad at this age. Ididn’t tell him I loved him often. Now I wonder if he knew how much.”

“I’m sure he did,” she says softly. “My father andI clash at times. But in our family, we show our love in loyalty.” She pauseswith the towelette and looks across to the jewelry boxes before moseying over.Opening the one at the front, she plucks out a photo and shows it to me.

There’s a gorgeous teen girl with wavy,shoulder-length dark hair and piercing hazel eyes standing next to a youngerFrancesca. Both are like models, posing on a boardwalk with the ocean behindthem.

“Who’s that?” I ask, looking up.

Francesca’s eyes turn glossy. She collects thephoto, returning it to the jewelry box. “Remember when I told you I understoodhow it felt to lose someone you loved?”

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