Page 62 of His Vow
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I know I’m a mess, and I don’t need my father’s grimace to drive home the point. I couldn’t care less. Not waiting for the driver to open my door, I jump out of the car as soon as it stops. It’s a short drive from the marina up to my father’s villa on Capri. But the winding road and the oppressiveness of my father’s presence is making my stomach swirl.
Circling the back of the car, I gulp in some fresh air. I don’t want him knowing about the baby, so I swallow the bile clogging my throat before I follow him.
The second I step through the door of the villa I swore I’d never set foot in again, my father stops and turns to block my path.
“Come and see me in my office when you’ve cleaned yourself up.” Then, spinning on the terracotta tiles, he leaves. Not even noticing the glare I’m searing into the back of his head.
“Good to see you too, Papa,” I mutter. His stride falters, and I wonder if he heard me. Again, I’m beyond caring.
“Your mother and brother are on their way from Rome,” he says, not turning, but his tread is slow and heavy as he continues to his office. Every property he owns has a fully equipped office, which I always believed was so he could hide from his family.
I stand statue still, my arms crossed tightly around my waist, watching his retreating back until he turns into his office and the door bangs, echoing along the hall. I flinch.
“Signora Barbieri, would you like me to take your bags to your room?”
“Sì, grazie, Marco.”
He nods, his expression blank except for his brown eyes, which hold more warmth than my own father’s.
Chapter twenty-six
Lucia
Rap, rap, rap.My knuckles feel raw against the heavy door yet make only a small scratching noise. But still, he hears me.
“Entra.” My father’s voice booms through the wood like it was no thicker than a sheet of cardboard. My stomach lurches, and luckily the dry crackers I ate before coming downstairs stay put for now. I turn the handle and enter.
It’s déjà vu. Different office, different house, but otherwise, it all feels the same. The air inside is cooler but no less claustrophobic. My father’s scowl is firmly in place.
“Sit,” he says, and surprisingly, his tone is more measured. I take it as a sign that this conversation may not be as difficult as our last.
Instead of perching on the chair opposite him, I walk to the sofa and take a seat there, leaning back into the cushions. He rises from behind the imposing desk and moves to sit in the large armchair adjacent.
“It’s clear you don’t want to be here in my house. But this is where your husband believes you will be safe, so this is where you’ll stay.”
My jaw clenches at his words. I don’t need reminding of Antonio’s request, but that’s a conversation for another day between him and me. What I don’t appreciate is the implication that my father can control my movements so completely.
“Now you’ve decided to care about my wellbeing? I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you,” I scoff.
“Lucia, I don’t know why you must always be so difficult.” He threads the fingers of his large hands together. There was a time when I longed for his concern, but I gave up hope of thinking I’d get it many years ago. Anger courses red hot through my veins, giving me the strength to retaliate.
“Why do you think I’m being difficult?” I ask, my arms folded across my chest. “Perhaps it’s because you’ve never shown the least amount of regard for how I feel … for most of my life.” I fling my hand in the air for emphasis; after all, I am Italian.
“That isn’t true. I have always done what’s right for you.”
“No, Father, you’ve done what suited you. You’ve never asked me what I wanted. You just demanded I do what you wanted. How do you even know what’s right for me?”
“I know because I’m your father,” he roars, and I jerk back at the onslaught of words. They’re only words, though, and I’m not going to let him intimidate me ever again.
“Well, you don’t get to do that anymore. I have a husband now.” I stop to catch my breath. I’m on a roll, finally telling my father everything I should have said years ago. “Antonio doesn’t try to shut my opinions down; he listens. He doesn’t control me; he lets me make my own decisions, encouraging and celebrating my successes. He loves me unconditionally.” My voice catches on the lump in my throat as I think of Antonio lying injured in the hospital bed.
“Yet your husband forced you to come with me,” he states matter-of-factly. A frown now pulling down his heavy black brows.
“No, you’re wrong. He asked me, and I agreed because it hurt him to think I wasn’t safe.”
“And you came to see your family only because your husband asked you.” He steeples his fingers. “Why do you hate your family and our traditions so much?”
