Page 38 of Enzo
We made our way to my new family while I pondered my husband’s strange words.
14
PENELOPE
It was inevitable that I’d recognize most of the Marchetti extended family since our families ran in many of the same circles. I briefly wondered how I’d never crossed paths with Enzo and Amadeo Marchetti prior to our dinner last week, but realized soon enough that it had been by design. A ploy, surely, to keep the peace between our families before we were tied forever.
The fact that I was now a married woman didn’t seem real to me at all. It felt like a punishment for a crime I didn’t commit, and I kept waiting to wake up from it all. Unfortunately, the arm wrapped around my waist and the heat radiating from my husband—despite the December temperatures—made it all too real.
Our family’s Sicilian estate had been dressed up for the occasion, complete with a giant white canvas tent—because nothing says romance like planning for rain—and fire pits that tried their best to warm up what was essentially a cold, joyless merger disguised as a wedding. The flames crackled. The champagne flowed.
So I put on my best Stepford smile and let my husband parade me around the lawn, surrounded by lemon trees and grapevines. He led me around this reception like I was a prized show pony, and I wanted nothing more than to bite him.
Instead, beneath the lace, lies, and suffocating small talk, I was already plotting my next move, ignoring the inconvenient fact that I’d just married a man I wouldn’t hesitate to poison if I knew I’d get away with it.
I was politely greeted by his father. Stepmother. His half-siblings. His uncle and aunt. His cousin.
To be fair, they were all perfectly nice and smiling, complimenting my dress, clinking their glasses like this was some fairy-tale ending. But my cheeks ached from the constant effort of pretending to be gracious. I smiled so hard, I was one polite comment away from lockjaw. They knew this entire thing was a performance, so why pretend with a beautifully staged farce, complete with hors d’oeuvres and blood-stained history? Maybe they didn’t care. Or maybe they were just used to pretending.
Enzo was busy discussing something with his brother and his father when Mrs. Marchetti’s soft voice reached me.
“Enzo tells me you play the cello.”
My brow furrowed. I’d never told him I played any instrument, and I was certain my family wouldn’t have offered the information.
“Just a bit,” I murmured, eyeing my petite mother-in-law. No taller than five-four, she wore a silk scarf around her neck and a long-sleeved satin gown, looking very chic despite being married to the enemy.
“He says you play amazingly.”What the actual fuck?Did I marry a stalker? “I play the violin,” she continued, oblivious to my internal meltdown.
I nodded absently, familiar with Isla Marchetti’s skills. It wasn’t exactly a secret.
“Why the cello?” she asked curiously when I remained quiet.
“My sister’s always loved the rich, mellow sounds it produces. She claims it’s soothing.” My eyes flickered to my youngest sibling, who sat near the roaring fire where the wedding planner had set up some lounges and heavy wool rugs. My brothers were regaling her with a tale that had her giggling, though the strain on her face was clear: it’d been a long, tiring day. “It calmed her when she was little, even when my bow made screeching sounds. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with it.”
I didn’t tell her that it’d become part of my baby sister’s routine following her chemo treatments. Or that I performed with the orchestra because my sister once told me it was her wish to sit in the audience of a show. Or that she’d tried so desperately to learn the instrument but had been too weak to hold it, so I’d spent countless hours sitting at her side, holding it in the rare instances when she had the strength in her bones to play.
Mrs. Marchetti’s eyes flickered to my sister, then back to me, and she nodded in understanding.
“She loves you very much. She’s always watching you.”
As if on cue, my eyes met Amara’s across the lawn and I nodded, my throat stinging with emotion. I couldn’t imagine this world without her.
“She means the world to me.”
She patted my hand gently. “Amadeo and Enzo are close like that, too. Thick as thieves. It’s a special bond.”
Suddenly, a high-pitched meow sounded and Isla Marchetti’s head whipped around. “Is that a cat?”
I shrugged at her odd reaction. “I guess.”
“Oh no, no,” she muttered. “I didn’t know you had cats.”
I paused at her odd behavior. “We don’t. Probably some stray roaming around, looking for scraps. There’re a lot of homeless cats in Sicily.”
“But they won’t come near us, right?”
Huh?
