Page 63 of Christmas with the Mafia
Thirty-One
REGINA
Despite my outburst,dinner was a pleasant experience. I mainly chatted with Nico while the rest of the family murmured in low conversation, but it’s as if I cleared the air with my speech because the tension evaporated.
The food was stunning, gourmet even, and rather too much of it for my waistline to cope with.
Nico was an attentive companion, regaling me with tales of life growing up here and when the dessert is all eaten, Giovanni nods toward Sophia.
“There are matters to discuss with our sons. Take Regina on a tour of the property. We will meet for coffee in the small living room.”
Sophia stands and smooths down her powder blue dress.
“Come, Regina, allow me to show you some of the house.”
I can’t get out of my chair quickly enough and with a soft kiss on Nico’s lips—for effect mainly—I head out of the room with Sophia, glad to breathe a little easier.
“You were very brave, my dear.” Sophia smiles, her voice low but warm.
“I guess you’re referencing my speech. It had to be said; the tension was so thick you could have served it with the turkey on Christmas day.”
Sophia laughs. “I like you, Regina. You are like a breath of fresh air blowing the cobwebs away. I can see why Nico fell in love with you.”
“Thank you.”
If anything, I feel bad because deceiving Nico’s father is one thing, but doing the same to his mother leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Come, I’ll show you the music room.”
As we head down the hallway, she points out various paintings by well know artists, and as we reach yet another door, she pushes inside, and my eyes light with pleasure.
As with everything in this mansion, it is dressed in decadence and almost regal. There is a mahogany stage set before a huge window that I’m guessing during the day has a stunning view of the ocean, although the only thing I can see outside is the garden lit with fairy lights and subdued lighting.
Sophia wanders over to the stage where a polished piano has pride of place, and she sits on the stool, running her fingers lovingly over the keys.
“Do you play?”
I take a seat nearby, which has an embroidered cloth similar to the tapestries on the ivory paneled walls.
“I used to be quite good; I even contemplated turning professional.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Giovanni. Marriage. My obligations.”
I note her wistful expression and say gently, “Will you play for me?”
“Of course.”
She appears to take a deep breath and as she begins to play, she closes her eyes, the beautiful music appearing to pass through her as she moves in time with it, her shoulders swaying from side to side, the strong notes haunting and melodramatic, filling the space that once remained silent.
I am transfixed to the spot because she could have been brilliant. She already is to my untrained ear, but even I can tell she is good at this, and for some reason my heart heaves inside me because of what she sacrificed for her family.
It’s obvious Sophia was born to play music, and after she finishes, I clap loudly. “Wow, Sophia, that was amazing.”
She blushes, and her wistful expression causes my heart to physically hurt.
“Do you still play in public?”
