Page 16 of Till Death Do Us Part

“That’s surprising,” he tells me, his eyes locking on mine. There’s something odd in his expression that I cannot place as he towers over me. “Your father doesn’t strike me as a paranoid man.”

Shrugging, I push open the door to the kitchen, dropping the pot and mug onto the counter before turning and leaning my back against it. “Only with his children.”

“I suppose I can understand that,” he ponders, resting his elbows on the counter next to me and keeping his eyes on my face. “It can’t have been easy raising four girls alone. Your mom disappeared, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“People talk. It was a big deal around here from what I hear.”

“Of course, they do.” Sighing, I twist my hands together. “I guess, yeah, she disappeared. Just up and left one night, apparently. I was about six months old. But Papá did all right, with the help of Bea, our nanny, and Mrs. White, our tutor.”

“You never went to school?”

Shaking my head, I look at him, my eyes locking on his. He keeps his expression blank, listening intently as I talk. He doesn’t seem surprised by anything I say, but I guess he already knew it all, given the gossip.

“Nope,” I tell him, popping the P, before pushing off the counter. “Paranoid father, remember. Now, didn’t you say something about dinner?”

“I did.” He follows me out the room, his hand on my lower back as he leads me through the hallways until we come to a set of double doors. My skin tingles under his touch, his palm warming me through the material of my jumper. I need to get a hold of myself where this man is concerned.

A single touch and my body acts as though it has been starved of intimacy for years.

He pushes the door open, motioning for me to pass him. There’s a large mahogany table set up for at least eight people. Antonio sits at the head, his head down while he stares at his phone.

“Good evening.” His only response is a small nod, never taking his eyes off his screen. I guess we’re back to ignoring the wife tonight, then. I take the seat next to him while Leonardo drops down beside me. A couple more men rush into the room over the next ten minutes until the table is full, and a handful of dishes are spread across the table.

The men talk over one another, each more eager than the other to regale their tales of the afternoon. I’m only half-listening as I pick at my potatoes and roast chicken. Whoever the chef is has done a wonderful job, and I am assuming it is not any of the men devouring the food laid out before us.

The topic turns to Alexei and his men, and my ears perk up as they discuss the events of the wedding. Before I can stop myself, a question running through my mind since last night slips out, “Why did they let me go so easily?”

The men stop their chatter, all turning to stare at me with confused expressions. I’m not sure if it’s because of the question I asked, or just because I dared to interrupt their conversation. Perhaps this is what my father always talks about when he tells me I should mind when I talk—though it isn’t enough to stop me from continuing.

“They wanted me, right?” I ponder aloud, my eyes moving over each of them. They each hold my gaze, nodding lightly at my question. “Surely it doesn’t make sense that they would have just let me walk out of there.”

Some men murmur, agreeing with my sentiments. Antonio looks thoughtful as he ponders my question, while Leonardo just wears a blank mask on his face.

“It was a warning,” the latter responds, his voice bored as he wears a blank expression on his face. “They wanted to show they could get in. That they could breach our security. But they had no intention of taking you last night.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s simple warfare,” he tells us, his brow raising slightly when he looks at Antonio. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, a silent conversation passing between the two. “I would have done the same thing.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Wakingupaloneina new place is disorientating; I take several long moments to remember where I am, and why I am here. The plain white-gold ring on my finger feels like a dead weight, dragging me into the depths of despair. It has barely been twenty-four hours since I left my home, my family, and my life behind in England—and yet I miss them already.

My eyes roam over the bare room, and I let out a heavy sigh. Perhaps today will be a good day to make this place feel like home. A few tweaks, some fresh bedding and décor, then maybe I can make this my little sanctuary in a world I don’t belong in.

With a fresh resolve, I slide out of bed and make my way into the bathroom. The shower does wonders for my pessimistic mood, clearing the brain fog left over from yesterday.

Dressed in a pair of black ripped jeans and a grey knitted sweater, I make my way down the many stairs towards the kitchen. It is a bustle of energy when I find the room, and I cannot help but smile at the woman bounding around the floor to Lady Gaga with a wooden spoon in her hand.

“Is this a solo dance party,” I call out, laughing as she jumps in fright before spinning on her heels and turning to face me with wide eyes. “Or can anyone join?”

“Fuck. Shit. Sorry, you scared me.” While she takes a second to compose herself, I look her over. Her light blonde hair is fastened in a low bun with a thick black headband to hold the strands from falling into her face. There is not an ounce of make-up on her face, and that makes me feel better about only swiping a little mascara on my eyelashes this morning to make myself look more alive.

Her outfit is simple, consisting of black leggings and a plain black shirt; though, I suppose when wearing an apron that covers most of your body, it doesn’t matter what you wear underneath.

“Mrs. Bianchi, I’m guessing?” she says, her breath back to normal. She twists a knob on the speakers, bringing the volume of her music to a low hush.

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