Page 23 of Pretty Little Princess

“And my daughter, Silvia, will do her duty and marry him as soon as they graduate.” Don Lorenzo places his hand over his heart as if in deep contrition.

“I can’t tell you what it means to hear you say that,” my mother says solemnly.

“Now that we’ve cleared the air, let’s eat,” Lorenzo states, waving his hand toward the woman who had poured our wine.

Within moments, another grand production of waitstaff files into the room, each carrying a plate laden with food. This time, we’re served a mouth-watering veal parmesan. My mother and Don Lorenzo fall into casual conversation, just as they did the first time we ate dinner here.

I, on the other hand, remain relatively silent. The look of utter devastation on Silvia’s pale face has my stomach knotting in guilt. Rather than savoring the delicious meal, I force bites into my mouth, chew mechanically, and swallow with purpose.

I should feel victorious. We’ve won considerable ground with my mother’s manipulative maneuver, and suddenly, my position at Rosehill and in Chicago feels far less vulnerable. But I can’t seem to enjoy it.

At the end of the night, the Marchettis walk us to the door. The three brothers hang back like they did the first time. And Silvia gives me a polite, albeit far less enthusiastic, kiss good night that still manages to remind me of the warmth of her soft body pressed against mine.

Then my mother and I depart, descending their front steps and climbing into our luxury SUV so her driver can drop me off at my apartment before taking her to the private airfield, where our jet will take her home.

“You did well tonight, Pyotr,” my mother compliments as the tires crunch over the gravel drive. “I’m sure the Marchettis will think long and hard before doing anything to strain our alliance again. And Don Lorenzo was properly furious at his sons.”

I nod absently, looking out the window at the city sliding by.

Clawlike nails dig into my chin, forcing me to look at my mother. “This is a window you need to take advantage of,” she states firmly, her eyes boring into mine. “Silvia Marchetti won’t go crying to her father again, not after her attempts have backfired so severely. So you need to break her in. Soon. Make her understand that your demands are law, that you get to use her how you want. I want her pliable for our next move, so do what it takes to get her under your thumb.”

How is it that every time I feel like I can come up for air, my mother wants to push me back under?But I know there’s no point in arguing with her. We’re in this far. I need to see it through. I’ll do whatever it takes to make Silvia mine because that’s what will keep our family alive.

But I cringe at the thought of making her cry again. The Marchetti Princess seems so delicate, so… breakable. Like she’s actually been locked away in some tower, far from the ugliness of the world, for all these years. And she awakens a guilt in me I thought I’d killed off long ago.

9

SILVIA

Adrenaline courses through my veins as my Art Appreciation teacher wraps up her lecture for the morning. Glancing several rows in front of me, I study Pyotr’s broad back. He didn’t even bother looking at me today when he entered our one class in common.

While I’m grateful to be out from under his cruel scrutiny, it frustrates me at the same time. Because from the looks of it, I’m the one who will have to extend an olive branch after the turn of events at our family dinner. Even though he’s the one who violated me.

My cheek smarts at the memory of my father’s backhanded slap after the Matron and Pyotr left our house this weekend. He delivered it as soon as his office door closed behind me. I can still hear my father’s icy tone, his words ringing in my ears.

“I’m tired of your pouting. You’ve manipulated your brothers long enough, riling them up and encouraging them to speak out against my decision to accept the match with the Veles boy,” he said.

I bit my tongue, knowing anything I said at that point would only intensify my punishment.

“I want you to make amends,” Father commanded. “Play nice with Pyotr Veles. Apologize. Show him you’ll make a good wife.Behave.”

“But h–”

“No! No arguments, you ungrateful little brat,” he snarled, raising his hand as if to strike me a second time. “Just see that it’s done. I don’t want to hear about any more conflict between you two. Is that understood?”

Now, I swallow my pride, quickly collecting my notebook and pencil and sliding them into my bag. Then I toss it over my shoulder as Pyotr rises from his chair. Again, he pretends as if I’m not here, striding toward the door with that same casual confidence that gives him such an intimidating presence.

I walk quickly to catch up to him and only succeed when we’re nearly halfway down the hall to the building’s exit.

“Pyotr!” I call to get his attention when I’m close enough.

He stops, glancing over his shoulder, and his striking gray eyes find mine. They disarm me as much today as the first time I saw them. My steps falter as my nerve suddenly fails.

But when he recognizes me, Pyotr turns to face me. His expression is carefully guarded, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “What do you want?” he asks, his tone less than welcoming.

I take the last few steps, stopping mere feet in front of him. “I, uh, I wanted to apologize,” I start. Though what I’m supposed to be sorry for, I don’t really know. I already apologized for what my brothers did to him–though I had no control over their actions. I didn’t even know their intentions. And I’ve done nothing but try to be nice to him.

I shove the resentful thoughts aside, forcing myself to focus on what my father expects of me.Play nice,I repeat to myself. I glance self-consciously at the students passing by us, who seem unnecessarily interested in our conversation. Probably waiting to see if we’ll cause another scene like last week.

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