Page 3 of Pretty Little Princess

“It’s fine,” the Matron says coolly. “I got a taste of young Cassio’ssharp witwhen he was in New York. I must say, his blunt honesty is refreshing, if nothing else.”

“Can I offer you some Montepulciano d’Abruzzo? We import it from Italy. This is an exceptional vintage.”

My father gestures for one of our serving staff to pour wine into the Matron’s glass. Once everyone’s been served, he stands, lifting his glass in a toast.

“To bringing our families together. May Pyotr and Silvia’s union make us strong allies and open doors to future business ventures.”

“Davayte vyp’yem za to,” the Matron says.

“Saluti,” echoes around the table from my family.

And from Pyotr, more quietly, “Za Vstrechu.”

His eyes meet mine as he says it, and though I don’t know what it means, the words make my heart flutter. We clink glasses, and I take a large gulp of wine to help calm my nerves. I swallow the mouthful with effort, willing my face to not show I took too much. Pyotr doesn’t seem to notice.

A moment later, a wave of serving staff pours into the dining room, each carrying salad plates and bread. The tension between our families breaks as the focus turns toward our first course. The Russian bodyguards loom along the back wall of the room, silent and imposing as we eat, their hands clasped before them. Eyes watching closely.

I try to ignore them, smiling across the table at little Clara, who’s seven now and on her best behavior tonight. She places her napkin politely across her lap before glancing up to meet my eyes. A quiet giggle bubbles up from her as I wink.

“So, my mother tells me you go to Rosehill College?” Pyotr asks, glancing my way.

“Yes,” I agree shortly, unsure of what else to say.God, why do I have to be so shy?Heat tracks up my neck just from having his attention on me.

“What do you study?” he presses before taking a bite of his salad.

“Um, art, actually.”

“Really? Are you a painter?” His tone sounds like he’s genuinely intrigued.

I need to do better. He’s clearly trying, and despite my brothers’ lack of approval, this wedding will happen. Pyotr is going to be my husband in three short years, and I don’t know how many opportunities I might have between now and then to get to know him.

Swallowing my nerves on another sip of wine, I steel myself. “I paint some. It’s always good to try different mediums. But I’m more of a sketch artist, actually. What about you? Are you in school?” I cringe. That’s probably a stupid question.

“Yes, I’m studying business management.” Pyotr’s brow quirks minutely. “No one would waste their money on trying to make me an artist.”

“My Auntie Silvia is the best artist,” Clara says across the table, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Is that so?” Pyotr asks, his amusement growing as he turns to look at Nico’s daughter.

Though Anya’s blonde-haired and blue-eyed, a life-sized representation of a porcelain doll, Clara takes after her father. A true Marchetti, she has thick dark locks and hazel eyes, just like me. But her devious smile is what makes her Nico’s. She flashes it now, confident in her assessment of my art and willing to back her statement.

“She’s teaching me to draw,” Clara adds, making my heart swell with pride.

“Well, I hope to see your masterpieces someday,” Pyotr says solemnly, though the twinkle in his eye tells me he finds my niece entertaining. “And perhaps we’ll put together a showcase for your Aunt Silvia’s work in New York. I’m sure everyone will want to see it.”

“Yes, why don’t you just put my sister behind some plexiglass while you’re at it?” Nico sneers across the table. “Then you can display all the treasure you’ll be taking from my family.”

“Nico!” I gasp, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Forgive me,” my father cuts in once again, his face guarded as he meets the Matron’s eye. “It seemsallmy sons lack the class you’ve instilled in yours, Matron.” His tone could cut it’s so sharp as he turns a thunderous gaze on my oldest brother.

“Think nothing of it, Don Lorenzo. I’m sure you’ll haveeducatedthem on proper decorum by the wedding. That will give you ample time,” the Matron says delicately.

Then her expression grows indulgent as she looks at Pyotr. “Besides, my son is rather exceptional when it comes to understanding manners and decorum. It’s a hard standard to live up to. But since his father’s death when Pyotr was so young, he’s had to become a man more quickly than most.”

My brothers bristle visibly at the slight. It’s the subtlest of motions, but from the corner of my eye, I spot Pyotr’s fingers curl tightly around his wine stem. He white-knuckles the glass so hard I think it might break. After a moment, he gives a smile, his grip relaxing as he raises the glass to his lips.

What is that about?

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