Page 61 of Giovanna

Despite the emotional turmoil of the past couple of weeks, I find myself biting my lip and allowing the little warmth in my chest to spread into a wide smile.

I am still furious with her and the rest of her siblings. Especially Massimo. But she listened when I said no one had ever bought me flowers before and maybe I’m just so attention and affection-starved that this is all it takes to chip away at my fury.

Just because. Giovanna Marino thinks about me! I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the flowers and send it to Giovanna:

Me: Thank you. Very sweet x

I remind myself that this is just a brief intermission and that normal programming of righteous anger will resume shortly. There should be no one left in the Marino and Rossi families that I trust. But, it’s hard to be angry at her. Her life has been dictated to and controlled by her father too in many ways.

Plus, all my energy is going into being mad at Massimo. It has been two weeks since I spoke to him. By far the longest we have ever gone without talking.

He has left messages, texts, and emails. He has knocked on the spare bedroom that is currently mine and begged to talk. Giovanna, Matty, and even Elio have tried to intercede on his behalf, but the pressure on my chest, and the lump in my throat, remind me that the hurt he has caused me is still raw.

I tuck my phone away so I’m not tempted to keep sending Giovanna messages, confess feelings I shouldn’t, or beg her to intervene and cancel my wedding.

But I’m still smiling to myself as I do my rounds, tiding away weights and wiping down equipment. I bite my lip thinking about her going online to order me flowers or maybe she called up and ordered over the phone. Either way, she was thinking about me and wanted to make me feel happy.

Distracted by my burgeoning fantasies of a future with my soon-to-be sister-in-law, I don’t notice the three men dressed in jeans and patched leather jackets as they approach me. They’re not talking to each other and their movements are preplanned. Organised.

It’s quiet, mid-afternoon. Too late for the yummy mummies and too early for the after-school and uni crowd. Sammy has disappeared into one of the studios to train a client and looking bored and unamused, our receptionist is on the phone.

I squat down to lift a twenty-eight-kilogram dumbbell that some arsehole has left in the middle of the gym floor. They clearly missed the sign that says‘If you’re big enough to pick it up, you’re big enough to put it away’.

Heaving the weight into the nook of my forearms, I carry it over to the rack and awkwardly manoeuvre the weight trying to line it up so I can slot it into its rightful place. Suddenly, a large hand covered in tattoos reaches from behind me, grabs the weight, picking it up with ease.

Unaware that anyone was behind me, the intrusion gives me a fright and I jump away from the man as he puts the weight back on the rack for me.

“Um thanks,” I mumble and turn to walk away quickly so he won’t have the opportunity to strike up a conversation with me.

“No problem, princess.” Princess, again? What is it with everyone calling me that lately? Is this just his way of coming on to me? Because even if I was interested, calling me that would have turned me off.

The way he said it felt like he was using it as a title though, rather than a term of endearment.

Reluctantly, I lift my gaze to his face, and the smile I find there frightens me. It is lecherous and threatening despite his young, handsome features. I’m all of a sudden very aware of my size disadvantage and regretting my complacency about self-defence not fifteen minutes ago.

I’m only just taking in his large presence and the fact that he is not dressed for the gym when two men in similar patched leather jackets appear on either side of us. My heart rate picks up and I know instinctively that these men know exactly who I am. They aren’t surrounding me by accident.

They know who I am to theFamiglia.

Pushing my shoulders back and I look down my nose at the intimidating trio. “Can I help you, gentlemen? Considering a membership?”

My efforts to play it cool are unlikely to be successful if my pulse doesn’t slow the fuck down ASAP, but I will fake confidence and calm even if I don’t feel it.

“We were just in the neighbourhood and thought we’d come to say hi,” the guy who helped me with the weight says.

He seems to be the leader. He’s bigger and appears slightly older, maybe mid-twenties, and his buddies look to him for direction.

He isn’t Italian, or if he is, whatever other heritage he has is dominating his genes. Dark blonde hair is pulled up roughly into a bun at the back of his head. It looks wind-swept and scruffy, not at all like the hipster man-buns you see behind the bars of every trendy bar.

If I wasn’t so instinctively terrified by the man, his deep blue eyes would be enchanting. The depth of colour in them is almost unreal. His strong, straight nose and square jaw provide a masculine contrast to the beauty of those deep ocean-blue irises.

“Say hi to who?” I furrow my brow and look around.

“You, of course, princess,” the shorter of the three men answers. His hair is long, lank, and greasy and I bite back the urge to snidely recommend him my favourite brand of dry shampoo.

Stepping back, I inject all the steel into my voice I can muster and say, “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t know you.” I turn sharply to get out of there, but I’m sandwiched between the squat racks and the three patched bikers.

“No, we know exactly who you are,Francesca,” the leader is taking pleasure in frightening me. He drags my name out like he’s tasting each syllable and looks me up and down as if I’m next on the menu.

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