Page 100 of Of Murder and Matrimony

“I’m going to head in and shower before dinner.”

“I’ll walk you back to the house,” Diego offered as I slipped my feet back into my sandals. He put the furniture back where it belonged, and we took our time walking through the garden.

“Any word from your friend?” I asked because I was nosy, and Diego’s sort-of love life was probably the most interesting thing about the weekend.

His secretive smile told me more than his words. “I think we’re going to meet next month. Maybe head to the forest after all the summer tourists are gone.”

“Sounds like fun.” Living in Oak Ridge, I’d come to appreciate nature’s beauty. Chicago was all grey and glass, the Neretti estate an oasis from the city. I didn’t know how my brothers could stand living in their penthouse, surrounded by lifeless, high-rise buildings. I needed to touch grass when necessary and see birds other than pigeons.

We reached the patio, and I held my fist out, grinning when Diego bumped it with his before heading to the guardhouse for the night.

I shivered when I entered the air-conditioned house and ran upstairs to shower, then dressed for dinner in tan linen pants and a white blouse. It was casual and comfortable; with Dante away, I didn’t have to impress anybody.

Martina greeted me outside the kitchen when I came downstairs for dinner, wringing her hands nervously. “Dinner is in the formal dining room tonight.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me, Martina.” I reached out and squeezed her hands. “I’m fine eating in the kitchen with you while Dante is away.”

“Mr. Neretti insisted on the dining room,” she explained apologetically.

“Dante wanted me to eat at that big table by myself?” He could be controlling at times.

“Not your husband,” Martina replied. “And not alone. You’ll be dining with the Don this evening.”

“Oh,” I choked out, the blood draining from my face. She didn’t notice as she flitted back to the kitchen. I suddenly wished Diego was still in the house.

As I walked in, Ettore stood by the window, whiskey in hand. He seemed to sense me, though I tried to keep my footsteps silent.

Turning, he smiled triumphantly. “Ah, Olesya. Thank you for joining me.”

I couldn’t open my mouth, or I would let it slip that I felt forced into it and make him angry.

My silence didn’t bother him. “Please, let’s sit.”

Ettore strode to the table, beating me there and holding the chair out for me. I sat, and his fingers brushed my bare shoulders before pushing me to the table. Martina entered with plates filled with sliced grilled chicken, salad, and pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil as he sat.

Thanking her, I placed my napkin on my lap. I wanted to be hungry and enjoy the meal she’d worked hard on, but my stomach was already turning with being a couple of feet away from Ettore.

He had no such qualms, cutting into his chicken and eating heartily. When he noticed I wasn’t doing the same, his fork fell to his plate with a clatter. “Eat, Olesya.”

“I’m not very hungry,” I explained, pushing my food around my plate.

“You can’t eat like a bird,” he said disapprovingly, pointing his knife at my plate. “At least eat the chicken.”

I could have confused him for a concerned father for a moment, but he quickly dispelled that belief when his eyes hardened. “I said, eat.”

I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork and shoved it into my mouth, chewing it longer than necessary for any bite of food in history. Ettore watched me the whole time, lifting his brows every time I set my fork down for over thirty seconds. There was no escaping his intense gaze as I ate and tried to keep the food down. Maybe he’d leave me alone if I vomited on his fancy black pinstripe suit.

“How was your day?” He asked like he hadn’t nearly raped me in the shower last week.

I kept my head down, pretending to have difficulty getting a baby tomato on the end of my fork. “Fine.”

“My men tell me you worked in the clinic.” I couldn’t tell what his game was, acting interested in my life.

“I do that most days,” I answered, keeping the answer short.

He reached for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass, then sipped. “Do you find that kind of work fulfilling?”

“Of course.” I finished the last of my wine and wiped my mouth, hoping he’d take the hint that dinner was over for me. “I didn’t spend nearly a decade in school to become a physician, only to let it go to waste.”

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