Page 18 of Of Murder and Matrimony

“Ten years.”

That meant he’d probably started after I’d left Chicago. I wouldn’t have encountered him before. “Man of few words, I see.”

He grunted in response and led me into the kitchen, where Martina worked at the stove. She looked the same, yet different. Time had greyed her hair and added weight around her middle, but her smile was still welcoming. Her uniform hadn’t changed. She wore a simple black dress, a white apron, and sensible shoes. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her hair down, either. Today she wore it pulled back in a braided bun.

And the aroma. Tomatoes, spices, sausage. The air was filled with familiar Italian scents, bringing along with them a sense of nostalgia. As a child, I’d spent many an afternoon learning to make pasta and pastries with the Neretti women.

“Olesya!” She rushed over to me, throwing her arms around me in a tight hug that brought tears to my eyes. It was like coming home. She clasped my cheeks between her palms and kissed each side before holding me back and looking at me. “It’s been so long, and you’re all grown up now!”

I managed a watery smile. “It’s good to see you again, Martina.”

“If only Antonella could see you now.” She dabbed her eyes with the bottom corner of her apron. “She’d be so proud. A doctor!”

“I was sorry to hear she’d passed.” I tried to keep my voice even. At one time, Antonella had been a second mother to me. Time dulled those memories, but my heart still ached at the loss. I didn’t think I had the same right to grieve as those closest to her.

Martina patted me on the shoulder. “Yes. Well. You must be hungry.”

“I am,” I agreed. It looked like we’d be shoving anything serious to the side, which was fine by me.

“I made frittata.” She bustled about the kitchen, using a towel to pull a skillet from the oven.

I leaned over the creation as she sliced a generous portion and put it on a plate. “It smells amazing, Martina.”

“Do you remember how to make it?” she asked, handing me the plate.

I sat at the table in the nook, smaller than their formal dining table, and immediately dug in, groaning when the flavors touched my tongue. My stomach growled in response, demanding I fill it quickly. “I definitely can’t make it like this.”

“We have plenty of time to work on that,” she said with a smile.

The food felt heavy in my stomach at the reminder that I would never leave the Neretti family again. But that wasn’t Martina’s fault. She was just as trapped as I was and had been for decades longer.

Breakfast was an informal affair; given that it was nearly nine in the morning, I was the only one eating in the kitchen. When I finished, Stefano escorted me back to my room, where I waited to be summoned. Martina brought me a salad for lunch but didn’t stay to chat.

Stefano returned shortly after to lead me to Dante’s office. He sat behind his desk, imposing in his trademark black suit, eyes roaming down my body.

He nodded his approval. “You look nice today, Olesya.”

“Thank you,” I said stiffly.

“Coletta came to town to help you with the wedding preparations.” Dante waved his hand behind me, and I felt awful for not noticing his sister.

“Olesya,” she greeted me with a small smile. “It’s been a long time.”

There was so much in what was unspoken. Shortly after I left Chicago, Coletta was married to a capo from New York. She was still a beauty, with long wavy blonde hair and blue eyes rumored to come from the Calabrian side of the family. Petite and curvy, she looked nothing like her parents or siblings. She wore royal blue slacks that showed off her trim ankles and a black sleeveless blouse as modest as mine. Unlike me, she wore open-toed stiletto heels the same shade as her pants. In a word, she was impeccable.

“It has. Good to see you again.”

We didn’t embrace or giggle like the schoolgirls we’d been when we were tentative friends. Too many years and too many life experiences stood between us and the past. If you took a moment to look closely, Coletta’s eyes didn’t dance with the humor of youth. They were dull, much like I suspected mine would be, given enough time. Dante seemed satisfied with our reunion.

“Coletta will help you find a dress for our engagement dinner tonight,” he explained. “To the store and back. No speaking to anybody aside from the staff. My men will accompany you.”

“Could I call my brothers?” I asked, figuring it couldn’t hurt. They would undoubtedly notice Ivan missing soon enough, and they might figure out where I’d been living and attempt to contact me. Though I’d survived without contact for a decade, I didn’t want them to worry.

“No.”

I planted my hands on my hips. “Really? It’s a phone call, Dante. I’m not moving back in with them.”

That made him mad. His hand balled into a fist, though his expression remained stoic. “I will not give them even a hint of an opportunity to stop this marriage from moving forward. You may speak to them after we sign the marriage certificate, but even then, it will be on my terms.”

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