Emilia (Part 1)(53)
Sal linked his hands behind his neck and lifted his face to the ceiling. “No, you’re right. Sorry I pushed this. The last thing I want is to hurt you or make you uncomfortable.”
Still clinging to the blanket, I scooted to the edge of the bed, threw my legs over the side, and wrapped one arm around him. “Thanks for understanding. I know I’m probably giving you whiplash with all my back and forth.”
“Shh.” His knuckles trailed down my neck. “It’s okay. I don’t care if it happens tonight or six months from now. I love you and—”
My heart sped up erratically, and I met his heavy stare. “You love me?”
He chuckled. “Of course I do. What do you think all this is about? I wouldn’t risk my life and my family’s life if I didn’t love you.”
“Will something happen to your family if we go through with this?”
“They’ll be okay. My brother’s going to college next year, and my mom has a job now. I’m not worried about them.”
I frowned. “You promise?”
He cupped the side of my face and kissed the tip of my nose. “I’ll miss them, sure, but I’d miss you more if I didn’t go with you. You’re my future.”
“You’re mine too,” I replied, ruthlessly suppressing the memory of the man who uttered those exact words so many years ago. Sal loved me. I loved him, and that was all I needed to make a new life. A perfect life with the one person who loved me enough to give up everything. My mom would have approved.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Marcello extended his visit so he could celebrate my birthday with me in less than a week. My father vetoed all of my carefully crafted objections to this change of plans. Apparently, Marcello wanted to get to know me better. I didn’t give a shit either way except that it gave me less time to prepare my getaway and finalize plans with Sal.
“Dinner was great,” Marcello said to my father. “Thanks for inviting me, Dominick.”
“No problem. Emilia and I like having company for dinner. It’s only been the two of us for so long.”
I checked the urge to roll my eyes, knowing the childish gesture wouldn’t win any points with my father. If he wanted to sit here acting like a happy family that was his prerogative. In reality, he barely bothered to join me for dinner on most nights, and when he did, it usually involved takeout or a meal prepared by Bianca, our sometimes housekeeper slash cook. The only thing the past dinners with my father and tonight had in common was strained silence.
Tonight, Bianca made a seafood brodetto with grilled bread. Neither my dad nor I were big fans of seafood, but evidently Marcello requested it. So here we sat, picking at our bowl of five or six kinds of fish drenched in basil heavy tomato sauce. Luckily, Bianca had added plenty of red pepper and garlic to mask the fishy smell, and I succeeded in gagging down enough bites to stave off my hunger until I got to my room where I could munch on the snacks hidden in my desk drawer.
Marcello pointed his spoon at me. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s okay. I’m not that hungry.” For this or the company, I wordlessly added.
For three nights, Marcello had rattled off question after question like a job interview, and I did my best to answer without revealing my distaste for this whole charade, the best description for what was happening. I acted as if I had every intention of going through with this arranged marriage, and he pretended he didn’t have his mistress tucked away in his hotel room or wherever he was staying.
“Emilia eats like a bird,” my dad interjected.
God, I hated when he brought up my eating habits or my size. It made me sound like some neurotic head case. I ate plenty, and as for being small, so was my mom. Except for my coloring and hair, I didn’t get much of anything from him. On occasion, I wished I had inherited some of his height, but more often, I was thankful I didn’t resemble him physically. Since my mom died, I hated him more than I liked him, so it’d suck if I saw him every time I glanced in a mirror.
I placed my spoon beside my plate. “May I be excused?”
My father tossed his napkin on the table. “Not tonight, sweetheart. I have some business to take care of so I asked Marcello to stick around until I get back.”
“That’s not necessary. Sal can—”
“Sal’s busy. He can’t sit around babysitting you anymore.”
I glared at Marcello from under my lashes; his stoic face revealed nothing. What did he say to my father about Sal?
“Marcello, I’m sure you have stuff you want to do,” I said. “I’ll be fine here by myself, and I won’t be very good company. I’m probably going to watch T.V. for an hour, then go to bed.”