“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.” Only after I hung up did I remember he said my father had canceled my birthday party.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marcello asked.
I looked up from my lasagna. The cheese had morphed into a congealed mess over the last thirty minutes. With my stomach twisted into knots, I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. Sal had ignored all of my texts and calls for the last two days, and he hadn’t stopped by to see me. My relationship with Sal was crumbling, and I had no one to blame except myself.
Over the last week, Marcello had systematically kissed me into idiocy, and I lost touch with why I wanted to skip out on this life minute-by-minute. Everything about him—his touch, his smiles, his voice—felt right and wrong at the same time.
“Huh?”
He gestured to my plate. “You haven’t taken more than a bite. Your father said this was your favorite. I could’ve ordered something else.”
“It is her favorite,” my dad interjected. I hated how he hovered over us, watching and commenting on every interaction like he had nothing better to do.
I laid my fork diagonally across my plate, the ringing sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous dining room. “Sorry. It’s just…well, I was thinking about my birthday tomorrow.”
My father leaned back, folding his arms across his chest and his red and black checked tie bent sideways. “What about it?”
“I talked to Sal a couple of days ago.” From the corner of my eye, I caught the frosty look Marcello directed at my dad. “He thought you canceled my party. Did you disinvite him?”
“No.”
“Then why did he say you had?”
“Because I canceled the party entirely.”
My puzzled gaze met my father’s. “Why?”
He took a deep sip of his ruby red wine and shifted in his seat. “I wanted to get through dinner and dessert before we discussed this.”
“Discussed what?”
Marcello dropped his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor and putting me on edge. “Emilia,” he finally said, “I have decided it would be best if you left with me tomorrow night.”
Dread inched up my throat. “Tomorrow? I can’t leave with you tomorrow,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “I have things to do. I’m not ready. I’m not even packed. How can you expect me to leave my home of nearly nineteen years with less than twenty-four hours’ notice?”
“It’s settled. I already bought you a plane ticket. You will be staying with my sister until we get married.”
“No.” I jumped out of my chair, and it tumbled backward. “Did you hear anything I said? I haven’t packed. I haven’t said goodbye to my friends and family and—”
Marcello arched an eyebrow. “Sal?”
Swallowing hard, I glanced at the floor. “Sal doesn’t have anything to do with this. This is about us.”
A harsh sound tore from his lips, and he clenched his teeth together, his expression stony. “This is the way it has to be. It’s best if you make a clean break from your life here. You can come back and visit in a year or two when you have settled into your new life.”
Pain ricocheted through my chest like a pinball. Bending forward, I clutched the edge of the dining room table. “I don’t want to leave. Does that count for nothing? Does what I want matter at all? Why are you two so intent or ruining my life?”
“Emilia, don’t embarrass yourself or me.” My father got up and circled the table, pausing in front of me. “You’re out of options, and this is what’s best for our family. I wish things were different, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“This isn’t the eighteenth century. You don’t get to force me to marry someone. I am my own person, not a piece on a chessboard to move as you see fit.”
My father sighed, his chest heaving outward. He looked weary with the dark circles under his eyes and his pinched mouth. “Marcello’s promised to take care of you, and he’ll be able to give you more freedom than you have here. He’s arranged for you to resume your piano lessons under a famous pianist, Martha Giles. You’ve probably heard of her. She’s fantastic, almost as good as your mother. You can start performing again. You’ll have a nice life there. You’ll see.” He forced a smile.
The corners of my eyes burned. “Why are you doing this to me, Dad? What did I do to make you hate me so much?”
“Don’t look at this as a punishment. Look at it as an opportunity. You can start over in Chicago without the shadow of your mother’s death or the Trassato name hanging over your head. Marcello will take care of you.”