Emilia (Part 1)(61)

“You’ll be fine.” He nudged my glass with his knuckle and lifted his glass to his lips. “Ready?”

I poured the syrupy liquid between my lips, holding it in my mouth for a few seconds, and then let it slide down my throat. He followed suit. When the last drop hit my tongue, I placed the shot glass on the table accompanied by a thud. I shimmied my shoulders to ward off the warm, fuzzy sensation. He refilled both of our glasses.

“You first,” I prompted him.

“What do you know about the motivations for our marriage?”

I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Nothing, except that it must somehow benefit your family and mine.”

“You didn’t hear any details when I found you hiding outside of your dad’s office that night?”

“No, nothing but raised voices. Is there something I should know?”

He chugged another shot of Sambuca, his peacock blue gaze skittering to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Is that your question? Because it’s a little subjective.”

“Fine. Then, I’ll ask the same question I’ve been asking since our engagement party, and maybe you’ll give me a real answer.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll do my best.”

“Why do you want to marry me? I’m a complete stranger. You know nothing about me. Not really anyway.”

“I know a lot about you, little Emilia. You have a penchant for black, or at least have since your mom died. You hate seafood. You love Limoncello. You play the piano beautifully. You had two scholarship offers at music conservatories. Your father nixed the first one, and you haven’t done anything about the second. While you think you’re in love with Sal, you don’t know a damn thing about him or you’d quickly disabuse yourself of that notion.”

My brow furrowed. “Like what?”

He chuckled and his full lips curved upward. “I’m not answering that. You can ask Sal yourself. I know he fed you the story about Sarah, but I don’t work that way. I want to win you based on what I do, not what he did. Now drink your next shot.”

I did as he ordered. “The next question is yours.”

“Do you want to play the piano or do you do it because you think your mom would want you to follow in her footsteps? By the way, she wouldn’t care. She’d want you to be happy. That’s it.”

My heart squeezed and I lurched out of the chair, planting my hands on my hips and somehow knocking over my empty shot glass in the process. It rolled off the table, and Marcello caught it before it hit the hardwood floor.

“What do you know about my mom?”

“Answer my question first, then I’ll answer yours.”

“I love playing!” I yelled, my right eyelid twitching. “At one time, I suspected I was playing for her. When my father refused to let me take more lessons, I realized I was wrong. Playing piano is in my blood. I need it to feel whole.”

“Piano, not Sal,” he taunted refilling both of our glasses.

“I’m not talking to you about Sal anymore. Now answer mine. What do you know about my mother?”

He scooted back his chair, the wooden chair creaking when he stretched out his long legs, crossing them at his ankles. “Your mother, Ava, was a very close family friend before she married your father. She even lived with us for six or so months while she was doing performances in the States. She actually met your father at a performance at my house. I was young at the time, only five or six, but I have fond memories of her.”

A thread of sadness crept through me, and my eyes stung with the urge to cry. I wouldn’t, though. I’d shed so many tears over my mom. I remembered her as this larger than life, beautiful, insanely talented woman with a smile that lit up a room. Yet so much about her would always remain a mystery to me. While I wouldn’t describe her as a neglectful parent, she always had a wall around her, blocking anyone from knowing the real her.

“Thinking of my mom makes me sad.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’ll never get the chance to know her.”

“What do you mean? She didn’t die until you were thirteen or so.”

“Honestly, we didn’t spend much time together outside of her teaching me to play the piano.” I swallowed hard. I had no clue why I admitted this. I didn’t want him to pity me or think poorly of my mother. In spite of all that, the confession rolled off my tongue like I had guzzled a truth serum instead of two shots of Sambuca. “She delegated the rest of the stuff—homework, learning to read, doctors’ appointments, teaching me Italian—to my father, a nanny, or tutors. I guess she had more important things to do with her time than hang out with a dumb kid.”