Emilia (Part 1)(65)

“What’s this?” I grabbed his wrist and pointed at his scraped knuckles.

One corner of his mouth hitched up. “Sal and I had a…discussion the other night. Didn’t he tell you?”

My eyes widened. Somehow over the last forty-eight hours, I forgot all about their fight. “What the hell did you do?”

“I made it clear I didn’t want him sniffing around my girl anymore.”

“Your girl? Are you serious? When did I become your property?”

“You’ve been my property since the day you were born, and tonight we made it official.”

I pointed to the door. “Get out. I can’t talk to you right now. You’re a lunatic.”

Marcello palmed the back of my neck, pulled me in close, and kissed my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He scooped up my engagement ring from a glass dish on my nightstand. “And make sure you wear this from now on.”

I flopped back onto my back when the door closed behind him, giving the tears beading my lashes permission to fall.





CHAPTER





THIRTY-SIX





I woke up two hours later naked and alone in my bed with rain pelting against the house. A burst of lightning illuminated my room and thunder rattled my windows. I inched up my headboard, drawing attention to the dull ache between my legs.

My inhalations and exhalations blurred together as the events of the night clawed through at brain. Shots of Sambuca. Kissing Marcello. Peeling off our clothes. Begging him for more. Losing my virginity. His sudden coldness. The declaration that I was nothing more than property. His property.

My whole body tensed, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

Please be a dream. Please don’t be real.

I peeled open my eyes, hoping to wake up to a new reality. I didn’t. With a trembling hand, I cupped my mouth, struggling to contain the sobs inching up my throat.

I couldn’t come to terms with what happened or how I threw away my dreams for him in a moment of weakness. After months of exchanging notes and a week of spending time together, I realized I’d made him into a monster for selfish reasons. Painting him in a bad light justified my decision to flee. None of that explained why I practically begged him to touch me, though.

And Madone…Sal. My throat clogged mid-swallow, and I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets to block out the image of his smiling face and trusting hazel eyes. What the hell would I tell him? Merely thinking about him with the evidence of my behavior all over me made my throat convulse. I scrambled to my feet, afraid I’d lose the meager contents of my stomach on my sheets. I paced, tugging at the roots of my hair, my thoughts a jumbled blur, and the only solution I came up with was finding Sal.

Maybe if I confessed everything, he would forgive me. We made promises. He was my friend, my confidant. The conflicting emotions I felt around Marcello had to stem from the stress of my situation. I was confused. That was it. Nothing more. It couldn’t be anything else. I wouldn’t let it be, especially knowing he’d tricked me.

No matter how charming, sexy, or alluring Marcello was, I refused to be my father’s puppet, which meant I needed to do something right now or I could kiss my hopes of shaping my future goodbye. I’d be on a plane for Chicago tomorrow and married shortly after that.

With urgency, I rushed to my closet. Within ten minutes, I was dressed in my getaway outfit, tied the rope ladder to the radiator, and flung it out the window, ignoring the steady rainfall and booming thunder.

I had one leg out the window when I changed my mind and ran back to my desk. I slipped on the bracelet Marcello gave me and jammed the letters from him into my duffel bag. Guilt eating at me, I jotted down a few sentences on a piece of paper.



Marcello,

I’m sorry. I can’t marry you when everything is based on a lie.

Emilia



I stuffed the pathetic excuse for an apology into an envelope along with my beautiful engagement ring and wrote Marcello’s name across the front. If Sal forgave me, I wouldn’t come back here after tonight, and I owed Marcello an explanation.





CHAPTER





THIRTY-SEVEN





Wind whipped the fake blonde wig around my face, rain beading on the tips of my eyelashes. With every step in the short journey from the cab to my father’s bar, my breaths shortened.

I stood outside the employee entrance with clammy hands and enough uncertainty to make me want to crawl back to my house and raise the white flag of surrender. I steeled my spine and shoved the spare key into the lock. I needed to talk to Sal, and this was the only other place he might be on a Friday night.

My gaze averted and my black trench coat knotted tightly around my waist, I made my way down the hall to the main room of the bar. I’d never been here at night, and the sight in front of me made me uncomfortable in my skin. As stupid as it sounded, I didn’t expect it to feel or look like this during business hours even though I’d overheard countless details during my spying sessions.