Keeping his bride

Verona

W

E’RE ON OUR way to Luca’s father’s house for dinner. I haven’t spoken to Luca since the night when I found out he cheated on me. Or at least I think he cheated on me anyway. He never did come out and admit it, but he was definitely with a girl that night. The evidence of their encounter was clearly written in lipstick on the collar of his shirt.

I’ve been holed up in my room for a couple of days. Thankfully, Dante was bringing me my meals, otherwise I would have probably starved. Not once did Luca come to apologize or check on me. Not that I expected him to. That’s simply not Luca.

Yesterday, I spent the day watching my husband train with his men outside of my bedroom window. He was bruised and cut and covered in blood…and it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Watching him use his fists to fight his way out of situations where one, two or three men were ganging up on him made me hot and bothered to the point where I was practically drooling.

I memorized every detail about his body, and I can’t seem to get the images out of my mind. Luca’s body looks like it was carved out of stone. His shoulders are broad, tapering to a narrow waist, and I swear he has an eightpack and not a six pack. And his tattoos…they look like inky works of art stamped on his arms and hands.

Luca is dangerous…and hot. There is no doubt about that. He can turn me on with a single look. But with just a few words, he can also turn me right back off. It’s like a light switch when it comes to Luca. It’s either off or on; there’s no middle ground. We definitely have a love-hate relationship, with an emphasis more on the hate.

The car ride to his father’s house is full of tension. We both remain completely silent the entire way. I could make an attempt at small talk, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

By the time we reach our destination, I am so overwhelmed with anxiety that I open the door and rush out of the car before Benito can even get out of the driver’s seat. I’m just so desperate for fresh air and to not be in close proximity to my husband a second longer.

Salvatore Vitale is waiting on the front porch of his giant mansion that makes our home seem like an apartment in comparison. As I walk up the steps, I realize how much Luca looks just like his father. They both share the same dark hair and light gray eyes, although Salvatore has a tint of silver in his locks. I’m sure if they were the same age, they could probably pass for twins instead of father and son.

“Welcome, Verona,” his father says, stepping forward, leaning down and kissing both of my cheeks. “You look lovely.” He towers over me just like Luca.

“Thank you, Mr. Vitale.” It took me over an hour to decide on what to wear tonight, but I just went with a little black dress and heels. You can never go wrong with an LBD.

“Please, call me Salvatore,” he suggests. Then, his eyes go to his son, and I can feel that growing friction again,

except it’s not directed at me this time. “Son.”

“Father.”

A shiver runs through me, but it’s not from the chill in the air. I can tell that this father and son relationship is strained, to say the least. I’m not sure why, and I’m sure Luca would never tell me the truth even if I asked.

We walk into the grand foyer, and my eyes take in every amazing detail. This house looks like it belongs in a magazine or on TV. It’s so immaculate and extravagant. It’s hard to believe that a little boy once lived here. I wonder if Luca was ever able to do anything out of line, like leave his toys strewn about, like all little boys do?

Salvatore leads us into the dining room. It reminds me of a grand ballroom instead of a place to simply eat. The three of us sit at one end of a long dining table that could accommodate forty guests. Salvatore sits at the head of the table, of course, and then Luca sits to his father’s right while I sit to his left, straight across from Luca.

Drinks are served promptly, and I opt for wine and water, same as Luca, while Salvatore requests a whiskey on the rocks.

Once the servers have left the room, Salvatore asks

Luca, “So, how do you like the new house?” “It’s fine,” he says in response.

His father grunts. “Well, for the seventeen million I paid for it, I would hope it’s more than just fine,” he says sarcastically as he nurses the dark liquor in a rocks glass.

I didn’t realize Salvatore Vitale bought us the mansion since Luca had never mentioned it. “The house is lovely.

Thank you so much,” I tell him with a forced smile.

“Finally, someone with proper manners,” Salvatore mutters. “And you’re welcome for your wedding present. It was the least I could do. I couldn’t have you staying in Luca’s bachelor pad in Manhattan now, could I? That’s no place for a family.”

I sneak a peek at Luca, who looks extremely uncomfortable. “Honestly, I would have been happy anywhere,” I confess. Luca looks up and meets my eyes, and I can see his eyes narrow in confusion. He thinks I’m playing games with him, but I’m really not. I’m just trying to ease the thick tension in the room somehow.

“Ahh, so you’re easy to please. Luca is a lucky man. That’s so rare to come by anymore. Women are all about material things nowadays,” Salvatore rambles on.

I wonder if he knows from experience and if he’s been sleeping his way through New York and New Jersey ever since his wife died? I have a feeling based on his confession that he has. Maybe Luca has too over the years. But I don’t want to think about the women that came before me.

Salvatore takes a swig of his liquor, finishing off the glass before putting it down. “My very good friend is hosting a party at his home Friday night. I would like for both of you to attend.”

I smile at the invitation. A party sounds like fun and something a real couple would do. “That sounds wonderful,” I say.

Luca shoots me a glare before turning his attention to his father. “I suppose we can go. Send me the details.”

“Of course.”

One of the staff enters the dining room to announce that dinner will be served momentarily. He goes around the table, refilling our glasses with wine before leaving.

“I had the chef prepare filet mignon. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Verona. Perhaps I should have checked with my son beforehand.”

“That sounds great, and no, I’m not a vegetarian.”

Salvatore seems pleased by my answer. “Easy to please. E ts something other than salads. Luca, I think you hit the jackpot with this one.”

Luca stays quiet as he picks up his glass of wine and takes a long swig. When he sets the glass down, he

ominously comments with, “Only time will tell.” “You have time,” Salvatore remarks.

I pick up my own wine glass and take a drink just as Salvatore adds, “But not too much time. I do want grandbabies soon.”

The wine I was beginning to swallow suddenly goes down the wrong pipe, and I begin to choke and cough.

“Are you all right, dear?” his father asks me.

I nod vehemently as I try to collect myself and silence my coughing. The thought of having kids with Luca seems so far off into the distance that I can’t even see the light at the end of that particular tunnel.

Thankfully, the staff chooses that moment to enter the room with our meals, and we don’t have to further that discussion.

“Filet mignon, balsamic roasted Brussel sprouts with bacon,” one of the men says as he sets the plate down in front of me. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. If it tastes as good as it smells and looks, then I’m in for a treat.

The three of us dig in, eating in silence other than the occasional comment from Salvatore about how good the meal is.

When we’re finished and I can’t possibly eat another bite, Salvatore asks me, “How did you like it, Verona?”

“It was delicious.”

This pleases him but seems to piss off Luca. I just can’t win with my husband it seems.

“She doesn’t care for the food at home,” Luca says quickly.

I stare at him. That’s not at all true, but I don’t even h ve time to correct him before Salvatore says, “Well, that’s because you don’t have a professional chef hired. You can’t expect your new bride to eat peanut butter and jelly

sandwiches every day, can you?”

Luca frowns at his father’s words.

“Hire on Greta. She doesn’t have much to do here since I don’t entertain much. And to be honest, I eat out more than I eat here. I’m sure she would be happy to cook for you again, just like when you were younger.” “I’ll consider it,” Luca answers.

Greta is the one that helped me with Luca’s mother’s recipe for spaghetti. Just the thought of how that dinner was ruined puts me in a sour mood all over again, but I try to keep my emotions at bay since we’re in his father’s company. I can dwell on stuff later when I’m alone in my room.

Dessert is brought out next. A slice of tiramisu. I haven’t had this dessert since I was a little girl. And even though I was feeling full, I eat every bite of it. It’s so good, I just can’t bear the thought of any of it going in the trash.

After dessert, we spend some time touring the house. Salvatore gushes about his expensive acquisitions, but what I notice more than anything is how cold and sterile the house feels. There are no family photos anywhere, and there are no signs that a young Luca even lived here.

I don’t know the details behind Luca’s mother’s death. I only know that she died because my father mentioned it to me once when I returned from my great aunt’s house for my grandfather’s funeral. I don’t know exactly how she died or when, but it doesn’t really matter. Luca grew up without his mother; something I can definitely relate to.

I can’t help but wonder what this house was like when his mother was still alive. Did she bring a warmth into this house? Did she give her son the love that he needed and deserved?

I know what it’s like growing up without a mom and h ving a father who thinks you’re a burden. My father never let go of the memory of my mother; however, and that’s evident in how many photos and paintings of her that he has scattered around the house in her honor.

Salvatore Vitale is living in a home that seems to have forgotten his past love and former life. But maybe that’s how he wants it. Maybe the memory of her is too painful for him. Deep down, though, I don’t know if that’s the case. He seems too cold of a man to hold on to sentimental things and something as trivial as memories or family photographs.

“I’m very pleased with how this evening turned out,” Salvatore tells Luca at the front door when he walks us out. “I was going to wait to tell you this until tomorrow, but I’ll tell you now. I’m going to give you a few more territories to run.”

Luca seems pleased by this revelation, but he schools his features almost immediately. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Turning to me, Salvatore takes my hand in his and places a kiss on top. “It was a pleasure finally meeting you,

Verona.”

“Thank you. I feel the same way,” I tell him.

“See you both Friday night at the party,” he says before retreating back inside.

I don’t know what I expected in meeting with Luca’s father, but I think it gave me some insight into why Luca is the way he is, and I’m thankful for that.

Luca leads me down the steps and into the driveway to the awaiting car. I get in first, and Luca closes the door before climbing into the other side of the backseat.

The tension is back again ten-fold, and it feels like Luca is a coiled snake, waiting to strike at any moment. I know that if he wants to fight, then we’ll fight, and I’ll give him all the anger and fury that he wants and deserves.