Page 8 of Vicious Temptation
And his response to that was to—tell my father he’s taking me out on a date?
It almost makes me laugh. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle it, faking a cough instead and reaching for my water glass.
My father looks at me quizzically, and I can feel his irritation growing by the second. It makes me like this man a little more, actually—I can tell that his high-handedness in demanding that he be allowed to take me out, something no one else has ever done, has pissed my father off.
Masseo D’Amelio doesn’t like being told what to do. Even Salvatore framed his request for the engagement between Pyotr and me as a favor my father would do for him. A favor that would be well-rewarded. He must have known my father would buck against it, otherwise.
“I told you, I don’t want another marriage. Or an engagement, or to have someone trying to court me.” I knot my hands together in my lap, trying not to remember the man holding me in place. The firmness of his grip. Trying not to think about Pyotr, or my wedding day. The taste of copper in my mouth, or the feeling of too-strong fingers digging into my skin. Panic starts to crawl up and down my spine, and I force the memories down.
My father lets out a long sigh, one that I know very well. It means he’s at the end of his patience with me. “Just be ready at seven tomorrow, Bella,” he says flatly. “And hear the man out. You might like his offer.”
The way he says it makes me curious. Truthfully, the entire situation makes me curious. Mafia daughters don’t date. They meet prospective matches at charity galas and dinner parties, at arranged meetings between parents, or they don’t meet them at all, and simply show up for the wedding on the decided-upon day. The fact that this man got my father to agree to this at all is interesting enough to make me reconsider how I feel about it.
He seems different from other men I’ve met. His request—or demand, it sounds like—for a date with me makes it seem like he wants to try to woo me himself, instead of just having my father set the marriage up. And it makes me feel like he respects me enough to at least want my opinion on it. To want to try to make me like him, to make me a part of the decision.
I’m still going to tell him no. I don’t want to marry anyone, and I have every intention of trying to put it off as long as possible. But this delays my father’s plans to make me sign a betrothal contract with Tommas Ferrero a little longer, at least. And if this man is willing to at least make an effort to take my feelings into account, I can at least let him down in person, over dinner.
The feeling of panic twists in my stomach again, thinking about being alone with him, about going out to dinner, going on a date with a man I don’t know for the first time. I can do this, I tell myself. I can at least do this, and stand up for myself and what I want. I can sit across from this man, and tell him politely that I appreciate him thinking of me, but that I meant it when I said I didn’t want to get married to anyone.
I swallow hard, picking up my spoon again. “Alright,” I say quietly, and I see my father relax a little, now that I’ve given in. “I’ll be ready at seven tomorrow.”
4
GABRIEL
Even after I leave Masseo’s home, it’s difficult for me to get Bella out of my thoughts. Something about her tugged at my heart in a way that nothing has in a long time. I’ve never been the kind of man who thinks of myself as a white knight, a savior for damsels in distress, who enjoys the idea of playing a hero. But I can’t recall ever seeing anyone as distraught as she was. The sound of that hiccuping sob she made when she was still leaning against me, before she jumped away like I’d hurt her, has stuck with me since I heard it.
Pity. That’s the emotion I zero in on, and the one that I tell myself I’m feeling. I feel badly for her, because, as far as I’m concerned, the old way of arranging marriages is outdated. In my opinion, Masseo should just leave her be until she wants to get married—if she ever wants to at all.
In the high-ranking families, the dons and underbosses, it’s more reasonable, even if it’s still, in my opinion, an archaic practice. Those families need to make alliances with others for power, leveraging daughters for agreements to have each others’ backs and share in business profits. They need heirs to ensure that these empires carry on after those dons and underbosses and consiglieres are dead and buried.
But Masseo and his family aren’t anywhere near that. He has the D’Amelio name, but he’s a distant cousin of the don, not someone who needs to preserve his future by marrying off his daughter to whoever has the highest bid. The idea of it is repulsive. And it’s clear that his interest is financial—he changed his tune quickly enough about allowing her to come work for me when I made it clear that there was money on the table.
His greed has made him someone willing to take risks in business, and someone who ensures his assets are well-protected. He’s been a good business associate. But after today, I find him utterly distasteful on a personal level. I hope, for Bella’s sake, that she accepts my offer tomorrow night.
It will either give her some time to come to terms with her father’s demands—or she’ll like the job so much that she’ll want to stay on permanently. In that case, we’ll figure out what that means when the time comes, but I can’t help hoping that will be what she ends up wanting to do. It would be good for my children. Good for the family.
And after the last four years, we need something good in our lives.
I turn onto the long, gravel driveway that leads up to my house, set back from the road by a good bit and fringed with a stand of tall trees. It’s a stately three-story brick Georgian—not a mansion, but beautiful, with a bit of history and comfortable enough to raise a family in. My wife fell in love with it shortly after we were married, and I was happy to buy a home that wasn’t ostentatious. I like luxury cars, and I appreciate a well-fitted suit and a gourmet meal, but I don’t like to show off my wealth in the way that others do.
Parking the car, I toss the keys onto the dash, knowing Aldo will come around eventually and park it. Aldo runs the grounds, managing the gardening and maintenance staff that come and go, and his wife, Agnes, manages the house for me. She and Aldo have been living in a cottage on the grounds for as long as I’ve lived here, a small two-bedroom home that’s set back a good distance from the main house. Over the past four years, she’s stood in for the children’s mother as much as she can, helping me with everything under the sun when I’m not home. But she’s getting older, and I know help would be appreciated. There are two other housekeeping staff who come by every week, but Agnes is territorial over the house, and prefers to do things herself as much as possible.
The moment I walk inside and shut the door, I hear the sound of two pairs of small feet running headlong towards me. There’s the shriek of “Daddy! Daddy, you’re home!” and then a small nine-year-old boy is flinging himself headlong into me, his eleven-year-old sister close behind.
“Hey there, Danny.” I squeeze him tight, briefly picking him up off the floor before releasing my son and leaning down to give my daughter a hug. Cecelia is quieter than her brother, more reserved in every aspect, including affection. She’s been that way since her mother passed, and I find myself thinking of Bella, hoping once again that she’ll accept my offer. Someone else around the house, someone besides Agnes who spends time with her day in and day out, would be good for Cecelia, I think. It might help bring her out of her shell.
“Agnes is in the kitchen,” Cecelia informs me gravely as I unbutton my cuffs and roll my sleeves up, following her and Danny as she leads us in that direction. “She’s making pot roast for dinner.”
“Is that so? I hope you’ve been helping her.”
Cecelia nods. “She let me chop the carrots and the onions. And she let Danny season the meat.” She wrinkles her nose. “I hope he did a good job.”
“I bet he did. Besides, I’m sure Agnes was keeping an eye on you both the whole time. She would have helped if you needed it.”
I can smell the cooking dinner before we even reach the kitchen. Danny hops up onto one of the kitchen table chairs as soon as we walk in, but Cecelia heads towards where Agnes is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She glances up as we walk in, a smile wreathing her weathered face as she sees us. “Gabriel. Il mio regazzo. How was your day?”
“It was fine. How was all of yours? I hear you’ve been teaching them to cook.”