Page 50 of Single Malt Drama
Nicolina
I couldn’t move.
After screwing up and speaking during the call with Mr. Marchionni, I assumed my father would learn my location. Oddly, I hadn’t expected him to call. Papá was more of a send someone to kidnap me in the middle of the night kind of guy.
The color had drained from Marco’s face, but he somehow managed to keep his voice steady. “Nico is busy. How can I help you?”
I couldn’t make out my father’s exact words, but Marco’s frown deepened.
“Yes, she is married.” He met my gaze.
My heart thundered and fireflies danced in my peripheral vision. I shook my head and held up my hands. Please stop talking. Hang up. Please, just hang up.
Marco winked. He freaking winked and grinned and patted my thigh. “I’m not at liberty to say who she married.”
My father’s voice echoed through the room. “You little shit. Put my daughter on the phone now, or I will peel the flesh from your bones one ribbon at a time.”
I reached for the phone, but Marco blocked my efforts.
He stood and walked toward the door. “As I said before, she’s busy. I’d be glad to give her a message.”
If my father was working with the Abruzzos, he had men at his disposal in New Orleans. Men who could easily reach the mansion. I had to do something to deescalate the situation before Marco verbally dug his own grave. If he hadn’t already.
I drew a deep breath and shouted, “Marco, do you know where I put my passport? I can’t find it.”
Narrowing his eyes, he tightened his grip on the phone. “Yes, sweetheart. You packed it in your carryon bag.”
My stomach twisted. Sweetheart? Does he have a death wish? We hadn’t discussed it, but I assumed we were on the same page about not sharing the name of my husband, or soon-to-be husband.
“You will put my daughter on the phone. Now.” My father made every word seem like a threat.
I held out my hand. “Let me speak to him.”
“One moment.” Frowning, Marco handed the phone to me.
“Pronto, Papà.”My voice quivered.
“Nicolina.” He drew my name out on a sigh—Neee-co-leee-nah.
His tone surprised me. I’d expected him to shout threats, but he sounded so unlike himself—almost defeated.
“Hi, Papà.” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I can’t talk long. I am catching a flight.”
“Nico, you will come home and bring your husband, yes?”
“Come back to Sicily with my husband?” I turned to Marco and bugged my eyes.
He made a circle with his thumb and index finger, and moved his other index finger in and out of it while mouthing, “Honeymoon.”
My God. He’s enjoying this!“I can’t. We are leaving for our honeymoon…”
Grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, Marco did the hula, complete with arm movements and some heavy-duty hip action.
The contrast between speaking to my father and my fiancé’s shenanigans made my brain malfunction. “…in Alaska. We are going to Alaska.”
“You do not know what you have done.” Dad sighed and mumbled something incoherent about secrets and lies and repercussions. “There will be blood on your hands. Marchionni blood.”
I took a step back and gripped the dresser to stay upright. Something was wrong. More wrong than me running away from home to avoid an arranged marriage. “You’re scaring me. What secrets?”