Page 53 of Vengeful Vows
With a frown, wondering what the hell is going on, I look at Marcello.
His face is inscrutable. For the first time ever, I feel as if I can’t reach him.
Uncertainty twists in my stomach.
The two know each other. After all, I met Marse at my brother’s engagement party. But there’s a simmering animosity I’m helpless to explain.
“You’re actually marrying him?” Alessandro demands, his voice high and tight with unshed emotion.
“Watch your tone with my future wife.” Icicles of warning drip from Marse’s voice.
“You’ve had your revenge. Leave my sister out of it.”
“At least you have one.” He pauses. “And Isabella will be spending the rest of her days by my side and her nights in my bed.” Then he smiles diabolically. “We’re planning to have four children.”
Gasping at the coldness in his voice, I grab the edge of the table. I’m spinning in a vortex, detached from reality.
Hand shaking, Alessandro downs his champagne.
As if this is an ordinary conversation, Marcello goes on. “We’ll be married at the end of the month. If you’d like to attend.”
I look at my fiancé, a man it seems I no longer know. I’ve never seen him be intentionally cruel.
“A small chapel, in front of God.” He pauses. Then without mirth adds, “Let no man put asunder.” Then a smile of satisfaction curves his lips. Satisfaction?No.More like triumph.
Alessandro grabs the bottle.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate her only family member giving her to me.”
More and more confused, I reach across the table and place my hand on top of his. “Marcello?”
“Marcello?” Alessandro repeats, almost spitting the word. “Jesus. She doesn’t know, does she? You’ve been fucking lying to her.”
Know what?Suddenly dread becomes a snake inside me, and I pull my hand back.
Marse has still said nothing.
Alessandro sneers. “The bastard hasn’t told you who he is, has he?”
“Marcello Donati,” I whisper.
In response, my brother laughs, a mad, mad sound that scares the hell out of me.
My insides chill.
“Are you going to tell her?” he demands of my intended. “Or should I?”
Marcello steeples his fingers together. “Why don’t you while I watch her reaction?”
Frantically I grab hold of the arms of my chair as if that will help me find some stability.
“His name isn’t Marcello Donati.” Alessandro slams the bottle back down, making the glasses on the table jump. “It’s Nico Moretti.”
I plunge backward through time and space.
Moretti. It was Lucia Moretti who’d died on that horrible, horrible night in my brother’s car. He’s never recovered from the horror.
And Lucia was…? As if I’m living a nightmare, the awful pieces begin to fall together.