Page 50 of I Would Die For You

Then Stefano was there. It all felt okay because he took control. It sounds like we were on the phone with Don Giacomo at some point? What did he say? He sounded reassuring, asked me to trust him. The cold of the shower water over my skin. I was shivering, though I’m not sure it was from the temperature or the shock. We were in cars, on planes. And then…

I shudder and gasp, my gaze dropping to my left hand. Right there is a thin gold band on my finger. A wedding ring.

How is it that I don’t remember getting married? And did we…?

When I return to the bedroom, the bed looks unruffled on the side I didn’t sleep in, my body’s imprint clearly visible in the sheets and pillow. He didn’t share my bed. So we didn’t consummate our marriage. There’s not even a hint of bedding on the sofa. He probably didn’t even share the room with me.

What does this mean? What now? Where do we go from here?

Answers. I need answers, and to find them, I need to find Stefano.

My husband.

My bags from Torino are still in the room, so it’s easy to find an outfit then clean up to make myself presentable. This is still a house in mourning, and decorum counts for something.

It’s strange how still it all feels once out on the landing. Silent, too, like no one’s home. So the comings and goings have stopped? All the Andretti siblings, where are they?

My foot is leaving the last stair step when the doorbell rings. It’s attended by Carlito, the butler/chauffeur of the house. Something makes me freeze, and horror fills me when I register the two cops standing outside and flashing their badges.

“Let me get the master of the house,” Carlito is saying.

He pushes the door closed, but one of the cops stops it with his foot and comes in. His dark gaze lands on me, narrowing in a frown.

“Ms. Kaya Norton? May we have a word, ma’am?”

I must’ve blanched. All the blood seems to drain to my knees, and I’m feeling faint. I’ve started swooning, trying to hold on to the banister I’m clinging to, when a strong arm slips around my shoulders and steadies me.

“Officer, I would very much appreciate if you didn’t barge uninvited into my home to harass my guest,” a clipped male voice bites out in a low arresting tone.

I blink, gazing up. “Valentino.”

“It’s okay, Kaya. I’ve got you.”

“What…what is going on?”

He turns to the cops. “I would like to know that, too.”

I don’t see a glare, but the emotion radiating from him is anything but nice and welcoming right now. Even I feel like shrinking away, and I know he’s in my corner.

“Mister…”

“Andretti,” he supplies.

“Mr. Andretti, we’d like a word with Ms. Norton here.”

“Mrs. Beccario.”

“Pardon?”

“She is Mrs. Kaya Beccario.”

I am, aren’t I? How strange to hear it being stated aloud.

“Come,” he says, leading me to a room at the side. I’m lowered into a Chesterfield sofa while he stands next to me like an unforgiving sentinel. “Now what is this about?”

“Mrs. Beccario, I regret to inform you that your father, Mr. Grant Norton, died last night at his residence in Portland.”

So they know. Is it possible for me to blanch even more?

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