Page 25 of The Proposal

“Where were you that day? Why weren’t you here?” It’s a question that’s been nagging at me for months.

“I was sick,” he answers. “Your father knew that.”

“What was wrong with you?” I challenge.

“I had COVID.”

“How convenient.”

His eyes narrow. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying nothing … it’s just convenient that the one Christmas you miss turns out to be a bloodbath.”

“Son—”

I raise my chin. “I’m not your son either.”

I never intended to be this hostile towards him, even though I’ve heard from several men that he’s been spreading lies, implying he was my father’s underboss, which is not the case. I know it, and so does he. If he thinks he can take over this family, he’s mistaken.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here that day … by the sounds of it, there’s not a lot I could’ve done, even if I was, but it’s weighed heavily on my heart regardless. We lost some good men, our leader, and we almost lost you.”

I swallow thickly as images of that day again flash through my mind, but thankfully, I manage to push them down.

“We did,” I say with a nod. My eyes move around the room, and everyone is still watching us. I always intended to hash this out with Edoardo, but I’d rather not do it with an audience. “Let’s eat … my beautiful wife got up early to cook a feast for us.”

“Wife?” Edoardo mutters from beside me.

“Yes. I got married while I was in Italy.”

“Congratulations. I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Thank you.”

His gaze moves around the room, and when it lands on Arabella, his eyes widen, then narrow. “You married Stefano Rossi’s daughter?”

“How do you know who she is?” I ask, taken aback by his response.

“Your father was planning?—”

“So I heard,” I say, cutting him off. “How do you know what she looks like?”

He falters momentarily, which is enough to raise my suspicion further. “Your father showed me a photo of her.”

Again, I can’t say for sure he’s lying, but if my father did have a photograph of Arabella, it would be in this house somewhere.

Papa visited the Rossi estate every time he was in Italy, so I can only surmise he met both of Stefano’s daughters numerous times.

My mind is racing, so I begin moving, heading for my place at the head of the table.The seat my father always sat in.I know I have big shoes to fill, but I’m more than ready for whatever lies ahead.

My eyes follow Arabella as she moves around the table, collecting everyone’s empty breakfast plates and accepting my men’s praise with a grateful smile. I find myself doing the same as I observe her.

Her food was a hit. The empty platters in the centre of the table prove that. My men showered her with compliments as we ate, and I enjoyed seeing her pretty face light up with each kind word. I felt something that oddly resembled pride.

I sometimes forget this woman is only twenty years old. She has a depth to her that feels far beyond her years.

From the outside looking in, you’d never know that my wife despises me,my goons, and everything we stand for. She wasn’t wrong when she said she knew how to play the part. If I’m being honest, it’s a bit disconcerting. She seems like a pro at faking it, so I’ll need to be on my toes with this one.

When she reaches me, I take advantage of the situation by placing my hand on her waist. “Thank you again for breakfast,Bellezza,” I say, ignoring the side-eye she gives me.

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