Page 4 of Unholy Union
It’s tasteful while at the same time being undeniably sexy.
“You in this dress? Chef’s kiss!” Tessa says, doing the clichéd hand gesture. “You wear this anywhere, next thing you know, you’ve got a new man. Which is the perfect repellant for a pest like Basile.”
I laugh. “Okay, exterminator. Maybe you went into the wrong business.”
“I’m in the business of helping women look like the goddesses they are. And by women, I mean you, principessa. You can come with me to my next industry event! Lots of hot, single male models.”
Before I can even think of an excuse to reject Tessa’s suggestion, my phone buzzes from inside the pocket of my dress. I dig it out to check the notification on the screen.
“Hold that thought,” I say. “Papi’s texted me.”
Something that almost never happens. Technology and my father don’t exactly coexist harmoniously, despite his massive success with his construction company. He has worker bees to take care of anything technology-related.
The text is short and brief but sends a sharp shiver down my spine just the same.
Come home. We need to talk.
I swallow against the sudden cottony lump in my throat. “Um, I think I need to go. My father wants me home.”
“Wants you home?” Tessa snorts, brows raising. She’s returned the silky dress to the rack with utmost care. “You mean for, like, dinner?”
“He means now. I’ll call you later.”
I do my best pasting on a goodbye smile for Tessa, but it’s hard when my mind has exploded with a dozen different questions. All worries about what he could possibly want on such short notice.
The last couple times he asked to speak with me like this, I lost the two most important people in my life…
Dread coils in my stomach as I approach the pale stone walls and high, arched windows of our family home. It’s where I’ve lived most of my life, except the four years I spent at Fordham in the dorms.
It’s the house where I took my first steps, waddling out into the sunlight as Mami laughed and held out her arms to me. The place where I used to watch her and Papi dance in the parlor to her favorite Italian music, and I’d sigh dreamily, waiting for the day I’d do the same with my husband. Her dark curls swung along her shoulders as he gave her a spin and she twirled barefoot. Their laughter rang through our home.
And then one day out of nowhere, he sat me and Leo down and told us the sad news.
Mami was sick—verysick—and she was never going to get better.
I was too young to understand at the time, but it was the end of an era. It was the first deep loss I’d suffer that would wreck meinto small, fractured pieces. Years would pass before I’d ever be okay even a little bit.
But it wouldn’t be for long. I still remember coming home from school the day Papi sat me down and told me what happened to Leo.
It was a sunny, breezy day like today. School was almost out for the year, and I was looking forward to driving lessons with Tessa (just because we lived in New York didn’t mean we weren’t going to pursue our licenses as soon as we turned sixteen). I knew before he even opened his mouth that it was about Leo and that it was bad.
Leo was gone, and it was all at the hands of the family’s fiercest rival, the Valentes. It’s been years, and sometimes I still come home expecting to see Leo shooting hoops out front or hear his laughter in the halls…
Inhaling a shuddery breath into my lungs, I step through the double front doors. Nella, our maid, happens to be in the foyer refilling the vases with fresh flowers. She has a kind, round face and solid build that she usually accentuates with simple button-up dresses and house slippers.
“There you are, bambina. Your father’s waiting. He’s in one of his moods.” She shakes her head incorrigibly and then mutters something in Italian under her breath.
I’d be amused if not for the heavy stones pitted in my stomach. They’ve sunk deep inside me, the dread mounting with each step I take toward Papi’s office.
In the almost twenty years since Mami’s sudden passing, he hasn’t changed a thing about the house. The same artwork lines the walls, the same heavy Italian furniture fills every room. Our home isn’t modest or new, but itistasteful and luxurious in a rustic Italian way.
Pausing outside his office door, I push my shoulders back and gather my bearings. I gently tap my knuckles to the door and then say, “Papi, I’ve come to see you.”
“Come in, princess.”
I draw the heavy door open and wander inside. Bruno, my father’s large cane corso dog, attacks me at once. The hundred pound dog circles me, pawing at my hips and thighs for some pets. Normally I’d laugh and indulge him, but on a morning like today, I can barely give him one stroke along his muscled back.
Papi’s behind his desk, his reading glasses low on his round nose. He’s rifling through a stack of papers as he taps at the laptop propped open in front of him. Something tells me it’s a means of distraction—my father barely likes sending an email, much less working hard on computers.
