Page 21 of Enzo
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Are they coming for the wedding?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. The Marchettis had given strict instructions to keep the wedding small and family only. Yes, Hannah and Arianna were family, but after everything that’d happened in the past few months, I didn’t think they’d be up for this wedding circus.
“Pen?” Amara propped her chin in her hand, a dreamy look overtaking her face. “Will you play the cello for me?”
My chest tightened. “Of course.” We both knew I’d never refuse her, so I went to fetch it. The cello always sat in our family room, waiting to be played. It’d been a while since I’d utilized the studio at D’Arc, but it was more than straightforward neglect; a part of me associated the cello with Amara’s illness.
Once the instrument was positioned between my thighs, I reached for the bow and drew it across the strings. The melody instantly filled my soul, and I poured the depth of my fears and desires into each note as I played for my sister, who smiled softly from her perch on the couch.
This was the reason I’d learned to play: for her. For that smile. For the joy it brought her.
I didn’t know how much time had passed when Amara patted the spot next to her and I abandoned the instrument. I was fussing over her blankets when the door swung open and my brothers appeared.
“Your good time is about to start,” Armani announced theatrically, shutting the door behind him with his foot.
Amara and I shared a glance, then giggled.
Much like always, the four of us ended up yapping for hours.
Our family’s living room was where we hung out the most. It was where Nonno had shared stories with us and regaled us with tales of his past. When we were in this room, you could almost feel him here, hear his laugh, and catch sight of his mischievous grin.
“You should let us kill Enzo,” Damiano stated confidently, his feet propped up on the coffee table while sipping Papà’s most expensive bottle of wine. If our parents knew what went on behind these doors, they’d strangle us.
“You’d have to kill the entire Marchetti bloodline,” I said quietly.
“It could be done,” Armani claimed, but it was evident in his expression that not even he believed it. He reached over and plucked the bottle from Damiano, then gulped its contents obnoxiously. “You’d be a widow before tying the knot.”
While my brothers were often mistaken for twins, Damiano was sixteen—a year older than Armani.
“She wouldn’t be a widow if she hadn’t married him,” Amara corrected him. “Besides, Pen’s too young to be a widow. And she has a plan.”
I knew the arrangement had already been delayed as long as possible. I’d been promised to him for a very long time—even before I was born, twenty-one years ago. My fiancé was thirty-three himself, and I wondered if that was the reason behind his rush to the altar.
I’d hoped the eldest Marchetti son would be far too busy running his criminal empire and micromanaging a dozen legitimate businesses to even think about marriage. But no—apparently, world domination still leaves room for weddings and a family celebration. The man was less “mob boss” and more “overachieving psychopath with a day planner.”
In a week, I would become Mrs. Enzo Marchetti, shackled for life with a wedding band on my finger that might as well be a noose.
I eyed my brothers, their dark brown hair and boyish features a gift from our father, while my sister and I had inherited our thick coal-black hair from our mother. We not only shared her dark blue eyes and heart-shaped face, but also her elegant neck. Mama always gifted us necklaces on special occasions, claiming that they complemented our delicate features. I pondered which of the priceless heirlooms I would wear when I enacted my plan.
“I’m excited for the wedding, but I don’t like that he gets to take you away from us,” Amara said as she wedged herself deeper into the sofa, and I gave her a soft smile, glad to be pulled from my spiraling thoughts. “Why can’t you stay in Sicily?”
I wrapped an arm around her and she pressed into me with a tired sigh.
Her ebony hair was twisted in a sideways braid, and hours of coughing this morning had colored her cheeks. She wore fluffy yellow pajamas and matching slippers, which hid how thin she’d become in a matter of weeks.
Amara’s leukemia shook us all to the core. The doctors were optimistic, but I was terrified that her precious smile was just a mask, hiding her pain alltoowell.
“I thought we’d have more time,” Damiano grumbled.
“I know,” I murmured. “But I won’t let him keep me away from my family.”
She gave me an embarrassed smile. “Promise?”
I nodded. “Nothing and nobody could keep me away, least of all ahusband.” I made a face like I was going to be sick, and they all laughed.
Mama cleared her throat and we turned to find her in the doorway, her hands on her hips and her eyes on the wine bottle sitting between my brothers.
