Page 19 of Rosetti Family New York
The phone rings again, a buzzing mosquito. Leonardo glares at the screen. “You’d better fucking learn.” His thumb moves across the screen, and he starts yelling into the phone, striding out of the room and down the hallway.
I wait for his voice to recede into the distance and take a deep breath. The bedroom smells like him. Soap and smoke. It makes my heart race. I drag two suitcases into the hallway, past the empty, lifeless rooms. They’re full of polished furniture and dead air. This is a house with no heart.
I stop at a bedroom far from his, open the door, and dump the suitcases inside. He didn’t fight for me, not really. Not like I thought he would.
I kick off my shoes and rifle through my suitcases, then shimmy out of my silk wedding dress and change into designer jeans and a simple blouse and sweater, discarding my gown on the floor. I leave the room. I want distance. Space to breathe. I wind down the stairs, and the front hall stretches out before me. Cold marble under my feet. It’s beautiful in an expensive, impersonal way.
I slip out the back door. The estate is huge. Grounds with no warmth, no soul. It’s cold enough to snow, and I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way into the garden. The wind slices through my sweater, but it’s better than being inside.
I sit on a bench in the garden, behind tall shrubs that block me from view., then pull out my phone and call Juliet.
She answers on the second ring, and her voice is breathless. “Eleanor? Are you okay?”
It’s so good to hear her, to know I did this for a reason. For her. “I’m fine, Jules.” I hope she doesn’t hear the strain in my voice. “How’s father treating you?”
There’s a pause, and I can picture her biting her lip, nervous but happy. “He’s... okay. He seems pleased. I think you did the right thing.”
The wind bites at my face. I can’t help thinking that even when he’s pleased, our father is never happy. “And you?”
“I wish you didn’t have to do this for me.” She sounds small, younger than her nineteen years. “The house is so empty withoutyou. It’s just me and father, and even you are better company than him.”
I smile at the gentle teasing. “Surely not. Just… call me whenever you need to. Promise me.” How did it come to this? The only person I love in the world, stuck in a different soulless museum from me.
“I promise.”
“Jules? I love you.” I don’t wait for her to say it back. I end the call and press the phone to my chest, feeling the cold metal through my sweater.
The wind picks up, and I shiver. What kind of man is Leonardo? Is he more than just a thug in an expensive cage?
No lying, no running, and no touching other men.That’s all he asks.
The rules pound in my head as I walk back to the mansion. I don’t intend to obey any of them.
10
Leonardo
Eleanor has moved some of her suitcases out of my room. It doesn’t take me long to find them, in a room at the end of the hallway on the same floor, and she is with them. She has changed into jeans and a sweater, but somehow makes the casual ensemble look elegant. She dresses like she’s meeting a friend for lunch, not fighting with her husband on our wedding night.
I stare at her and then the luggage. A fucking game. I grip the handles, my fingers like vices. She watches as I move them back into my room. The air between us is sharp as I set the bags down with a thud.
Without a word, I lock every door on this floor except our own. She watches me in silence. If she wants another room, she’ll have to rip through a damn lock to get to it. Her silence presses against me, but I shove back with my own. Her gaze is ice and stone. She’s waiting for me to break, but she’s got a long wait.
She trails after me, silent, while I twist keys and tighten my grip. I slam one door shut, then the next. Her bare feet padagainst the floor, a rhythm that matches my pulse. Eleanor stands in the hall like she owns it.
“You follow my rules.” I lean against the wall, smirk on my lips, keys jingling in my hand.
She looks at me, no words. I can almost hear her thinking.
“We can do this all night,” I say.
Her chin lifts a fraction. She turns, her shoulder brushing past mine like I’m not even there.
I follow her downstairs, every step of hers matched by mine. The living room is cavernous without my family in it. A wide couch sits near the fireplace. She drapes herself on it, reaching for a book from the shelf. Each movement is elegant, precise. She ignores me like it’s an Olympic sport.
I let her have the quiet for a while. Let the minutes crawl over us. My breath is steady, even as my insides coil tight. She turns a page.
I kick back in an armchair, make myself at home. Her eyes flicker toward me then back to the book. I stifle a laugh. This is almost too easy.
