Page 21 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
It seems obvious that that’s the reason he’s been with her so long, the reason he speaks so highly of her, the reason for that momentary flash of emotion he had to smother so I wouldn’t see it. Lorenzo is in love with my father’s widow, and has been for—
Oh shit. Are they having an affair?
That would explain why the marchesa didn’t show at the hospital. She was busy getting busy with someone else. Maybe she never loved my father at all. Maybe she only married him because she thought he had money.
Money that would support her and her lover, Lorenzo.
I’m abruptly so angry my cheeks start to burn.
Watching me, Lorenzo says, “I apologize if what I said angered you, signorina. It wasn’t my intention to be disrespectful, only honest.”
I set my cup on the table and take a breath, trying to control myself because there’s no evidence what I’ve thought is true. My father’s dead and I’m emotional, and I’ll only make things worse by creating a scene or throwing around accusations based on nothing more than a hunch.
But there’s a tiny voice in my head reminding me that I ignored all the blinking red signs of Brad’s secrets, and I shouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“I appreciate your honesty,” I say stiffly, looking at my fingers clenched around the delicate handle of the cup. “And I’m sure you can appreciate how I might not be myself today.” I look up and meet his eyes, and let him see all the emotion burning there. My voice comes out a raw scrape of pain. “The person I loved the most in the world is dead, and I’m not above letting anyone know how I feel about it.”
A look of compassion comes into Lorenzo’s eyes, but before he can say anything, a rustle of skirts makes us glance at the doorway. And there she stands with her chin held high and her back ramrod straight, regal as an empress.
The marchesa.
Lorenzo rises and bows, but I can’t look away from my stepmother. It’s not because she’s so beautiful, exactly—she is, stunningly so—and it’s not because of the finery of her clothing, or the way her mere presence makes the air crackle.
It’s because I’ve never seen another person so chillingly cold.
; She’s brilliant icy perfection, from the top of her blonde head to the hem of her silvery Dupioni gown. Though she’s obviously not young, her skin is dewy and unwrinkled. Her eyes are an inhuman shade of blue, as electric blue as a cyborg’s.
She radiates a fierce, freezing intensity. She’s an iceberg with eyeballs, draped in custom-cut silk.
“Lady Moretti,” murmurs Lorenzo to the floor. “May I present signorina DiSanto.” He lifts a hand in my direction.
The marchesa and I gaze at each other. Neither of us makes a move.
Lorenzo straightens and looks at me. “Kimber, this is Lady Moretti.”
That’s it? I’m supposed to address this woman like that? I don’t even qualify to use her first name? And why does she go by Lady Moretti and not Mrs. DiSanto? She didn’t take my father’s last name?
Oh hell no.
I say flatly, “Hi.”
“Hello, Kimber.”
Her voice is like the rest of her: frigid. Since I addressed her in English, she replied in English. I get the sense the language feels dirty in her mouth, something reserved for the peasants that she wouldn’t otherwise use.
As if someone is pointing a gun at her head and forcing her to speak, she says frostily, “Finally, I meet Luca’s beloved daughter. Your father spoke of nothing else.”
The verdict is in: I can’t stand this bitch.
I send her my most acid smile. “Funny, he never mentioned you.”
Her frozen perfection remains untouched by that. She simply stares at me with unnerving intensity, no trace of emotion in her arctic cyborg eyes.
Lorenzo clears his throat. “Ah, perhaps signorina DiSanto would like to meet Cornelia and Beans?”
The question is directed at the iceberg, but I’m not used to having other people make my decisions for me, so I answer before she can get anything past her frozen lips. “Yes, I’d like to meet my stepsisters.”
