Page 54 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“Yes. My mother loved French couture. It was all she wore. This dress was only worn once.” She glances up at me. “To my father’s funeral.”
Okay, that is totally fucking weird. “Um . . .”
“You’re a size six, correct?”
I nod.
“It should fit perfectly. Your figures are very similar.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear it? I mean, it has sentimental value for you, so . . .”
“I’m too broad in the shoulders, and my waist hasn’t been that small since before Matteo was born.” Her eyes grow distant, as if she’s lost in some old memory. “After she died, I donated all her clothing to the haute couture exhibition at the Palais Galliera. She had the most incredible collection. Practically priceless, by today’s standards. This one I kept because the one time she wore it was the only time in my life I ever saw her cry.”
Her voice grows quiet and sad. “She hated to show emotions. She said it was undignified. Weak. Whenever I cried as a child, I’d get a beating.”
Our eyes meet across the room. The silence pounds between us, deafeningly loud.
Then she turns on her heel and disappears.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rest my hand on the dress, which isn’t really a dress but an olive branch.
I can already tell this is going to be one hell of a day.
I’m in the kitchen with Lorenzo, nervously waiting for the limo to pick us up, when Matteo arrives.
He walks into the room and all the air goes out.
It’s not fair that someone should be so beautiful. The light treats him differently than it does the rest of us, caressing the bones in his face, adding a loving sheen to his hair. He’s wearing a gorgeous black suit and tie, black shoes polished to a mirror gleam, and a chunky silver watch that probably cost more than my college education.
His expression is somber. So is his voice when he says hello.
“Hey.” I look at my fingernails, in dire need of a manicure. I decide this is the last time I’ll let him in this house without calling the cops, and almost mean it.
Lorenzo murmurs a greeting, then we’re all silent.
Finally Matteo says, “Has she come down yet?”
“No,” answers Lorenzo. “She’s not ready.”
I glance up in
time to see the two of them share a strange, meaningful look, which irritates me because I don’t understand it.
“You’re in the limo with us, Lorenzo.”
His eyes widen. “Oh no, signorina, that wouldn’t be proper. I will drive behind.”
I say flatly, “Family rides in the limo. You’re riding in the limo.”
I get the feeling he doesn’t want to contradict me, so he looks to Matteo for help. But Matteo simply inclines his head in agreement.
Lorenzo implores him in Italian, in answer to which Matteo waves a dismissive hand. Then he flicks an inscrutable gaze in my direction and says a few curt, quiet words.
I really have to learn that damn language.
When the doorbell rings, I stand, my heart thumping. “It’s time.”
Lorenzo says, “I’ll get Lady Moretti,” but Matteo quickly puts the kibosh on that.
