Page 22 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
A glimmer of surprise surfaces in the marchesa’s eyes. She lifts a pale hand to her throat. Some distant relative to a smile touches her lips, but dies before it can find a home on such inhospitable ground. “Stepsisters,” she murmurs. “That’s very sweet.”
What’s so funny? Am I supposed to address them as “your royal highnesses” or something?
The mystery is quickly solved, however, when Lorenzo puts two fingers between his lips, then produces a whistle of such piercing volume I cringe.
The sound of nails clacking rapidly against wood grows closer and closer, until the huge black dog I saw earlier rounds the corner of the kitchen, tongue lolling. It bounds toward Lorenzo. Halfway there, it catches sight of me, skids to a comical stop, then runs and hides behind the marchesa’s legs.
“Cornelia!” laughs Lorenzo. “Come now, silly girl, don’t be afraid!”
My mouth drops open in shock. This is my stepsister? My stepsister is a dog?
Visibly worried, Cornelia timidly peers out from behind the marchesa’s skirts and looks at me. The marchesa reaches down and reassuringly strokes a hand over the dog’s massive head.
I shout, “You gave a dog my bedroom?”
With a whimper, Cornelia ducks back into hiding.
The marchesa looks at me sharply but gets distracted by the sight of a tiny peach-colored furball marching imperiously into the room, nose lifted high in the air, plumed tail quivering with pride. The pink studded collar it wears probably weighs more than it does. It parks itself next to the marchesa’s right foot and glares at me with small black eyes that glitter with malice.
“Let me guess,” I say flatly. “This must be Beans.”
At the sound of its name, the tiny peach furball bares its teeth and growls.
“Yeah,” I say, glaring back at it. “I know the feeling, sister.”
SEVEN
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not. They each have a bedroom of their own, and they eat their meals at the table. The big one’s tall enough that it doesn’t need a chair, it just sits on the floor and gobbles its food right off the plate, but the tiny evil one has a booster seat like they give kids at restaurants—only it’s made of silk.”
“Dear God,” says Jenner. I hear his shudder through the phone. “Dogs at the dining table? How obscene.”
“What’s really obscene are the dogs’ wardrobes.”
“Don’t tell me. Your wicked stepmother has them wear dresses.”
“I’ll do you one better: my wicked stepmother has them wear dresses that my poor father sewed by hand.”
After a short silence, Jenner says, “Oh, honey. She must have a magical hoo-ha to be able to get a man to do that.”
I mutter, “I’d like to kick her right in her magical hoo-ha, I’ll tell you what.”
After our disastrous meeting at breakfast, the marchesa and I retreated to opposite corners of the house. She and the dogs appeared again for lunch, this time in matching outfits. The four of us ate at the long oak table in the formal dining room in silence interrupted only by the sloppy chomping of Cornelia. The marchesa and Beans consumed their food with the same delicate manners, exuding the same royal disdain.
When Lorenzo came in to inform us that my father’s attorney would be arriving later in the day to discuss some financial matters and read the will, I took the opportunity to excuse myself. I’d already researched local hotels and had booked one nearby so I didn’t have to spend another night on the sofa.
Or near the WS, as I’d begun referring to my wicked stepmother in my head.
“So when’s the funeral?”
“In three days. I made the arrangements this morning.” With the help of Lorenzo, because I don’t speak Italian and my father’s doting widow retired to her bedroom at the mention of the funeral. Probably to do a happy dance at the thought of what she’d inherit.
Il Sogno may be old and crumbling, but the land is valuable. The view of the Duomo alone is priceless. I’m sure the WS has plans to sell it to the highest bidder the minute the funeral ends. I don’t know anything about community property laws in this country, but judging by the way my father spoke of her, the WS will get everything, right down to the doormat.
Not that I care. Without Papa, this is just another old villa in the hills. He was the one who made it special. I didn’t grow up here. I only visited once a year—there’s nothing left to tie me to it except painful memories, and I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.
“And how are you holding up, Poppins?” Jenner asks gently. “This has been one hell of a week for you.”
