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“No?” Salvatore presses, “Nothing? That’s disappointing. You usually have so much to say. Maybe you’ve dispensed all your wisdom for the day. Nate, Lana, go out and get the dogs for us. Your Aunt Cici wants them brought in here.”
The boy goes running in excitement, his feet pitter-pattering as he rushes out toward the back of the house.
I have a terrible feeling, the kind of anxiety that wells up inside like dark water, threatening to get in my lungs and silently drown me. I want to make it all stop somehow, want to get out of this terrible room with countless eyes on me. I glance at Salvatore, wishing I could tell him to just let it go. When he meets my gaze, I see the cold fury there, that wild protective streak I glimpsed that first night.
I’m not sure it would matter what I said to him when he’s like this. I don’t know that he would hear me.
The commotion from the back of the house comes blessedly quick, the scrape of nails on hardwood floor tearing through silence. Two huge Tibetan Mastiffs amble into the room, all muscle. I gawk at the sheer size of them, wondering how anyone could be so comfortable sending children to fetch those two animals, who look more like bears than dogs. The beasts excitedly move around the tables, sniffing curiously at all the people seated. Salvatore whistles for them. They respond instantly to his call, lumbering up beside him.
Salvatore stands. He towers over the shriveled woman. My heart is a frantic pulse in my throat, muscles tense as if I might have to leap out and stop him from doing something violent.
I’m almost out of my seat when he takes Cecilia’s plate and dumps her dinner onto the floor at their feet.
I hear the dogs devouring it instantly, growling and licking their chops. Cecilia is as still as a statue, the sound of noisy chewing filling the hall.
I sink down slowly into my chair again, listening to the animals eat their fill.
“It hurts me too much to think that someone of your rank and standing within the family would actively oppose me, Cecilia, so I’ll attribute this to senility. Tomorrow, we can start looking into other accommodations for you. A care home in the city may be better suited if you’re declining this rapidly.”
The woman looks stricken. Her outrage withers into horror.
“You—” she whispers, fighting to keep her composure. “I was there when you were born, for God’s sake. When your mother screamed you into this world. You can’t—”
My heart catches in my throat. Of all the things for the daft woman to say. No matter her hatred, I can’t sit by as an elderly woman is cast out from her own home. Not because of me.
Maybe some of my father’s teachings fell flat, but Loveras take care of their children, their elderly, their widowed. That lesson stuck. I don’t want anyone, Mori or not, rotting away in one of those awful places.
She’s not wrong, anyway. She has more right to this table than I do.
I frantically cut Salvatore off before he has to prove that he absolutely can.
“I think Marcel was right,” I say. My hand closes over Salvatore’s, the intimate gesture stopping him in place. His sharp glance turns to me, eyebrows furrowed as I curl my fingers into his. I’ve managed to surprise him, this man who seems to be able to interpret my every move. “I think Cecilia is just a little confused, but nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
The woman and I lock eyes, my tense words not at all subtle as they beg her to play along. “I’m sure she’ll feel differently in the morning.”
Cecilia and I are in a breath holding competition, waiting for the pressure in the room to either lessen or detonate like a landmine.
Salvatore weighs my words, settling back in his chair. His thumb scrubs over my fingers, thinking. His glower toward Cecilia is fierce, but finally, he nods.
“You’re lucky my wife-to-be is charitable, Cecilia,” he relents. “Marcel.”
“Sir,” Marcel stands, even his eyes downcast, his expression carefully neutral as he awaits his orders.
“There’s one too many bitches at this table now. See that you have the worst of them removed.”
Cecilia’s heavy-handed make-up runs in blue streaks down her face. She shakes with the effort of holding back her tears. The entire family watches as Marcel wheels the disgraced woman out. Cecilia may hate me, but it’s not in me to feel the same way for a stranger.
Before she is quite past the doorway, I hear her strangled sob. Even that sound plucks at my heart.
I slip my hand away from his.
For the first time all dinner, Vera turns to me, with those dark, expressionless shades. She reaches over, pats a hand on my leg, and says in a voice thick with smoke and wine,
“Welcome to the fucking family, princess.”
She refills her glass.
9
