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“As they often are,” he says.
We chat about my teenage years, most of which I spent with my nose in a book. I find he did the same, but of course, Corrado went to a private school somewhere in Britain. Or was it boarding school? I make a note to ask sometime when he’s not asking me hundreds of questions about my life. I’m happy to talk until the waiter brings our meals.
Corrado ordered me an Italian sausage. Clever, perverted man. Before I cut the sausage, I make a gesture of stabbing it with my fork. Corrado chuckles, and it’s a little unnerving that we can communicate without talking. I could only do that with my twin. They say one can do that with souls that are somehow matched or destined for each other.
Then again, these kinds of romantic thoughts live only in my head. No such things as soulmates anyway.
“Is that chicken?” I ask, puzzled by the meat on his plate.
“It’s duck.”
I recall the conversation from the car. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” I shove half the sausage into my mouth and make a grand mockery of chowing it down.
Corrado laughs. “Very much so. You?”
“Mmhm.” I mumble because the sausage in my mouth might choke me if I speak.
Corrado’s ruthless charm is winning me over.
Also, he’s a predator who eats ducks.
17
THE WEDDING BAND
MICHELA
Despite making fun of our meals, we both polished off our plates. I lean back with a hand over my tummy and look over at the table near us.
A brunette in her early twenties cuts into her filet mignon, while a woman in her late forties sitting across from her swirls pasta. The food here is really that good. It’s not just me who’s eating every last bit as if I came from a starving island.
Corrado types a message, then slips his constantly vibrating phone into the pocket of his jacket. As he does that, I notice the holster around his shoulders.
“It’s my sister,” he explains.
“One must always answer one’s sister.” I make light of his comment, but I’d love to blow up my brother’s phone like this while he’s on a date. Or sleeping. Or working. Or anywhere at all besides a cold gray cell.
The server clears the table. “The lounge is ready for you, sir.”
Corrado stands, and as I do as well, the jewelry box he placed between my legs falls to the ground. It rolls and hits the tip of the server’s shoe. Apologizing, I bend to pick it up, but Corrado catches my arm and pulls me upright.
The server retrieves the box, accidentally opening the top. Inside, on a pillow wrapped in tan suede, is a single golden band.
The larger empty space behind the smaller wedding band makes my heart race. I slide a gaze at Corrado’s wedding finger. Sure enough, he’s wearing a ring that matches the one in the box. Not only did I not even notice he’s wearing a wedding band, but I’ve also refused to open the box.
The server looks between us, and Corrado pinches his lips.
Corrado is watched like an animal at the zoo. As we ate our meal, I couldn’t help but notice the glances from the adjacent tables and frequent visits by random people coming and going to our table to pay their respects to him.
If they kissed the ring on his hand, I might’ve died. They didn’t, but that means very little after seeing grown men bend to his will. I want the ruse of our marriage to hold up in front of people who will surely draw conclusions and gossip.
I lean in and peck Corrado’s cheek. “You already got it resized. Thank you.”
Once the waiter walks away, Corrado says, “My wife needs not explain herself to anyone. Even when it appears odd that she’s dropped her ring. But thank you for doing it anyway. Go ahead, and I’ll meet you in the lounge.”
Gently, he nudges the small of my back, and I follow the waiter out of the terrace, casting a gaze over my shoulder. Corrado dials his phone.
“Ms. Mancini,” someone calls as I pass them by.
