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A tremor shook through her and Ares’s sharp gaze swung to her.
Pushing the frightening thought aside, she glanced around her and noticed the mourners were slowly dispersing, while casting furtive glances at the two men stationed on either side of her.
Feeling another presence behind her, Odessa glanced over her shoulder. Flávio stood there, but his beady gaze was fixed squarely on Ares.
‘Zanelis, there’s a reception back at the house. We would be obliged if you would attend,’ he offered, disingenuous charm oozing from him.
Again, Ares’s face tightened at this deliberate snub of his father, even though the older man seemed unconcerned.
After an age of his gaze never leaving hers, he answered tightly, ‘If that is what Odessa wants.’
The sound of her name on his lips, with that slight evocative Greek accent which had remained despite his spending most of his formative years in Italy, made her pelvis tighten.
Regardless of his words, though, his eyes told her to refuse. That it wasn’t what he wanted. Righteous indignation rose again. He had a nerve to hold a grudge. What she’d done back then had been to protect him. While he...
He was her last hope, no matter how bleak and spurious her idea might turn out to be. No matter how aloof and hostile he seemed now, she would cling to the memory of the less intimidating man she’d known back then. The man who’d whispered promises to her beneath the stars...
Because she couldn’t let Ares leave. Not yet.
‘I would like that very much.’ She ignored her uncle’s smug expression and turned to Sergios. ‘If you have the time, Sergios?’
She was playing a risky game, exploiting the past affection the older Zanelis had had for her. She prayed she would be forgiven her transgression. Ares’s narrowed eyes when she glanced at him from the corner of her eye said he’d seen through her ploy. Still, she kept her eyes fixed squarely on his father.
‘Of course, my dear,’ Sergios responded, immediately offering his arm.
Relieved, she clung to him all the way up the hill, back to the house that had been a prison for as long as she could remember.
Nearing it, she examined the imposing facade closely.
Had the vines creeping around the windows always been this dense, almost suffocating the structure as the house did her? Had the drapes framing the thick bulletproof windows always been this gloomy? Every door, stone and blade of grass was in pristine shape, of course. The staff were trained to fear, and knew that flaws wouldn’t be tolerated under any circumstances and that they would sometimes be severely punished for infractions.
Case in point, the sweet man walking beside her, who’d been summarily sacked the moment his arthritic fingers had become an imperfection her father hadn’t been able to tolerate.
Odessa had moped for months after Sergios had left the Santella household, even as a part of her had been soothed by the thought that he was reuniting with Ares.
Ares, the man whose contempt pulsed from him as he strode in tense silence beside her.
Ares, the man she intended to use to grasp her freedom.
Thoughts of the perilous road ahead made her shudder, and her step faltered momentarily before Sergios’s surprisingly strong grip held her up.
‘The loss may seem insurmountable right now, but it will lessen,’ he said, mistaking her stumble for grief. ‘It will never go away, but you’ll learn to live with it.’
She felt like a fraud, accepting comfort when she didn’t miss her tyrannical father one little bit. When she knew that once she escaped—if she escaped—she would never set foot on this cursed soil ever again.
Far too soon they were inside the largest salone, the place where Elio had held court and lorded his superiority over his subordinates.
It was in this very room that he’d told Sergios his services were no longer required because he was old and useless.
It was in this very room that he’d told her never to speak to Ares Zanelis again, or else...
It was here, only a few short months ago, that he’d told her he would be marrying her off to Vincenzo Bartorelli, a man older than he himself, to consolidate his power.
Odessa avoided this room unless strictly necessary. The dark green furniture was stiff and uncomfortable, the thick residue of cigar smoke hanging in the air too cloying. It was a room where men made plans about women and expected them to bend or break to accommodate them.
No, she would not miss this room one little bit.
She thanked one of the maids offering her a tray of drinks and chose a mineral water, needing to keep every wit about her. She rarely drank anyway, and when she did it was at functions where refusing would draw her father’s disapproving glances.
