Page 26 of Legacy of Deception

I gasped slightly, turning away from him and tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose behind my ear. “Don’t say that. He’s not that old, and not every mature man has—”

“A saggy sac?” He winked.

Unfortunately, I had a feeling those three words would forever grace the edges of my memory. Clearing my throat, I tried to find the words to politely tell him I would have rather had this conversation with just about anyone, or frankly anything, else than him. That was right, I would’ve rather had this conversation with a wall.

He held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, no judgment here if that’s your fetish.”

Nostrils flaring, I gritted my teeth. “You done?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to be?” he grumbled, his underlying tone dark.

A shiver rolled down my spine like ice off a countertop. “Yes.”

When it appeared he was going to appease me, I cleared my throat. “Sorry I made you miss your family’s event.” I looked at him curiously, expectantly.

Shaking his head, I thought he was going to respond to what I said, and maybe he did, but he also grinned, saying, “Wilted berries.” He laughed, the sound vibrating through my body, all the way down to my toes, making them tingle.

Fantastic. I was marrying a clown, or at least, a man who thought he was funny.

“So what’s the obsession with this place?” Marco asked.

Weighing my options, I decided to answer in earnest. “I love it here.”

He looked up at the pink-granite and limestone facade building with the diamond on the roof before turning to face me, his eyes searching mine.

I didn’t know if he was judging me or trying to understand me, but either way, I decided to help him out. “If you haven’t noticed, which I suspect you haven’t, jewelry is kind of a big deal for me.”

He nodded, not a word coming from his lips, before he pulled his gaze from me.

As if he read the time on the iconic Atlas clock above the doors, he said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here, bella.”

I nodded, anything more than that just felt like it required too much energy. Energy I didn’t have to give. “I should return the car.”

He shook his head. “No need. It’s already been taken care of.” I could only imagine what that meant. Probably that the driver would be paid off so the entire thing could be swept under the rug without charges being filed or it hitting the news.

Good thing I was marrying a Deluca.

Chapter 11

Play something for me?

BROOKLYN

Parting the metaphorical veil of my new sanctuary, I tugged on the tie of my silk robe with lace trim, my slipper-clad feet setting my rhythm on the classic parquet. In the gallery, I allowed myself to stop and my eyes to wander, taking in the little details I hadn’t noticed before. Like the way the wide, elongated hallway that connected the main entrance to the living and dining rooms was decorated with minimalist-style paintings and chrome and glass sculptures.

Marco’s house manager, Doc, was obviously not only a wizard at unpacking but knew how to run a house. There was not a speck of dust on any of the canvases, and everything shone like it was newly polished.

One waist-high piece was particularly captivating. Like a moth, my hand was drawn to the frozen flame, with yellows, oranges, and reds bleeding together so naturally from the blocks of ice that appeared made from crystal. It looked so real, part of me expected to feel warmth, but the glass was cool. It changed the tempo of the space nearly as much as the sounds coming from the living room.

“I’d rather not,” Marco said, his annoyance not to be missed. I was learning that was the thing about him… He might’ve been hard to read, but only until he opened his mouth because he didn’t mince words, and his tone often gave him away.

Gliding over the herringbone pattern on the floor, I wrapped my fingers around the side of the arched casing of the gallery that led into the living room. Leaning, I gradually inched myself around to search the room, setting my sights on Marco. His back was to me as he sat perched on the bench in front of his baby grand, so he wouldn’t have noticed I was stealing a glance, but the urge to do so suddenly felt very important.

After a moment of silence, the deep baritone of his voice struck me, sending me around the corner once again. “Spare me.” More silence.

I narrowed my gaze, zeroing in on the high-end, embellished giclée on a gallery-wrapped canvas by a contemporary artist that was in line with my face as I played with the gallery walls like a little girl trying to sneak around her parents. The artist used gel to mimic the texture of their wild brushstrokes and added glints of gold that drew the eye. It was a minimalist piece but one that struck me as secretly craving maximalist attention, not unlike how I felt most days.

It was easy to be a minimalist, to focus on the things that served me, that brought me joy, like fine jewelry, but sometimes in my heart I wished I could be unapologetically abundant. In an intentional way, of course. Although, I believed it was easier for the world to accept a minimalist, and I had to be accepted. Acceptance was paramount to my thus-far complicated journey in this life. It was what, at times, drove me to make drastic missteps in my attempts to stay close with my family.