Page 56 of My Sunfall

I suddenly feel flustered under his heated gaze and turn to take in the room I hadn’t really seen when he carried me upstairs yesterday.

The living room opens up in front of me, the light pouring in from the tall windows make the floor gleam. Sheer linen curtains move faintly with the breeze, giving the place an airy feeling despite the century-old massive fireplace dominating one wall.

Low, modern sofas sit arranged over a thick rug, making a striking contrast with the weathered stone walls. There are no pointless decorations. It’s so different from my parents’ home, where an abundance of knick-knacks made it hard to breathe. This house isn’t just beautiful, Lucas has taken something old and immovable and reshaped it to fit himself. He didn’t erase its history, he warped it, or rather, made it bend to his will. And standing here, surrounded by stone and light, I can’t help but fall in love with the place.

“Come, cara mia. Lunch is waiting,” Lucas murmurs quietly against my temple, making me jump.

His hand settles at the small of my back, as he guides me to the dining room at the end of a sunlit corridor. Here too, the room is bright and airy, the light flooding in is reflecting on the heavy polished walnut table.

Lucas sidesteps me when I stop and pulls out a chair for me at the side of the table rather than the head, close enough that his knee brushes mine when he sits beside me. The plates are already set. The food is simple, grilled chicken with roasted vegetables, yet it smells delicious and I am suddenly aware that I am ravenous despite the light breakfast I had in the bedroom.

Lucas lifts a forkful.

“Eat,” he says softly, and brings a bite to my lips.

I hesitate only a second before opening my mouth. He watches me as I chew, his gaze unwavering and unreadable. Every time I finish a mouthful, he does it again, offering me a piece of chicken or a morsel of bread torn from the slices lining a bread-basket. Each time, his movements are sure and unhurried, the possessiveness behind each gesture unmissable.

And each time I comply. I tell myself I should pull away. I should bristle, argue, remind him that this isn’t how things are supposed to be. But the truth is, I don’t have the strength for resistance right now. My mind feels scrambled, as if someone shook it hard and the thoughts are flying around like the flakes in a snow globe, without ever settling. My father is dead. The family heirloom hangs over me like a blade waiting to fall. I woke up married to a man I once loved, only to be told another man believes I was promised to him like some property. Every certainty I had about my life has been stripped away, one by one, until all that’s left is chaos, ache and exhaustion.

But the only constant my mind hangs on is Lucas. He seems immovable, like an anchor. He navigates through this chaos as if he could control it and keep it at bay. When he feeds me, when his hand brushes over my jaw or my thigh, a part of me recoils at the control in it, but another part, the part that’s so tired it scares me, clings to the relief of not having to decide anything at all. If I resist, I’ll have to think. I’ll have to choose. I’ll have to feel. And right now, I don’t trust myself to do any of those things without breaking. So, I let him set the pace. I let him watch me eat. I let him touch me like I belong somewhere again, even if that somewhere might break me later.

When we’re done, he wipes my mouth with a napkin, his thumb lingering over my lower lip for a fraction.

“Good girl,” he rasps and leans forward to brush his lips over mine in an achingly tender kiss that makes my heartrate speed up. Then he straightens. “Come, it’s time for your appointment.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chiara

Lucas opens the car door for me and settles me into the seat, adjusting the belt himself before closing the door and rounding to the other side to get in. Once the driver pulls away from the curb, he moves closer, sliding one arm around my back, resting his fingers at the nape of my neck, while his other hand comes to rest on my thigh. The gesture is unmistakably possessive, steady and anchoring, and it grounds me more than I care to admit. The drive to the lawyer’s office passes in silence, the city blurring by like another world outside of this cocoon he has built around me.

Lily and Damiano are already there when we arrive. We are ushered into the conference room without the men. The door closes softly behind us, the sound so final it makes my stomach tighten. The lawyer waits until we’re seated before opening a thick folder.

“I’ll keep this brief and clear,” he says. “This is the last will and testament of your father, executed three months ago.”

We nod in silence.

“The family residence inside Boston, including all contents,” he continues, “is bequeathed in full to Ms. Chiara Bianchi, now Romano.”

I refrain from pulling a face. It isn’t a surprise. I don’t look at Lily, I already know she doesn’t want the villa either. What she didn’t know, though, is my surprise-marriage.

“The surrounding land holdings outside of Boston,” the lawyer goes on, turning a page, “are to be divided equally between Chiara Bianchi and Lily Santaluccia. All liquid assets, business interests, and investment portfolios are to be placed into a managed trust for Dante Santaluccia.” He looks up briefly. “The trust will be administered by this firm until Dante reaches the age of eighteen, at which point full control will transfer to him.”

I nod absentmindedly.

“There are additional provisions,” the lawyer adds, and his gaze settles on me. “Chiara, your father set up a trust fund in your name. It vests on marriage or your thirtieth birthday, whichever comes first.”

Married. The word makes my head spin.

“Since you’re now legally married, it’s yours,” he adds. “Access will follow a thirty-day review for legal clearance.”

I nod, trying not to think of the fake vows I took and how little choice I had in that matter. But it all seems unimportant right now.

He turns to Lily. “Mrs. Santaluccia, your father arranged an annual stipend to be paid to you from a separate account until Dante’s trust becomes active.”

Then he closes the folder with finality. “That concludes the formal distribution of assets.” He stands, opens a drawer, and removes a single envelope. “There is one final item,” he says, setting it on the table in front of me. “Your father requested this letter be given to you in person.”

My name is written on the front in his familiar hand. My heart slams against my ribs and my hands begin to shake. A letter from papà.