Chapter 12

Iwrapped my arm around Antonia's elbow and pulled her away from Matteo before he offered his arm to escort her into dinner.

Lowering my head, I hissed, "Are you trying to antagonize him?"

Antonia tried to pull free, but I tightened my grip. "I don't know what antagonize means."

I inhaled through my nose, and barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "It means piss him off."

She cocked her head to the side, arms raised to adjust her earring. "What do I care if he gets pissed off? I'm not marrying him."

I glanced around to ensure none of the guests, especially my father, had overheard her. "Dio Santo, Toni! Don't say such things so loud. Do you want to get us into trouble?"

This was partially my fault. To keep her away from Matteo, I exaggerated the horrors of marrying him. Now she had become stubborn and belligerent over the whole affair. Mainly because she just assumed I would fix everything like I always did.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not convince her of the real danger she was in over this mess.

Antonia pulled free of my grasp and gave a dismissive flick of her hand as she made a beeline for Alessio. "You're overreacting, Ella."

Before I reached the dining room, a hand encircled my waist and pulled me close to a warm body leaning into my back.

For one startled moment, my body thought it was Matteo and responded. My nipples hardened and my breath caught in a quick gasp. I was reacting to his touch despite the surrounding guests and my precarious situation as reason fled my mind the same way it had when his thigh grazed my hand earlier.

What the hell was wrong with me?

"Looking as beautiful as always, Antonella."

I shivered with revulsion when I realized it was Falcone, an old associate of my Fathers. As in, older than my father. As in, old man who shouldn't be touching a woman younger than his own daughter.

Without turning to meet his gaze, I tried to pull away.

His grip tightened.

When I would have taken more drastic measures, I caught my father's eye.

He looked over my shoulder at Falcone, then back at me. Instead of insisting the man unhand his daughter, he raised his glass and called out, "Looks like you got yourself a handful, Falcone."

Eww.

Falcone stroked my hair while still keeping a proprietary grip on my hip. "She looks just like her mother at this age."

Bile rose in the back of my throat.

My father spit on the floor. "That whore. The only good thing about that woman was her tits. Too bad Antonella didn't inherit them."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat as I stared at the floor. Hearing my mother referred to as a whore never got easier. No matter how many times my father did so, which was often.

It also wasn't unusual to have to endure obscene comments from my father and too-familiar touches from his soldati. In fact, my father often encouraged it. Forcing my sister and me to walk among his male guests as if we were possessions, allowing them to briefly touch and ogle.

My father tilted his chin up. "At least Antonia did and knows how to show them off. And why not? It's the only thing a woman is good for."

Antonia turned at the sound of her name. "What, Father?"

"Your tits."

She smoothed her hands down her waist as she pushed her chest out, displaying her cleavage. "Thank you, Father."

"Antonella, be nice to Falcone. The next marriage I arrange may be yours. It's past time you and your sister got out of my house and made yourselves useful."

I'm going to be sick.

The room spun as my eyelids fluttered.

"Falcone, is it? You don't mind if I take the privilege of a future brother-in-law and escort Ella into dinner, do you?"

Matteo wrapped his hand around my upper arm and drew me away from Falcone's grasp.

Later tonight, under my bedcovers, Id reflect on his failure to recognize me.

Part of me was relieved, since it would have set off a clusterfuck of problems, but on the other hand, I was a little disappointed.

Another tiny, rebellious part of me wanted him to have stormed across the room, taken me in his arms, and declared he had never been deceived for one moment.

The music playing would, of course, be Rota'sLove Theme from Romeo and Juliet, as arranged by R. Hayman for the Boston Pops Orchestra. My favorite version because of the raw passion and drama of the notes, instead of the usual solemn, plaintive interpretation.

Sigh. I was a music geek, even in my fantasies.

It was silly, of course. It wasn't like I wanted to marry Matteo Cavalieri in my sister's place.

But still … it would have been nice. In a fucked-up, make a mess of my life, betray my sister, anger my father, ruin my life sort of way.

Falcone frowned and tried to snatch my arm back. "Actually, I do?—"

Matteo used his body as a barrier between me and Falcone, smoothly stepping closer to my side. "Excellent. I knew you'd understand."

He placed his palm on my lower back and led me into dinner.

Visions of last night flashed through my mind, of when he placed his hand there to hold me still so he could force the dildo handle between my legs until I came. My cheeks burned at the memory.

Tilting my head forward so my hair would fall over my cheeks, I stole a quick glance at him from under my eyelashes and said, "Thank you for the rescue, brother."

He winked. "No problem, sis."

There was no reason why our playful banter should cause a sharp, piercing ache in my chest. I touched a fingertip to the corner of my eye. No reason at all. It was endearing that his nickname for me would be sis. Yup, super endearing.

We circled the long, polished oak table before Matteo pulled out one of the ornate, filigree-backed chairs for me to sit. Then took the seat next to me.

No. No. No. Think nothing of this.It didnt mean he suddenly recognized me. It definitely didnt mean he'd prefer to sit next to me. It was a future brother-in-law sitting next to his future sister-in-law. Nothing more.

And not even that, if Fino came through in time.

My father groused from the head of the table. "Wrong daughter, Cavalieri. The one you're buying is over there." He gestured wildly, spilling his drink on a passing servant. "Antonia! Get away from Alessio and go sit next to your groom."

Antonia stamped her foot under the table. "Why should I have to sit next to him? Make him sit next to me!"

"Get your ass out of that chair and sit next to him."

With a glare at me, she deliberately knocked over her water glass with a swipe of her hand, saturating the tablecloth and seat cushion after rising. Since I was the one switching seats with her because everyone else was already seated, there was no mistaking that she did it deliberately to punish me.

It would be a miracle if I survived this dinner without bursting into flames from embarrassment.

Bracing my palms against the edge of the table, I moved to push back my chair when Matteo placed his hand over mine. "Don't move."

He faced the man on his left. "A lady should not have to rise once seated, wouldn't you agree?"

After a moment, the man tossed his napkin onto his plate, rose, and made room for Antonia.

An anxious glance down the table to the end told me my father was deep in conversation with his consigliere and had not witnessed the exchange.

I leaned over to Matteo. "It's fine. Really. My father will be angry if he learns I allowed one of his soldati to sit on a wet chair."

Matteo winked at me again. "Then it is a good thing the servers are already taking care of it."

Sciatiri e matri!A wink should not be so charming and sexy and adorable all at once.

Facing forward so he couldn't read my reaction, I saw the servants had indeed already replaced the chair with one of the extra ones that usually remained in the corner of the dining room and placed several cloth napkins under the plate to cover the water damage.

Antonia slouched in the chair to his left and folded her arms with a huff.

A servant approached from behind to pour the prosecco as other staff members brought the antipasti platters. The sharp, pungent aroma of anchovies and oil rose from the platter of pitoni a la missinisi someone placedto my right. It battled with the crisp, clean scent of the 'nsalata ri limuni e arancias orange and lemon slices, theirchartreuse and coral colors vivid against the crystal bowl.

Antonia spat out, "Don't give me prosecco, you idiot. I hate the bubbles."

When her arm stretched out to swipe the glass, Matteo, with lightning-quick reflexes, snatched the glass off the table before she reached it.

Without missing a beat, he leaned over to her and said softly but just loud enough for me to hear, "I'd be happy to drink yours, babygirl."

My stomach twisted.

Babygirl.

He had called me babygirl last night.

Open your mouth, babygirl.

In a breach of etiquette, I reached for my glass and drained the contents before the toast. A nearby servant rushed to refill it as I tried to ignore Matteo's questioning look. "Thirsty?"

"You could say that."

Antonia leaned forward. Her lower lip thrust out in a pout. "Stop talking to my sister. You're supposed to be paying attention to me."

Matteo laid his hand over his heart. "My apologies."

Not finished, she continued in a fit of pique. "And don't call me babygirl. I can't stand that nickname. It makes me sound like an insipid child's toy."

Matteo grinned. "You liked it well enough last night."

I choked on my sip of prosecco, the bubbles going up my nose.

Antonia frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Before Matteo could repeat himself, I reached over my shoulder and snatched a small pewter tray from a passing servant's hands. "Would you like some preserved artichoke hearts, Matteo? Our cook makes them with Sicilian oregano. It's way more intense than the oregano in Italy."

Antonia grabbed the glass of Moscato Bianco offered to her. "What the hell is wrong with you, Ella? You're acting weird. Put down the stupid platter and let the servants earn their keep."

I leaned back in my chair, cradling my glass of prosecco to my chest. "Yes, Antonia."

I needed to calm the fuck down.

If Antonia, the Queen of Narcissism, was noticing my behavior, it meant it was painfully obvious.

Matteo cleared his throat. "So, Antonia … have you read any good books lately?"

She eyed him up and down. "What are you, eighty? No one reads books anymore."

To cover my sister's rude response, I answered without thinking. "I'm reading Bread and Wine by Ignazio Silone."

Matteo turned and stared at me for so long, I thought I may have somehow given myself away.

He cocked his head to the side as his brow furrowed. "Book two in the famous trilogy about Abruzzo?"

Uh oh.

I raised my arm, holding my glass high, signaling I wanted more prosecco. At this rate, I'd be under the table before the secondo piatto. "Is it set in Abruzzo? I hadn't noticed." Liar.

Matteo looked puzzled, for good reason. The Abruzzo region was practically a second character in the book.

To cover my gaffe, I asked, "Are you reading anything?"

The corner of his mouth lifted.

The mouth that kissed me last night.

"On Persephone's Island by Mary Taylor Simeti."

A book about Sicily written by a woman, no less.

I tried very hard not to be impressed. As a man, if he were going to read a book on Sicily, I would have expected it to be one of any number written about our notorious association with Cosa Nostra, the mafiosi, of which my father played an integral role. Not a poetic travel journal.

He chuckled. "Admit it. You expected me to say something Neanderthalish like The Making of The Godfather."

I smiled against the lip of my prosecco flute. "Not true." So true.

When the servants cleared the antipasti platters, Matteo stopped them. "Wait!" He then pivoted his head between us. "You girls didn't get any? Did you want me to serve you something before they clear?"

Antonia waved her hand. "We're not hungry."

I nodded.

Replacing the platters were three large shallow ceramic bowls of lasagni cu rau ri maiali e ricotta. I had to tighten my stomach muscles to keep it from growling at the lingering scent of the cinnamon, cloves, and fennel used to prepare the pork before it was added to the ragu.

Unlike Antonia, I was too nervous about Matteo's arrival to eat before dinner, away from Father's criticizing gaze, like we usually did.

I licked my lips, but then quickly sucked them tightly between my teeth in case one of the guests, or worse, Father, noticed me salivating over the creamy dollop of ricotta on top of the freshly made pasta ribbons.

Without asking first, Matteo lifted my plate and scooped a large portion onto it. He then reached for Antonia's plate.

She leaned back to meet my gaze behind his back and mouthed, what should we do?

I shrugged and mouthed back, no idea.

We both reached for our freshly poured glasses of Nero d'Avola red wine and returned matching, tight-lipped smiles in response to Matteo setting the plates back in front of us.

With this course, Matteo joined in the discussion among the men about some new trade agreement the Italian government had entered into with a Middle Eastern country, undercutting the Sicilian orange trade.

Antonia and I each pushed our food around our plates as I listened, and Antonia pretended to. After a suitable amount of time, I excused myself from the table and smoothly took my full plate with me. As I neared Antonia's chair, she slipped her own plate behind her back. I grabbed it on my way by.

The kitchen was a warm, frenetic scene of chaos and energy as the staff prepared for the next course. I passed through it to a small antechamber next to the pantry that served as a dish room, where I scraped the plates.

Before returning to the dinner table, I gave our cook, Maria, a kiss on the cheek and told her how well things were going.

For the meat course, a roasted rabbit with pomegranate, I did the same maneuver but not before my father stopped the conversation to call down the table. "Watch it, porcellini. You don't want to get fat like your whore of a mother before she ran off."

Piggies. My father's pet name for us at the dinner table. I dreamed of one day firing back that my mother was a slim size forty-four.

"Yes, Father," we answered in unison.

It was a relief to escape the table once more.

The last course, cheese and fruit, was already plated and ready. Outside, the kitchen staff took a break for some fresh air, grabbing a smoke together.

I scraped the plates and set them on the counter before going to the side entrance of the pantry and entering the attached greenhouse near the kitchen. Inhaling the earthy, sweet, warm air deep into my lungs, I crossed the black-and-white tile floor to the glass lattice-window door, foggy with condensation, which led to the lemon grove.

Resisting the urge to run through the trees to my gazebo sanctuary and just lose myself in my music, I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in the crisp, citrus air.

With reluctance, I turned to head back to the dinner party from hell, only to find Matteo blocking my path.