Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

DARIO

“ H ow’s the land grab going?” I ask, looking across the desk at my father.

Salvatore Moretti steeples his fingers, watching me in a calculating way that reminds me of Paolo. Then his expression softens, barely visible. Only I would be able to notice it. “It’s going,” he says after a pause. “You know what this city’s like—red tape upon red tape. However, we’ll legally own almost half the city when it’s done. Legal, legitimate ownership that will outlast me and outlast you. This is the kind of arrangement you can pass on to your children.”

I look down at the desk, resisting the urge to grit my teeth.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Father asks.

“Call me arrogant,” I say, “but I have an inkling I know where this conversation is going. You’re going to tell me you disapprove of Elena.”

Fierce anger enters my voice. Maybe this makes me a hypocrite. Last night, after the steaminess, I spent the rest of the evening attempting to convince myself I didn’t feel a goddamn thing. I wasn’t successful, but that gives me no right to be pissed at my father.

“Your mother seems to have taken a liking to her,” Father says, not sounding too happy about it.

“I thought she was just drunk.”

“This morning at breakfast, she commented on how charming Elena was.”

“Did you disagree?”

“I reserved my opinion,” Father replies. “I have also, at least so far, reserved my instinct to have my men look into her history. I trust you, son, that you’ve vetted and confirmed her as a suitable match. I’m not working this hard to establish us as the most powerful Family on the East Coast only to have it turn to ash once I’m gone.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I tell him. “You’re going to be around for a long time yet.”

“Legacy,” he says fiercely. “That’s what keeps me going at this point. When I was your age, you were already a teenager. I want you to have a family, Dario. I want you to know what it’s like to hold your child in your arms for the first time.”

“I thought you wanted me to marry a proper girl from a proper family so that we looked suitably upper class to the rest of the city.”

“You can have both,” he says, with a hint of desperation, which isn’t how Salvatore Moretti usually behaves.

“Are you feeling okay, Father?” I ask.

He sighs. “I want this deal to be over. I want to be free to be excited about my son’s wedding.”

“If you need any help …”

He shakes his head. “You have your hands full with the Romanos. I heard about the unfortunate accident their bar suffered. It seems providence has allowed Vincenzo to see the error of his ways.”

“Let’s hope the man is sensible enough to read the signs accurately,” I agree.

“Are you excited, son?” he asks after a pause. “About the wedding? About being a husband? About starting a family?”

As callous as it now seems, when I invented this scheme, I didn’t stop to think about the emotional impact on my old man. Sure, that might’ve had something to do with the fact he typically never shows emotion. This is especially unusual for him. I only wanted to get him off my back about this whole marriage situation and finally wash my hands of this persistent thorn in my side.

“Yes,” I say, my heart thumping, piercing me with guilt like shrapnel.

“Good.” My father offers a rare smile. “Yes, that’s good.” His smile falters when his cell phone rings. “Please, excuse me.”

I offer him a handshake, which is how we usually end these meetings. He holds on for a few moments longer, looking me deeply in the eyes. I’m moved, and I almost tell him the truth. I can’t let him start to get real about this. It was almost better when he was fully disapproving.

As I leave, his phone still ringing, he says, “It would be far better if she knew which cutlery to use, son. Be careful. I wouldn’t want you to be duped.”

Without turning to face him, I say, “I’m always careful, Father. You taught me well.”

I’m almost relieved he felt it necessary to toss that shit sandwich on top of the conversation. I thought he’d gone completely soft. He’s excited about the idea of a wedding and an heir, but if he knew who Elena really was, that excitement would quickly turn to rage. He’ll probably be relieved when we divorce.

Returning home, I find Elena on the back porch, flicking through a wedding magazine. I stand at the window, watching as she leans over the magazine, her hair falling across her forehead. She blows it out of the way, making me chuckle. She is so. Damn. Cute.

She twirls a strand of wavy hair around her finger, biting her lip as she turns the magazine page. I lean against the counter, remembering last night, lying in bed, wondering if the steaminess we shared was real on her part. It felt genuine, but can I ever be sure?

However, she doesn’t know I’m watching her now, and this seems so natural. She appears excited. Or maybe she’s doing the method-acting thing, getting so into her role that I’d never be able to tell reality from the fake.

As if she senses me watching her, she looks up. Her instinctive reaction is a broad, beautiful smile. I open the door and walk out into the uncharacteristically bright day.

“It looks like you’re having fun,” I say.

“These dresses are beautiful,” she replies carefully, almost like she’s wondering what version of Dario Moretti she’s dealing with today. Can I blame her? I’ve been giving her nothing but mixed signals. “My friend told me that, even if this is going to end, I should try to enjoy the experience. So I’m looking at dresses.”

“See any you like?”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. When I chuckle, she says, “I was going to say the groom isn’t supposed to see the dress, but since this is a fake wedding, it can’t do any harm.”

I look around, making sure nobody can hear us.

“Sorry,” Elena says quickly.

“It’s fine. We’re alone. May I?” I gesture at the chair opposite her.

“It’s your house.”

“Is that more sass?”

“Are you complaining?” I quip back.

I smirk, sitting down and running a hand through my hair. There might be a war with the Romanos on the horizon. Any second, Father or one of his men could barge in here and tell me he knows the truth about my scam, but right now, it’s just Elena and me.

“I know nothing about dresses,” I say, “but I’ll ask anyway. Have you seen anything you like?”

“What do you think of this one?” she says, turning the magazine and pointing to a modern dress with a short cut.

“Is that a wedding dress?” I ask.

She laughs. I could get used to that sound and the flutter it causes in my chest. “If you wore that, I’d have to kick the asses of half the guests. Everybody would stare at your legs.”

“Ha ha,” she mutters. “Yeah, right …”

“I’m serious. Look how much is on show.”

“Yeah, but this model is pretty .”

“You’re beautiful,” I snap. “Don’t talk down on yourself, Elena.”

“Whoa. Okay. Sorry.”

I try to laugh it off. “I don’t want to snap, but hell, do you not know how attractive you are?”

“Do you remember what I told you in the limo?”

“That you’re a virgin?” When she flinches, I say, “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe you’ve been saving yourself for marriage.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never wanted one. Ever since the fire, I’ve just wanted to act and be somebody else. Forget the girl who lost everything. Just act but never grow attached to anyone. I never even wanted to be an actor before the fire. After, it’s the only thing I wanted.”

Tears crystalize in her eyes. I pull my chair around the table, putting my arm around her and gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs.

“You don’t have to be.” It would be far better if she knew which cutlery to use, son. Damn. Why am I replaying my father’s words now? “It can’t be easy.”

“I was doing a good job of stuffing it all down until Aunt Rosa went off earlier today.”

“Went off?”

“She said the fire wasn’t an accident. She said it was her fault, but she’s ill. The other week, she believed she could fly.” She laughs bravely through a sob, then flicks back through the magazine. “What about this one?” She points to a traditional dress.

I look at it, imagining it wrapped around Elena’s curvy body.

“I take it that smile means you like it?”

“I think it would suit you,” I say.

She smooths her hand down my arm and takes my hand. It’s all an act, but it doesn’t feel that way. If my father knew … but he doesn’t. If the Romano problem escalates, she’ll be in danger, but here and now, she’s safe. She’s with me.

“Can you imagine standing at the altar as I walk up the aisle in it?”

I close my eyes and picture the scene. Unexpected emotion grips me: joy, desire, excitement, and expectation. “Yes,” I admit huskily. “I can.”

“I’ll put a big circle around that one, then.”

I open my eyes, let her hand go, then stand up. I do it too fast, causing my chair to fall backward. I get a sudden image of the Romano man we tortured when his chair fell over after Allessio hit him. It’s like the two worlds are crashing together.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, looking up at me with still-glistening eyes.

“Yes, I just have work, that’s all,” I say, turning to leave, but then I turn back. “Elena, I want you to know that I’d never assess your worth based on how you speak, how you dress, the books you like, or any of that crap. My opinion of you comes from you .”

“Then you’re an odd one out among the Morettis, Dario.”

“I’ve felt that way my entire life—the outsider who also lives within.”

“Thank you,” she says, “for not judging me.”

“You’re a good person,” I tell her. “When this is over, you’re going to do amazing things. One day, I’ll look up at a billboard, and there you’ll be, the star of the show. I’ll have to wait in line to get your autograph.”

She looks hurt that I’ve referenced the end of this so-called relationship. “Yeah,” she murmurs, returning to the magazine. “What a scene that’ll be.”

I turn away, hating I caused that hurt in her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve got to get to work.”

With my back turned, she grumbles, “Work.” There’s bitterness in her voice. I wonder if she’s trying to make a point, maybe a way to get back at me for reminding her this entire thing has an expiration date.

I turn to face her again. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

“No, except … have a good day. Try not to stress too much. I hope you have lots of fun conversations next to the water cooler.”

Even with the tension between us, I enjoy her sassiness and bravery. Few women would ever dream of talking to the Moretti prince like she does, and Elena does it so naturally, as though speaking to me in any other way has never even occurred to her.

“I know what you’re getting at,” I growl.

“Do you always care this much about the opinions of your employees?”

“You’re not my employee,” I snap.

She closes the wedding magazine with an air of finality. “What am I, then?”

The only woman I’ve ever given a damn about . I look at her for a long moment, deep into her perfect eyes, wanting so badly to lean down and kiss her again. Yet I hold myself back. She’s right; our worlds can’t coexist for long—maybe for a short time, maybe for a scam, but not forever.

Without replying, I leave her there.