Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

DARIO

I chose Elena because she has no extended family, and hell, I don’t know. I didn’t overthink it. I saw her, and I picked her, and that’s that, goddamn it. Father’s been bothering me for a long time to get married, quiet the tongues wagging that I hadn’t settled down yet, and I needed to get him off my back finally. Sitting at the table, I feel something stir inside as I look across at her.

She’s wearing a silver dress that subtly hugs her figure. She’s curvy in the extreme, her shape rising and falling in a way that triggers something deep and hungry in me. I’m not used to physical attraction like this. Even with family at the table, something moves me as I look across at her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mother says in her usual detached way.

“Yes,” Father says in the same manner. He looks at me, not at Elena, as he speaks. “A pleasure.”

I give him a blank stare in return. He’s clearly trying to make some point, perhaps pissed I haven’t taken a woman from a Family which might afford us an alliance. That was why he and Mother got married, after all. It was for business, even if they did end up falling in love.

“Thank you so much,” Elena says, bright and happy. She doesn’t seem marked by the heaviness of our life. That’s a problem. I could tell how stunned she was by our wealth when she walked through the door. That’s another problem.

When the staff members bring out the food, Elena smiles kindly at them. Her cheeks have a slight flush that continues that quickening of something inside me. It’s not love, obviously. I don’t know her. I’m paying her, but it’s more than I usually experience, which isn’t saying much.

Father frowns when Elena says, “Thank you so much.” His frown deepens when she reaches for the bread plate. I shake my head at her subtly, and her hand immediately retracts. She can take stage directions, then. I wonder what other instructions she could follow.

Father doesn’t like it when people treat the staff like human beings, but, in this modern age, it’s not that unusual.

“It’s, uh, really nice to meet you, too,” Elena says.

“Really nice,” Mother repeats as if the phrasing offended her. “Yes. Remarkable.”

I grit my teeth. There’s something about them looking down on her that pisses me the hell off, even if it shouldn’t. I should be angry at Elena for not being sufficiently prepared, but I can’t bring myself to even think about feeling that emotion.

“You must be relieved to have returned to the East Coast,” Mother says.

“Oh, absolutely,” Elena says, with far too much breathless enthusiasm. “I miss the sun, but I think I love the sea. I love that cold bite in the air, you know?”

“You know,” Father repeats, hating any talk not encased in a prison of formality.

When Father finally reaches for a piece of bread and places it on his plate, I give Elena what I hope is another subtle nod. Her light green eyes—and damn beautiful, I can’t lie—dart to him and then back to me. She gets it. She has to use the plate. She places a piece of bread down, looking at the array of knives. Her eyebrows furrow as she attempts to puzzle it out.

I pick up my knife, and she glances at me, then does the same.

“Our son is woefully distant,” Mother goes on. “He’s hardly told us a thing about you.”

“What would you like to know, Mrs. Moretti?” Elena asks, leaning her elbows on the table.

To regular people, this might not seem like anything of significance. Honestly, to me, it means nothing. I wouldn’t care if she wanted to sit cross-legged on the table and spoon the food into her mouth with her hand. At least it would put an interesting look on Mother and Father’s faces, but they stare like Elena’s just thrown a curse word at them.

She must sense it because she glances at me. I subtly touch my elbow with my hand. She winces and removes her elbows.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mother says, waving a hand. “What do you think of La Dolce Vita, for example?”

“That seems random, Mother,” I mutter, wondering if she’s trying to trip Elena up already.

She rolls her eyes at me. “We have to start somewhere , don’t we?”

Elena’s cheeks flush, her lips parting slightly. It’s clear she’s never heard of the classic Italian film, which is surprising considering she’s an actress. Then again, maybe her tastes are more recent than nineteen-sixty.

“I think they’re way better than Dolce instead, she looks at me for her next cue. I meet her eye, reading the panic there. She looks like she’s drowning in social etiquette. I’m paying her, for Christ’s sake. I shouldn’t care or feel guilty.

And I don’t, I tell myself, even if it’s a lie. I don’t care if this upsets her or if she’ll have to spend hours every night studying to be somebody she’s not. It’s why I hired her, after all. Maybe I should’ve given her time to learn her role and not thrown her into the deep end, but it’s too late for that now.

When my father cuts into his steak, I do, then so does Elena. Now, there’s another issue. She begins to cut her steak into several small pieces instead of cutting, eating, and then cutting again. I clear my throat. She glances at my plate, realizes, then quickly stuffs the food into her mouth. I almost laugh as she chews two pieces, much too big.

I can feel Mother looking at me with judgment, but Elena looks … cute? Is that the word? I don’t know, but it’s endearing in a way I don’t understand. Still, it’s not like it matters. I’m paying her to be here. Mother and Father would freak if their son, their prince, ever married a girl beneath him.

“It’s such a shame about your family, Elena,” Mother says. “I hope you don’t mind me saying.”

The story is that Elena’s family, of extremely high social status, perished in a fire, leaving only her and her Aunt Rosa, who has Guillain-Barré Syndrome. As far as I understand, the latter half is true.

“Thank you,” Elena says. “That’s very kind.”

“A shame indeed,” my father says, looking at me. “About your family.”

“How’s the deal going, Father?” I ask, swiftly changing the subject. I see they already have their suspicions, but in our life, they’d never come outright and say it during dinner.

“Keeping me busy,” he says. It’s true and probably the one thing that will make this scheme possible. My father’s attempting a land grab at the docks, involving long meetings and plenty of stress. “At least I have my son to handle matters skillfully until business concludes.”

“It’s my duty,” I tell him.

If there’s one thing a Moretti knows, it’s duty.

We eat without conversation, and then my father’s cell phone rings. I repress the urge to let out a sigh of relief. The tension felt like it was building up to a near explosion for a few minutes. He speaks quickly into his phone and then stands. “I apologize. Business awaits. Perhaps we can pick this up at brunch tomorrow.”

My mother stands with an undecipherable smile. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

“Allow me to see you out,” I say.

I lead them to the door. Mother throws her arms around me and gives me a big hug. She always does that, despite the distance in this family, in the Family. I return the hug, holding her tight and close. She’s always been more loving than my father. Father offers me his hand, and we shake.

“Dare I ask what you think?” I inquire.

“You could,” Father says, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”

I grit my teeth and almost curse at him. I’ve always hated the way he looks down on people, mainly because he was once poor, even poorer than Elena. He once said I had the luxury of being courteous to those beneath me because I was born into money. I’m still not sure what he meant by that.

After they’re gone, I return to the dining room to find Elena sitting with her head in her hands. I pause in the doorway. She doesn’t realize I’m back.

“Stupid, stupid,” she mutters.

I clear my throat, taking a step forward.

“That wasn’t good, was it?” she says while looking up at me, her hair tousled around her shoulders. The strange urge to run my hand through it strikes me.

I should tell her the truth: No, that was terrible. They’re suspicious already . However, something about the panic on her face stops me.

“They’re always like that,” I tell her.

“Was I supposed to memorize every obscure fancy-pants reference?”

I chuckle. It feels good, but then I kill it. It seems wrong to squelch such a slight reaction, but it’s necessary.

“What’s so funny?” she snaps.

“I don’t think anyone in this house has ever used the term fancy pants before.”

“Well, that’s what you all are,” she shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Something tells me you only said that because I’m paying you.”

“Isn’t that what this whole thing is, anyway?” she sighs. “I’ll try to be better tomorrow.”

I might tell her she’s right if I was in Prince Moretti mode. I might explain that her money, therefore her fate, depends on her being better. I try to force myself to say it, to summon the cruelty to be cold, blunt, brutal—what I need to be to sell this lie. The truth is, that was a terrible performance.

Yet I can’t say any of that. Instead, I take my seat at the table. “Don’t worry about it. There’s always tomorrow, like you said. Plus, my father’s busy with a business deal. I’m sure he was hardly paying attention.”

“He will, though, the more time we spend together.”

I nod. “Yes, he will.”

“So I’ll try to be better,” she says with determination. “An actor has to take every role seriously. Even if she disagrees with it, even if she thinks the lies are crap, she has to sell them. That’s her duty.”

“You sound like you’re going to do a great job.”

“What about you?” she murmurs.

“What about me?”

“Are you …” She hesitates. “Busy? Up to much? How’s life treating you?”

A smirk almost touches my lips, but old habits force me to bury it. I’ve kept my emotions at bay since I was a boy. After a while, pretending I don’t have any becomes possible.

“You don’t want to know what I’m doing,” I tell her, “and I’m not one for small talk.”

She winces. Again, that absurd guilt touches me. I’ve already paid her more than most people make in half a year, and she has ten times that coming. All for a few weeks of a sham marriage and a divorce, but I can’t deny it. It’s there.

She pushes away from the table, the chair making a screeching noise. I wonder if this is her way of telling me she’s pissed without coming outright and saying it. “May I be excused?”

“I’m not your boss.”

“Well, you’re paying me, making you my boss.”

I feel my manhood twitch. I ignore it or do my best to, anyway. I can get away with a sham marriage if it’s over in a few weeks, especially if it’s over before my father’s land grab concludes. There’s no way the Moretti Family would ever allow their prince to be with a poor woman from the wrong side of the tracks long-term.

“Then yeah,” I grunt, trying to be cool, “you can be excused.”

She stands, causing the material of her dress to shift. The cut shows a generous helping of her thick, shapely thighs. I bite down, purposefully staring straight ahead as she leaves the room. Otherwise, I’ll turn to get a greedy look at her ass.

There’s something about her.

I massage my forehead, trying to force that thought out of my brain. It sadly doesn’t help any.