12. Trilby

T rilby

"Oh, Trilby, if your mama could see you now ..."

I'm standing on a pedestal, facing a large oval mirror. A white bodice peppered with crystals hugs my ribs, and a long satin gown flows to my feet and trails behind me in a small, tasteful train. The halter neckline shows off my shoulders, and a subtle fishtail skirt makes a decadent meal of my curves.

An attendant hands Allegra a box of tissues, and she promptly blows her way through four sheets.

"You look stunning," Sera whispers beside her. "That dress was made for you."

I smooth my hands over my hips and marvel at the way the light bounces off the ripples it creates. "It is a beautiful dress," I agree.

Penelope, one of New York's most coveted seamstresses, takes a pin from her mouth and tucks it into the skirt. "I've been in this business a long time, madam, and the dress is only ever as beautiful as the woman who wears it." She smiles up at me. "I have to agree with your sister."

I turn to my family. "Do you think Savero will like it?" I ask weakly.

Do I want him to like it?

Is it him I want to impress as I walk down that aisle?

I can't allow myself to follow that train of thought, so I turn to my aunt. "He said couture, didn't he?"

Allegra sniffs. "Yes, he did, and that's what this is. But it's irrelevant really. No one is going to wonder who the designer is when you look like this. They'll all be too blown away to care."

Penelope stands back and assesses her handiwork. "I'll take the dress back to my studio. Can you come along in a couple of weeks for another fitting?"

I take a last long look at the dress and permit myself a small smile to counteract the sinking of my stomach. If the final dress fitting is in only two weeks, that means the wedding day isn't too far behind it.

"Yes, of course."

The seamstress helps me undress and conceals the gown in a bridal bag. It's a good thing she does, because the moment we open the door, the unmistakable sound of Di Santo drifts up the stairs.

My heartbeat turns erratic. It's only been a few days since Cristiano pulled me out of the club with a gun in his hand, his finger poised on the trigger. After Rhett, I've been determined not to let him shoot another man as a result of my actions. I didn't anticipate his propensity to put bullets into flesh to raise its head again so soon.

"I'll walk you out," Sera says, leading Penelope down the hallway.

Allegra turns to me with raised eyebrows.

I sigh. "Don't worry about me. I'm going out to the garden to finish my painting."

"Make sure you stay out of trouble," she warns. "I don't want you to give either of those men cause to speak to your father again."

My chin jerks with the effort of holding back a bold retort, and I settle for sticking my tongue out at her departing back. Not too long ago, I would have felt shame—so much shame—at the thought of giving a man reason to "speak to" my father, but these days ... I feel like I have bigger problems. Like, how am I meant to marry a man whose brother makes me so mad, so angry, so hot , I can barely think straight?

The voices congregate in Papa's office, and I hear the word "port" as I get closer. The door is slightly open, and I can't stop myself from glancing through it as I pass.

All three men are standing over Papa's desk. Papa and Savero have their heads down, studying a spread of documents, but Cristiano's eyes rise the second I pause at the gap.

I mentally kick myself. Now I've been spotted, it would be rude to continue on by without greeting my husband-to-be.

I push the door wide and wait for him to raise his head. When he doesn't, I make a play of clearing my throat. Papa opens his mouth to presumably dismiss me from the "men's work," but Savero beats him to it.

"Miss Castellano." His lips twitch into what I assume is a sort of smile.

"Mr. Di Santo."

He draws in a tight breath. "Making the most of the sun, I see."

I glance down at my outfit and mentally kick myself again. I didn't know we were expecting company for a start, and I needed something I didn't mind getting covered in paint. Hence why I chose to wear my faded old denim cutoffs and a red bikini top.

"I'm painting," I reply, my cheeks heating under his scrutiny. "And it's a beautiful day out."

"It is." He looks at me with no emotion. "Well, I'll let you get back to it."

It takes me a few seconds to realize I've been dismissed.

I can't stop my gaze from darting to Cristiano. He has a pen resting against his bottom lip, and his focus on me is thoughtful. I suddenly need the breeze of the outdoors to cool my skin.

Feeling acutely self-aware, I turn my back on the three men and walk out to the garden.

My easel is where I left it, along with the landscape watercolor I began just before Penelope arrived.

While our garden isn't enormous, it backs onto an orchard, and with it being late spring, the blossom is abundant. I've already captured the pale blue of the sky warmed by the blistering white sun, so I mix some greens and browns and set to work.

I'm so absorbed in trying to capture the scene I don't hear footsteps approaching from the house until Cristiano squats down beside me. I'm suddenly infused with nerves, and when I look back at my painting, it seems stupid, like something a child might paint.

"Don't stop on my account." His tone of voice is softer than I expect, but I still hate that he's eyeing my painting and probably seeing all of its imperfections.

I try not to look at him. "Shouldn't you be in Papa's office discussing the port?"

There's a long pause before he replies. "The port is Sav's thing, not mine. If I were still invested in the family businesses, I'd probably have sided with our father on this, but I'm not. Sav's in charge, and this is important to him."

I swallow. I need to ask him something even though I don't particularly want to know the answer. "If you're not invested in the family's businesses, why are you still here?"

He watches me casually as I soak the brush in water and catch a little paint on the tip.

"Moral support. Even though Sav has been Father's head capo for years now, becoming the don so soon was ... unexpected. Not all our soldiers and associates have accepted him yet. I'm staying a while longer to reassure the rest of the family he's the right man for the job."

Something in his words strikes an uncomfortable chord. "If he's been head capo for years, why hasn't he been accepted as the natural successor?"

Another long pause follows, and I try to study him out of the corner of my eye. He grinds his jaw quietly.

"He has a different character to our father, that's all. He has different ideas and priorities. People can be funny about change."

I always thought I was one of those people, fearing change, fearing growth, fearing the idea that things move on. Sadness pricks at the corners of my eyes. Every second I move on is another step further from having my mama in my life.

I remember being in pieces, inconsolable for days, when I started art college. The change, the moving on, was terrifying. Even moving into the apartment felt wrong. It was so different from anything I'd known when Mama was around, but I had to do it. It was one thing for me to suffer through the night but a whole other thing for me to put everyone else through it too.

I've felt the guilt of moving on for five long years.

But for the first time since I lost Mama, I'm feeling it less. In the past few weeks I've found myself seeking change. I've consciously and unconsciously rebelled against the norm; the "what has to be." It doesn't take a genius to know who and what I'm running from. I never wanted to marry Savero, and I still can't reconcile myself with that vision of the future. But, what's harder to confront is what I do want.

Neither of us speak for the next few minutes, amplifying the sound of brushstrokes against canvas. One question sits on the tip of my tongue and makes my throat itch. I take a deep breath before asking.

"How long do you think you'll stay?"

He pushes a hand through his hair and then rubs it down his face. It's a slow, simple movement, but it's a reaction I can read into—a step away from the cool, still exterior he usually displays. My heartbeat quickens.

"I don't know," he replies, his tone weary.

I hold my breath. "Will you stay for the wedding?"

This man is the king of long-drawn-out pauses. He watches each brushstroke until even my hand feels self-conscious. I try my hardest to focus on the painting and not on the weight of his response.

"Of course. I'm going to be Sav's best man." He wraps a hand around the back of his neck and kneads it lightly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "But then I have to get back to work."

I roll back my shoulders. Although his response makes my stomach hollow, we're on safer ground now. It doesn't feel any less dangerous though.

"At the casinos?"

His shoulders relax. "Yeah."

I swallow and pretend to focus on the view I'm trying my hardest to replicate.

It's for the best that he isn't going to stick around. If I'm finding his presence challenge enough before I marry his brother, what will it be like when I'm his sister-in-law? I realize, with dreaded clarity, I don't want Cristiano to leave, and that alone is a clear sign he should. Hopefully, his visits will be few and far between. I have to limit my contact with this man. The survival of my family depends on it.

"Where are they?" I peek sideways at him. "Vegas, the gambling capital of the world?"

A sigh escapes his lips. "Mostly, yes. I do have interests in Atlantic City and also Chicago, but the main money is in Vegas."

"Wow," I breathe. "I've never been there, but I'd love to go one day."

"You like gambling?"

I try to conceal the horror in my features, because gambling is right up there with my views on violence. "No, but I love Elvis."

"You're an Elvis Presley fan?"

I glance sideways, and he's smirking. "More importantly," I say with a frown, "who isn't an Elvis Presley fan?"

He attempts to grimace, but nothing is going to make that face of his appear unpleasant. "I can think of at least one person."

I flick my hair back with a huff. "Well, that one person is a heathen."

When he doesn't throw a quick retort back my way, I look across at him, with my brush midair.

His expression is devious. "If that one person ever heard you call him a heathen, he might throw you over his shoulder and spank your ass to Memphis and back."

My cheeks flood , and I have to look away before I pass out. Cristiano chuckles darkly. I have no idea if he's joking around or being serious.

I paint in silence for the next few minutes, feeling his gaze flicking between the landscape and my painting.

"You're talented, aren't you?" he says eventually.

I laugh nervously. "Not really, but I enjoy it."

I can see him frown out of the corner of my eye. "For fuck's sake, Castellano, I just gave you a compliment. Own it."

His scolding smacks of impatience, which irks me. I train my eyes on the canvas, afraid to look into his eyes.

"Fine. Yes, I'm talented." I purse my lips to stop anything leaving my mouth that I might regret.

"There's a but . . ."

Damn, he's annoyingly astute.

I drop the brush and glare at him. "But ... it doesn't matter, does it? It isn't like I'm going to be able to put it to good use. I'm being married off. I have to say goodbye to further education and work and anything that means—heaven forbid—I might fulfil my potential ..."

"Hold up," he says, frowning. "Who said you have to give up your education?"

"Papa," I snap. "And don't act all surprised—you know it's the Cosa Nostra way. I can't work when I'm a Mafia wife. I've done enough research to know it doesn't reflect well on the husband if his wife works too."

Cristiano's stare pierces my skin until it hurts to look at him. The desire to paint is gone, so I busy myself putting away the colors. The sun is dipping behind the clouds anyway, and I'm beginning to feel a chill.

Without warning, he gets to his feet and brushes his hands down his slacks. It's only then I realize he's been squatting for the past twenty minutes. My leg muscles would have burned to a crisp by now.

I tear my eyes away from his thick thighs, but not quickly enough. His lashes flick upward and catch me staring.

As the flames of humiliation flicker up my neck, heating my cheeks, I turn away from him so he can't witness my embarrassment. I needn't have worried, though, because when I do finally turn around, thankfully, he's gone.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. I can't afford for him to get even the smallest glimpse of my true feelings—how weak I feel the second he enters a room. It shouldn't matter that Savero isn't out here with me and Cristiano is. And I absolutely, unequivocally, shouldn't prefer it that way.