Ping.I glance at my phone, grateful for the distraction. Dante has replied to my earlier message, asking if he’s joining us.
Dante:Ciao, Luce. I’m in Rome and haven’t heard from Papa in over a week.
I can’t remember the last time, if ever, I was invited to have dinner alone with my father, and I’m edging toward panic as I throw various possibilities around in my head. If I thought it would help, I’d call Dante to talk me down off the cliff, but as the only other person who understands our father, I don’t expecthe’d have anything to say that would actually work. It’s more likely he’d ratchet up my stress level.
Digging my teeth into my bottom lip, I chew off the lipstick I applied only a few minutes ago, before I check the time on my cell again. At least I have the perfect excuse ready to make this visit short: my flight to London later this evening.
It was Ant’s suggestion when he saw how worried I was about the meeting.
Leaning back against the buttery-soft leather of the headrest, I close my eyes and think about my week ahead.
London Fashion Week is a dream come true, with international recognition. And for the first time, the models will be walking on a global stage wearing my new designs. A different kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach. They unfurl their wings in a joyous dance of success at having reached this career milestone, my first major fashion week show.
My work is something my father can never take away from me. But with that thought, a new kernel of concern washes over me.
Is this why he wants to see me now?
My eyes spring back open. No, I would fight that. Like Antonio said.You have to choose your battles carefully.
The car crunches to a stop in the gravel driveway at the front of the house I once lived in. That was so long ago, though, that any remnants of affection at seeing the imposing stone facade have long since disappeared. This building never really felt like a home, with the immaculate, luxurious interiors that looked like a photographer could arrive at any moment to do a feature for a lifestyle magazine. Even Mamma refuses to spend time at the house that lacks any signs of it being a family home, instead preferring to live in the Rome apartment.
To the world, my parents are the perfect couple, but in reality, they barely tolerate each other, choosing to live separate lives.
A deep inhale lifts my shoulders almost to my ears, and on the exhale, they drop again. It does little to slow my pounding heart as I step out of the car.
“Grazie,” I mutter to the driver before turning and trudging toward the imposing entrance.
Curling my fingers under the solid brass knocker, I tap it several times against the double-height wooden door. I wait, knowing better than to turn the handle and walk in unannounced.
One of my father’s assistants pulls the door open. I don’t recognize her, which isn’t surprising, considering his turnover of staff is high. Another fact that’s not shocking.
“Your father has asked for you to join him in the study,” she says, her British accent so sharp it could break glass.
I thank her and follow the wide hallway to the end, my heels clicking against the terrazzo tiles in time with the ornately carved wall clock hanging halfway along. The ticking a reminder of the times during my childhood when Dante and I would be called to my father’s study, usually to be reprimanded for nothing more than being children.
Maybe it’s time I stopped letting this man and house turn me back into that scared little girl. In every other aspect of my life, I’m a strong, independent woman, and I summon every ounce of that self-confidence I possess before knocking on the study door.
“Entra,” he orders, and I ignore the slight tremble of my fingers as I turn the handle and stride into the room.
Franco Romano is an intimidating figure in any setting, but as he sits behind the large antique desk in the middle of the room, it’s like I’ve walked into the lion’s den.
“Sit,” he commands.
“Thank you,” I reply, sugarcoating the words with a sweet smile while I perch on the edge of the leather chair directly opposite.
His features remain set. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s had a recent injection of Botox, they are so lacking in movement. “I expect you are wondering why I asked you here today.”
“You mean it’s not just to have dinner with your daughter?” I ask before I have to look away from his expressionless stare. Where is the anger I’d normally see flaring in his brown eyes after such a taunt? A wave of uneasiness washes over me, landing like a lead weight in my chest, and I fold my hands together on my lap to hold them steady.
“No, Lucia.” His voice rises several decibels, breaking through the silence. “You’re here to fulfill your duty as my only daughter.”
My head jerks up as my gaze narrows. “And what would that duty be?” I hate that my voice wobbles.
“You are to marry.”
I jump to my feet. “What? No.”
“Sit down,” he booms, and even though my legs are shaking, I remain standing.
