Lucio’s jaw dropped.
Dumping her into her seat in front of her hot meal, I too plunked into the chair at the head of the table. My limbs shook with suppressed rage, and I inhaled a breath, catching hints of the focaccia I detected earlier. A spread of pasta, bread, cheese,and olives overflowed the table, a feast meant for family, yet this table couldn’t be anymore divided.
“Our bride has joined us at last, I see.” Carina abandoned any attempt to hide the cruelness in her taunt.
“Cut it out!” I stabbed my fork into my pasta and eggplant, the tines letting out a high-pitched screech against the ceramic. “You and I will talk later.”
Carina tilted her nose, her eyes flickering. My mother would have known Gemma isolated and starved herself today. I get she hated the woman, but I never agreed to torturing the poor girl. A spark ignited within me at the threat of my mother harming her, but I tamped it down. No, Carina wouldn’t dare. Seeing the plan through meant too much, even for her to jeopardize.
Gemma bared her teeth and raised her fork. No doubt to poke out my eye. “You want me to eat? Fine!” She stabbed the plate and shoveled in mouthful after mouthful. “See, I’m eating.” More mouthfuls. “Wook?”Cheeks glutted, she mumbled through her food. “Woo wappy wow?”
Carina stroked her throat, wrinkling her nose.
Lucio stamped his lips together, but the attempt did nothing to smother the humor twinkling in his eyes.
Vigilant, I listened out for gagging in case her stupid tantrum resulted in her choking. The fork in my hand indented my palm with how hard I squeezed the metal. Who’d given this woman a handbook on how to push all my buttons? I snatched the hock glass, gulping the smooth red in one go, the fine wine leaving a bitter aftertaste that had nothing to do with the vintage and everything to do with the patronizing woman beside me. “Si, thrilled.”
I returned to my own meal and ignored the pasta strands dangling out of her engorged mouth. If she choked, she deserved nothing less. Dead air stretched as we all ate our meals, the strain in the room so thick, I could barely breathe. I tugged atmy collar. Gemma didn’t frown at the lack of table talk, probably too consumed with inhaling her next breath. The woman would suffer heartburn at this rate. Stubborn to the bone.
Carina and Lucio finished their meals and excused themselves, which left me and my oh-so-lovable wife at the table. I sipped the remnants of my wine and stole another peek at her.
She slumped in her seat, features contorted as she rubbed her tummy in small circles.
My shoulders dropped, exhaling a final harsh sigh through my nose at the sight of her discomfort. Tossing my napkin on the table, I shot out of my chair. “Get up. We’re going for a walk.”
Her hand paused over her full stomach. She stared, eyes narrowed, perhaps gauging my purpose. At last, she snatched a napkin and dabbed her mouth. “Okay.” Her grimace conveyed she felt too sick to protest.
Good. Finally, she agreed without argument.
The instant I ushered her into the garden for our sunset stroll, her gaze lingered on the guards patrolling the villa, not at the rose bushes or fountain. She squinted, practically counting how many lurked. No wonder she agreed to join without dispute; freedom was the flower Gemma intended to pick.
The stiff set of her shoulders loosened, a silent acceptance of reality. No escaping. Her hand, no longer shielding her eyes from the setting sun, fell to her side. She ambled alongside me, at last pausing at the immaculate garden, tilting her head to inhale the fragrant citrus from the nearby groves. The air buzzed, a thrumming energy of bees flitting from blossom to blossom. “Tell the staff to call me Gemma. Just Gemma. Not Signora Cammarata.”
“Why?” No sense in fighting facts. “We are married now. Cammarata is your new name.”
She gave a mock laugh. “Married to a complete stranger. I know nothing about you. I don’t even know how old you are.”
I leisurely kicked at a stone, the pebble bouncing back into its place along the path. We were strangers, but from the moment I laid eyes on her, I didn’t want to be. “I’m thirty, if you must know.”
“Thirty!” She gawked and stumbled along the paved footpath to catch up to me. “Enzo, we share a nine-year age difference.”
Her distress over my age twitched my lips. “Same as my grandparents. What’s the big deal?”
She glimpsed from her peripheral and muttered under her breath. “Cradle snatcher.”
I bit my inner cheek. Cradle snatcher. As stated on her passport, she’d turned twenty-one six months ago, not a baby as she’d labeled herself.
“May I have my phone back?” The question verged on a demand, her pointed stare refusing to back down. “I owe my friends… Matthew, an explanation. I know them. They’ll be worried sick about me.”
Mai. If her friends caught wind of her situation, they’d contact the authorities, ripping my plan to shreds. The guard tracking her friends had reported their persistence: they refused to leave the country, dragging Matthew to the Australian embassy in Rome. Unlike her gullible fiancé, they rejected the story of her marrying another man… until I sent my police officer friend in Rome over to the embassy to confirm the news. Antonio stressed to them Miss Galo was now married under Italian law, and nothing further could be done from a legal standpoint. He also pointed out their continued presence would not change the situation, and Gemma would contact them when she felt ready. The women accepted the truth at last and traveled home.
As for contacting Matthew? Over my dead body. Still clinging to the past, to him? Glaciers erupted in my chest, freezing every inch of me. I wanted her to forget that pathetic excuse for afiancé, wanted her towantme… at least for the sake of my plan. “They know enough.” I snapped, harsher than intended.
She widened her stance, hands placed on her hips. “The least you can do is let me reassure them I’m all right.”
So much for a nice stroll to get to know her a little better, a chance for her to warm to me. “Forget it. Not going to happen.”
She stomped her foot, no doubt learning such behavior from the children she cared for at her daycare job. “What about my parents? Let me call my father? My mother?”
