She’s My Queen

17. I like him

17

I LIKE HIM

CRISTINA

M y family has lived in this house for generations. A few years ago, when my grandma passed away, I moved into my grandparents’ part of the home in the west wing. It’s the oldest wing, built around the same time as the villas in the resort, but with one major difference: the west wing of the Capone manor preserved its original design.

My grandparents abhorred anything modern, and when my father married my mother and my mother took over the housekeeping of the manor, my grandparents made my parents build a whole new house for themselves.

The two are attached by a cellar and a courtyard in the back, but are otherwise very much detached. The west wing has its own entry with a kitchen, three living spaces, and seven bedrooms, including two master bedrooms. There are only two bathrooms, but that’s how it was done back then.

I sleep in my grandparents’ master bedroom, which is the largest room in the wing. It also overlooks the side of the island that faces Sicily and not the sea. Tonight, several yachts float over the water, and the last ferry is crossing to Sicily.

I contemplate packing and boarding the one that sails tomorrow.

The only problem is I don’t think I could escape. Drago keeps walking around the property, carrying some sort of equipment, surveillance, I believe. They’ll monitor every inch of this place except maybe the bathrooms and my bedroom.

But I can’t just stay here.

I’m considering returning to work. I went in briefly today for a meeting. Weekends are busy, and they could use a pair of hands. But we hired a new chef when we thought I’d be going on my honeymoon, and I’d hate to have him think I’m taking his job. Or supervising him.

I want to call my friend and sous-chef Bianca and ask how everything is going with the new guy, but it’s eight, and the dinner service is in full swing. Thinking about dinner and food makes me hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since the few bites of pie this morning, and for obvious reasons, I don’t want to go into the main kitchen.

The floorboards creak under my steps as I pad over to my closet and slip on a light beige dress that falls to just above my knees. I unroll my curlers and fasten my hair up, styling it deliberately messy, then apply some mascara and lip gloss.

My fingers trace the serpent tattoo. It’s an outline of a red serpentine body that drapes over the back of my neck and hangs in the front. The head is missing. Just a body. I grab a scarf and cover it up.

I’ll eat out tonight. At Frenchy’s down the street. Besides, ever since Corrado mentioned that my father had been taking the green leather book to Frenchy’s at the end of each month, I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of times when I saw the two men conversing about anything remotely related to the Serpentine Order.

Either I paid them no mind or they didn’t do in front of me.

Frenchy, Dad, Gio, and other men their age used to gather at a private table in an alcove in the back. Since my dad and Gio are both dead, I’m sure Frenchy grieves. Maybe he could use my company too.

His homemade pasta is even better than ours at the resort, and I’m always bugging him for the recipe, which he promised to give me in his will. He’s pushing eighty, and I love him so much, I hope I never get the recipe at all.

I exit my room and walk across the courtyard, spotting Drago immediately. He’s at the pool doing God knows what. I pay him no mind even when he lifts his head and waves at me. My heels hit the cement harder than I want them to since I’m trying to sneak out without Severio noticing. I make it all the way down the street when it occurs to me there’s nobody on the street besides me.

A shiver runs down my spine.

It’s never this quiet on my street.

My neighbor Valentine’s kids aren’t in bed this early either, and Maina, from two doors down, lives on her bicycle. She rides up and down the street all the time.

I jog to Frenchy’s, open the gate, and enter the patio area as if my tail is on fire.

The place is deserted. Completely empty. I check my phone for the time. Nearly nine. People come here for pizza and pasta, so there’s always someone outside, if not inside. I hope nothing happened to Frenchy. He and Dina were at the wedding.

I rush up the steps into the restaurant and enter another empty space.

“Frenchy?” I call out.

“The kitchen’s closed,” his cook, Honey, yells from behind the door.

“Hey, it’s me, Cristina. Is Frenchy here?”

Honey comes out through the kitchen’s double doors. She’s a short, thin, frail woman with thick blond hair and one plastic eye to replace the one she lost when her brother poked it by accident. She wipes her hands on a towel fastened to her white apron. “Hey, I thought you’d be on your honeymoon.”

“That makes two of us,” I say, because I don’t know how else to deflect.

She doesn’t push. “What’s up?”

“Frenchy here?”

“Yeah, the table in the back. Some new guy’s with him.”

“Oh no.”

“Why? You know him?”

“I think I might. Tall. Blue eyes?”

She nods. “Haven’t seen a finer piece of man ass walk through these doors in a decade.”

“You weren’t here a decade ago.” She’s two years my junior.

“Feels like it, though.” She whacks my thigh with a kitchen rag. “They ordered calamari. You want some?”

“Um, no, can I have my usual?”

“The kitchen is closed,” Honey throws over her shoulder as she returns to the kitchen.

I stare at the swinging kitchen doors. Frenchy’s kitchen is never closed. This should worry me, but having met Severio, I’m guessing he changes all the norms. I won’t eat my usual, but I’ll have whatever Honey is making for Severio.

I enter the alcove where my father celebrated most, if not all, of his birthdays. Severio sits at the long table with Frenchy. Both men raise their heads when I walk in. Surprise, surprise.

Severio gives me a once-over, stopping at my scarf where it’s covering his tattoo. I lift my chin a little higher.

Frenchy stands and spreads his long arms. “Cristina Mancini,” he says. “Come here, young lady.” He’s a nice elderly man with a receding hairline and a round belly on an otherwise lanky body. Tonight, he’s wearing a reddish-brown checkered suit paired with an equally outdated yellow tie.

We greet by kissing on both cheeks. He wears the same cologne my grandpa used to wear. Strong and woodsy. Granma kept it in the medicine cabinet after Grampa passed away, and after she passed away, I pushed it into the corner. Sometimes I sniff it. It reminds me of warm hugs and kisses and sneaking in a piece of candy before supper.

“You’re all dressed up,” I say. “That’s twice I’ve seen you in a suit in the same week. Once for my wedding and now again. What’s the occasion?”

“I’m the occasion,” Severio drawls.

“Severio,” I say with as much venom as I can gather. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Indeed.”

Confused, Frenchy looks between us. There’s bad blood, and he can smell it, but he’s polite and will try to mend our differences by feeding us pasta. It’s what we do on the island. We share meals with family and try to appear as if we all get along.

Frenchy’s still standing, looking at Severio, probably wondering what Severio will do about me showing up while they’re having a private meeting. It makes me wonder how many such meetings my dad held with Frenchy.

Severio joins his hands and then rests his chin on them, clearly considering what to do with me. Light hits a thick golden band wrapped around his wedding finger. A soft gasp escapes me, and I look away, then glance at it again just to be sure my eyes don’t deceive me. Oh my God. Severio is married?

Something inside me twists, coiling like a snake, and I feel sick to my stomach. My heart pounds in my chest, and my vision starts to blur. I grab the chair to steady myself.

Severio drops his hands to the table, and my gaze follows the ring.

“Cristina?” he asks, looking concerned.

I want to tell him he’s flirted with me, he’s had me in his bed, for Christ’s sake. In turn, this made me think about him, and I feel terrible thinking about him if he’s married, which now makes me feel like I’m the worst human on the planet for thinking about kissing someone else’s man. Not to mention, I was supposed to marry his uncle.

Adultery is terrible. I would never do it. And while I haven’t touched him in any way that might be considered inappropriate, I can’t say I haven’t thought about him in ways a single woman shouldn’t think about a married man. Oh no.

My nausea climbs up my body as the realization hits me. I like him. I like a married man.

“Cristina,” Severio repeats in a voice that makes me look at him. Concern is evident on his face as he rises to pull out a chair for me.

This is the new low of my life. It’s not enough that I basically sold my life to Gio, who then gave me up the moment Severio threatened to take his wealth. I also fell for a man I should hate the most for ruining my life.

Lightheaded, I sit down.

“Are you ill?” Severio sits as well.

“Are you married?” I ask him.

“I’ll get the calamari,” Frenchy says and leaves.

Severio slips the ring off his finger and hands it to me. “It’s my uncle’s wedding band. Take a look.”

I don’t touch it, but look down at the red serpent engraved into the band. It’s a snake eating its own tail. My relief in the form of an exhale is audible. “Is it an Order thing?”

Agile fingers slip the button through its slot on the wrist of the pristine white shirt, and Severio rolls up his sleeve. He shows me the head of a red serpent tattooed on the inside of his forearm. I lean in, and the smell of his cologne pleasantly surprises me. It’s subtle tonight. Warmer somehow. Or maybe I’m imagining things since he and I are alone, the lights are dim, and the setting intimate.

I rear back. “How long have you had that?”

“Since I was initiated as the Head.” I expect him to roll down his sleeve, but he unbuttons then rolls up his other sleeve. I really wish he’d cover up more of those corded, muscular forearms. Severio’s hands are long and strong, and his forearms show off years of gym routines. It’s infuriatingly sexy.

Severio fiddles with his golden chain before picking up the ring and threading it through. The ring touches another pendant on his necklace. A dark charcoal seashell. Once done, he steeples his fingers and regards me as if inspecting me. “Wait a minute.” He tilts his head.

I see the dreadful moment he figures out my near sickness was due to the fact that I thought he was married. His emotions show on his face, and I discover that Severio can be quite an expressive man when he wants to be. When he wants others to see what he’s thinking.

And he wants me to see.

A great big smile spreads over his face. It’s a smile with dimples, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be damned.” He laughs.

I’m sure he figured out that the thought of him being married upset me to the point I could barely breathe. And now he’s laughing at me. The jerk.