“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Her voice oozed smug and spiteful glee. “Cole’s back in town for his mother’s birthday. He’s been gone for months now, and since he knows Louise misses him, he wanted to come back for her special day. He’s going to be here the whole weekend.” Her grin was practically vicious. “Didn’t you know?”
“No,” was my simple reply.
To say I spent the rest of my afternoon in sheer misery was an understatement of grotesque proportions. Classes were a nightmare, because I couldn’t focus and missed good chunks of the lecture that I knew I would need for future tests. And it wasn’t as if I was jealous that, apparently, Cole was close enough to Mads to keep in contact with her; it was that an almost painful knot of dread began to coil deep in the pit of my abdomen. I just could not shake the feeling that his return, however brief, was anything but bad news.
In spite of Simon looking incredible in attractive, blue-black pants, white shirt and a charcoal blazer, I could not force myself to feel anything but trepidation, and the moment I approached the door of Barsetti’s, he knew something was wrong and did not hesitate to ask.
I let out a heavy sigh as I let him guide me to our customary sitting place. I did not fail to notice that he took my left hand in both of his. “It seems Cole’s back home for the weekend.”
“Cole?”
I suddenly realized I had never actually said Cole’s name when talking about my ex-boyfriend with the instructor. I briefly pondered if it could have been a psychological, protective measure of some sort, when I noticed he was still waiting for an answer. “Cole, Colton Malver,” I said wearily. “And I’m hoping to god he doesn’t want to see me. Just knowing he’s home makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why. It just does.”
I watched as several emotions played across his features—astonishment, horror, anger, resignation—and was shocked by and curious about each one. I was more surprised when he raised his hands to his face and rubbed in a familiar way many people did when they received bad news and had some to share in return.
I tried to keep the anxiety from my voice as I spoke to him, and tried even harder to not notice the flicker of disappointment in his eyes when I withdrew my hand from its place on the tabletop. “Simon, what? What is it?”
He propped his elbows up on the table and interlocked his fingers, pressing his lips to them, his digits resting beneath his nose. Those lavender eyes I loved so much observed me for quite some time, darting back and forth over my features before resting on my own brown ones. “There is something I have neglected to tell you, something I do not wish to share in—” he glanced around the room, devoid of any life but his and mine— “public.”
What could he possibly need to say that couldn’t be said with just us two in the dining room?
As if hearing my thoughts, Cal Barsetti appeared, inquiring what we wanted for lunch. The moment he vanished into the kitchen, Simon licked his lips, a habit of his when he was preparing to say something important.
“I give you my word I will share this imperative news with you later. Tonight, if you so wish.” He gave me a melancholy smile. “And I promise this has nothing to do with something such as marital status or whether or not I have ever been to prison.”
I couldn’t help but chortle at that, and to my relief, it brightened his smile, however minutely.
“There is also another piece of information of which I must make you aware.” The tiny grin disappeared completely. “I am acquainted with your ex, though I did not realize who he was until just now.” He paused, and I could tell he was searching for the words to express what he wanted to say. “Am I wrong in my assumption that you know a Mister Kendal O’Cleirigh?”
My eyes went wide at the mention of my former high school teacher. “Yes,” I replied in a measured tone. “He taught me and—”
“Colton Malver.” Simon gave a grave nod. “Kendal is a very good friend of mine, and you should know that Colton did not simply leave Georgia to attend college elsewhere.
“Kendal was out one evening and witnessed an… accident that involved Mister Malver,” he continued. “Like myself, Kendal is talented in many fields, and due to the outcome of Mister Malver’s… accident, he traveled out of state with Mister Malver to ensure both his recovery and safety.”
His cautiously chosen words and the tone with which he spoke them left me uneasy and suspicious. “What happened to Cole? Is he-what happened?”
Mr. Barsetti returned with two glasses of wine, one white and one red.
Simon waited until the man left again, then glanced at his hands and back to me. “I can assure you Colton is perfectly all right. He is healthy and sustained no ill effects of what happened, but I am afraid that as much as I wish I could assuage all of your fears at this moment, I cannot say any more without divulging the most important information I need to share with you about both Colton and Kendal, not to mention… myself.”
With an expression of anguish I had never seen on any human’s face, he reached out one of his hands, and despite the extreme apprehension saturating every fiber of my being, I instinctively placed mine with in his.
A small smile, very similar to my own, I was sure, played on his lips as he curled his long fingers around my hand. “Sofia,” he said with slow firmness, “I know what I have said has probably left you feeling confused, not to mention fearful, but I assure you Colton is quite all right, and… this information I must impart to you does not change my feelings for you, nor does it place you in any danger where I am concerned.” A trace of wickedness filled his eyes. “I promise, I am not a member of the mafia.”
Regardless of the current awkwardness, a soft laugh fell from my lips.
“You are so beautiful.”
The sound was cut short, and I could only stare incredulously for a moment before finding my voice. “I… Thank you,” I said quietly, well aware of the heat beginning to stain my cheeks.
The emotion behind his smile shifted, and he looked almost apologetic. “Deplorable timing, no doubt, but nevertheless true, especially when you laugh.” His free hand rose, the back of his knuckles stroking my burning face. “Your eyes, like a deep amaretto, glitter with unbridled joy and,” he carried on, his voice bright with teasing, “even when you are not embarrassed, your cheeks bloom like the fairest carnation, usually when you laugh.”
Merda! I knew Simon Treviso had a masterful grasp on the English language, but I’d be damned if the way he employed it now was not the most eloquent and beautiful I had ever heard. I actually had half a mind to glance down at my own skin to see if I were, in fact, melting in the same manner I felt I was. I could only imagine how dark my face must have become.
"Il gatto ti ha mangiato la lingua?"
I blinked in confusion, my face warming further as humiliation filled me. I was third-generation Italian, so one would think I would’ve understood something he said. To my dismay, though, I could only make out a couple of words. “I’m not entirely sure what you said, but I’m guessing from gatto e lingua you were asking if a cat got my tongue? Your accents’ a bit different from my family’s.”
“I did, and it could be due to the differences in regional dialects. My family was from Treviso, obviously, which is a northern region near Slovenia. Your mother probably spoke a Tuscan dialect, which is closer to the modern, standard Italian.”
“Oh,” was my bland response. “I guess that explains why I couldn’t pin-point the accent.”
To my surprise, his smile dimmed momentarily, then returned more vibrantly than before. “I traveled,” he supplied, the hand caressing my cheek dropping to his glass of seemingly untouched wine. I tried not to notice the way his fingers stroked the glass rim. “Indeed, I traveled quite extensively when I was younger. After touring so many countries for so long, it begins to affect one’s accent.”
Well, that was unexpected. He couldn’t be more than forty-two. How much traveling could he have possibly done?
I was unaware I had voiced my thou
ghts aloud until I heard his laughter again. “Sorry,” I muttered, reaching for my white wine—I probably should not have been indulging in any alcoholic beverage, but who was going to know—and took a hasty swallow to cover my mortification.
“No, per favore. No.” The tone of his reproach was one full of warmth and fondness rather than actual censure as he repeated in English, “Do not be.” An atypically smug smirk spread across his face. “I am quite a bit older than I appear, cara mia.”
Considering how wide I felt my eyes go, I was sure I looked practically bug-eyed, but I wasn’t sure what affected me the most: his questionable age or that he could call me beloved.
I chose to focus on the former for the time being, as I had been of the unspoken belief that Simon Treviso could only be in his late thirties to very early forties. His statement was leading me to rethink that belief, and I frantically began to recalculate numbers I was too uncomfortable to solicit.
Just looking at him made me question his words. Surely, he was teasing me? Because in all actuality, he looked unbelievably youthful. I only placed him at such an age due to his holding of multiple degrees, as well as his interests and knowledge in both his own fields and others. He had, after all, claimed to be a child prodigy. With that being the case, surely, he was not much more than forty-two or forty-three! It seemed almost impossible.
He beamed. “I can practically hear the gears in your head turning, cara mia.”
“You can’t be,” I argued half-heartedly. “You just… can’t be. You look too young.”
“Well, I do thank you for that compliment, amore.”
“Love. Amore? Tu amore?”
He seemed amused. “Actually, it would be tuo, e solo se sei d'accordo.”
“Tuo,” I repeated the correct pronoun with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t really speak Italian, remember? E inglese, per favore.”
“Certo. Certainly,” he said with a snicker at my cheekiness of asking him to speak in English in Italian. “And only if you are in agreement.”
I was most definitely in agreement, and I tried, as fluently as I could, to express that in something other than English. It sounded less formal that way. “Io… d’accordo?” I cringed. “Honestly, you’d think I would have paid more attention to my mother when she talked, not that she spoke it often. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“I agree is sono d’accordo,” he instructed gently, his eyes taking on a contented glow. “Why did your mother not speak her language?”
Once more we were interrupted, this time by both Barsettis carrying out multiple dishes of food, and I battled between feeling relieved and annoyed.
“Well, she did,” I continued once alone with my date—wait, could I consider this a formal date? “But from what I can remember, she stopped speaking in Italian, save for the occasional expletive, after my nonna died. Hence, I’m well-versed in Italian cursing, but not much else,” I said with a wide grin.
He chuckled. “Of course.”
“Infatti.” He arched an eyebrow, and I decided to rib him further. “Well, it is your favorite word.” I popped a dissected piece of chicken parmigiana into my mouth, and tried not to look self-satisfied.
“Oh, you exaggerate,” he scoffed before grinning devilishly at me. “Your ears would burn right off that pretty, little head if I, indeed, told you my favorite word.”
I nearly choked on my chicken, and my eyes narrowed playfully when I recovered from my coughing fit. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
He just continued to smirk.
When I agreed to join Simon for dinner at his home, I’d assumed he would own a relatively nice-sized house at the base of one of the mountains in Georgia’s foothills. Instead, what I was faced with was an expansive estate of approximately fifteen hundred acres, on which was a two-floor—at least, above ground—Spanish-style mansion, stables, and a separate, multi-car garage. In the dimming light, I couldn’t be entirely sure of the color of the manor’s textured stucco and clay roof tiles, but I would’ve guessed a shade of wheat and terra cotta if asked.
I sat in my old car and took a few moments to ponder fleeing, because I was clearly out of my league. I mean, sure I grew up with parents who had money, but it was nothing like the scale on which Simon Treviso apparently lived. My home had only three bedrooms and two-point-five bathrooms, and this palatial-like house looked as if it would have a good ten bedrooms. I had only one car to my name, and it was an old, used Ford. God only knew what sort of foreign luxury cars Simon had hidden away in that monster garage.
I muttered darkly to myself as I climbed out, more self-conscious now about my appearance than I had been ten minutes ago.
I glanced down at my outfit.
I’d thought when I paired some simple but pretty jewelry with my strappy sandals and my silky, teal, one-shouldered top with a pair of jeans that I looked rather nice. I didn’t look quite casual, nor did I look too fancy. I looked… nice. Pretty. Attractive. Or so I thought.
Glancing back up at Simon’s home, I felt my stomach sink even further toward my feet. “Definitely out of my league.”
What the hell was I doing here anyway? What the hell was I doing still seeing Simon Treviso in general? What could I have possibly been thinking those couple of months before, when I agreed to continue having any connection to a man who, it seemed, had to be in his fifties, despite looking like he was only thirty-five. What possessed me to think I, a simple college student, could possibly measure up to this man?
I was beginning to lean toward the idea of hopping back in my car and getting the heck out of dodge when the front door opened to reveal the person who currently occupied my thoughts. I cursed inwardly and blinked back the tears that suddenly, and ridiculously, seemed determined to mist my vision. I would not cry like a silly, little child in front of this man, and I needed to end this tonight, because I obviously did not fit in a world like this. Yeah, it looked like Simon was wearing jeans, but god only knew what expensive designer they came from. Mine came from Target.
I willed my feet to move forward, to meet him halfway, as he descended the stone steps to make his way to where I stood. Unfortunately, they seemed to be rooted in place, and I had the distinct feeling that if I even moved one toe, I would burst into humiliated tears.
“Cara mia, che c'è? What is the matter?” he asked when he was within arm’s length, repeating in English, “What is the matter, Sofia? You look… sad.”
My throat went dry, so I gestured to the manor and the adjoining grounds. “This is a lot to take in, and I’m, well, I’m not sure. I’m beginning to feel like I’m out of my league,” I commented honestly. “I think all of this really was not a good idea.”
“I see.”
His gaze dropped to the ground, and when he did not say anything for several long moments, I figured it would be best for me to leave. He, however, did not agree, and caught me by my upper arms, pulling me back to stand directly in front of him.
“Sofia,” he began in a soothing tone, “in all the time since we met, have I ever once given you reason to believe that I, in any manner, look down on you? That I see you as someone less than perfectly equal to myself? Have I even once made you somehow feel beneath me? Have I ever claimed or indicated, in any small way, that my status makes me superior?”
Overall, I liked to think that for the most part, I acted like a mature person; however, given that I was only in my early twenties, I occasionally found myself reverting into teenager. “No.” My voice practically reeked of petulant chagrin, and I loathed my tone even as the words spilled out of my mouth. “But I’m—”
“What? You’re what?” He pulled me closer and released one arm to catch my chin in his grasp, tipping my head back to look into his eyes, now a deep purple in the disappearing sunlight. “I will tell you what you are, cara mia. You are a beautiful young woman in whom I have found a marvelous companion. You are intelligent, but do not flaunt it, and you have a wit you do not often show to those beyond your comf
ort zone. You are caring and compassionate, loyal to those who treat you with respect and kindness. Your acquaintance has brought me the greatest happiness, and there is nothing about you, amore, which I do not adore.”
Yet again, Simon Treviso rendered me entirely speechless, and I felt somewhat foolish standing there with my mouth open as I blinked in disbelief.
"Il gatto ti ha mangiato la lingua? Di nuovo?”
I was pleased that I was able to successfully restrain my instinctive reaction to apologize, instead pulling a face at his asking about the cat having my tongue again and earning a bemused chuckle for my efforts. “Funny. Really.”
My lips relaxed into a small smile, and despite my best attempt, the words slipped out. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to any of this, and by any of this, I don’t mean just—” I waved at the now-dark estate. “I haven’t had anyone speak to me the way you do, and certainly not treat me like a lady the way you have. I’m just not used to it.”
“Well, I can assure you I have every plan of making you ‘used to it’,” he said in a gruff, but gentle, baritone. “Such a charming young woman deserves nothing less than to be treated like a queen.”
“A queen? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Non.”
He was as somber as I had ever seen him be.
“Oh.”
“Indeed.”
I lifted my eyebrow with a grin at the familiar word. “Not your favorite, huh?”
“Not my favorite.”
I hummed my disbelief and allowed him to guide me away from my car and toward his house, not that I really considered it a house. And it did not escape my notice that as we walked, he rested his hand against the curve of my lower back.
“You look lovely, cara mia,” he said admiringly. “How you could ever believe that a creature as divine as you could be anything less than astoundingly extraordinary is beyond my comprehension. You are, in fact, as perfect as any human being could possibly be.” He paused on the steps, just one below me, and his eyes flittered over me from head to toe. “Sì, veramente bellissima. Absolutely beautiful.”
Feral: Part One Page 5
