The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  Veil. Her throat had closed around the word like a vice.

  With Vicè’s denials and accusations still echoing in her head, she had forgotten that this was supposed to be her wedding night.

  Some wedding night.

  She had never felt more alone, so she had crept downstairs, past the sofa, and gone out into the heavy night air.

  She had thought Vicè would be asleep. But he was not only very much awake, he was standing in front of her. In boxer shorts. Extremely wet boxer shorts.

  Her stomach flipped over and for a heartbeat she couldn’t move. She no longer seemed to know how to make her legs work. But she did know that no good would come of her staying there.

  ‘Imma. Please, wait—’

  Against her will, against every instinct she had, she made her body still. With an effort, she turned to face him. ‘Why? So you can make me feel stupid? You don’t need to bother, Vicè. Really. I’m already doing a great job of that all on my own.’

  He took a step towards her. ‘I don’t want to make you feel stupid. I just want to talk.’

  She looked away, swallowing against the ache in her throat, feeling trapped again. ‘Well, that’s a lovely idea, but we don’t talk. We argue. And I’m tired of arguing.’

  ‘We do talk,’ he said quietly. ‘That first night at your father’s villa we talked a lot.’

  She stared at him in confusion. But he was right. They had talked that night about lots of things. Actually, she had talked—and that in itself was remarkable.

  Usually, she was the listener. When it was just the two of them, Claudia would always be the one chattering on about some recipe she was going to try, and at work, with her father’s shadow looming large over everything, her opinions were politely ignored. As for Cesare himself—like most rich, powerful men, he was far too convinced of his own rightness to invite other viewpoints.

  A lump of misery swelled inside her. She was getting distracted. At her father’s villa, Vicè had a reason to listen to her.

  ‘That wasn’t real,’ she said flatly. ‘None of this is real.’

  ‘I am—and you are.’ His eyes held hers. ‘And so is this thing between us.’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no thing between us, Vicè.’

  But of their own accord her eyes fixed on his chest. For a few half seconds she stared at the drops of water trickling down over his smooth golden skin, and then she looked away, her breathing ragged, her denial echoing hollowly around the empty terrace.

  She had taken him back to her father’s villa thinking that one night with him would give her the answers she needed. Instead it had simply raised more questions. Like what kind of woman could still want a man like him? And how—where—was she ever going to find another man who would override the memory of his touch, his kiss?

  ‘Even if there is, we’re not going to do anything about it.’

  His eyes were steady and unblinking. ‘We already have. So why are you still denying how we both feel?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t make any sense,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Does it have to?’

  She looked up at him, made mute by the directness of his words and the complicity they implied.

  He was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘Look, Imma, I don’t want to argue any more than you do, so could we call a truce? Please?’

  Her heart contracted. ‘Forget the past, you mean?’

  He stared at her. ‘Not forget it—just put it on hold.’

  She frowned. ‘We’re not talking about a nuisance call. This is my sister’s life—her heart.’ My heart. Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘She doesn’t deserve what your brother has done to her.’

  ‘Oh? But my father did deserve to be hounded in the last few months of his life?’

  His voice was suddenly hard, his eyes even harder. So much for a truce, she thought.

  ‘And my mother? She deserved to lose her home? Her husband?’

  His tone made her shiver.

  ‘Of course not.’ She hesitated. ‘Is that why you want the business back? For her?’

  For a moment he seemed confused, as though he didn’t understand her words.

  ‘I want my father back—so does my mother. There’s only one reason I want the business, and one reason I want you as my wife—and that’s so your father gets a taste of his own medicine.’

  She flinched, the scorn in his voice biting into her flesh. This was exactly why she should have turned and walked away when she’d had the chance.

  There was a tense, expectant silence, and then Vicè ran a hand over his face.

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ He was breathing unevenly. ‘What I said about wanting you... I was angry—I am angry—but I don’t want to hurt you.’

  Glancing up, she tensed. His eyes were filled with a kind of bewildered frustration. He was hurting, and his pain cut through her own misery.

  Without thinking, she reached out and touched his arm. ‘I wish my father hadn’t acted like he did, and if I could go back and change one thing in all of this it would be that.’

  There was a silence. He stared at her, but he didn’t shake off her hand.

  After a moment, he said slowly, ‘Not what happened between us? You wouldn’t go back and change that?’

  He sounded confused, disbelieving, and his dark eyes were searching her face as though he was trying to read her thoughts.

  Her mind turned over her words. She was suddenly confused herself. But it hadn’t occurred to her to regret that night they’d shared. She wouldn’t exchange those beautiful, sensual hours in Vicè’s arms for anything. And it hadn’t been just the heat and the hunger, or even the fact that for those few short hours she had believed he wanted her for herself.

  That night with him had been the first time she had consciously defied her father’s wishes—not to his face, maybe, but it had felt like it. The first time she had made decisions about her own life.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t change that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I wouldn’t change it either.’

  His eyes held hers and, catching the heat in his dark gaze, she felt a rush of panic. Last time she had willingly walked into the fire. But she couldn’t do so again, knowing what she did now.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she said. And this time she acted, turning and running swiftly back into the house.

  He caught up with her in the living room, his body blocking her escape. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Anywhere you’re not.’ She spoke breathlessly.

  ‘For a year?’ He looked and sounded incredulous. ‘You’re going to keep running away from me for a whole year?’

  ‘I’m not like you, Vicenzu. I can’t just switch it on and off for the cameras.’

  ‘What cameras?’ Holding out his arms, he gestured to the empty room. ‘There are no cameras here. There is you, and me—just like there was at the villa on the island.’

  Remembering her shock and misery the morning after, she shook her head. ‘But you weren’t really you. Or maybe you were, and I just thought you were someone else.’

  She had been someone else that night too. Someone reckless and uninhibited. And gullible.

  His gaze rested intently on her face. ‘I don’t understand...’

  Tears pricked her eyes. ‘You don’t need to.’

  He frowned. ‘We’re married. I’m your husband.’

  Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to breathe. ‘I can’t believe you can say that with a straight face.’ She gazed at him, her heart racing. ‘But I suppose it’s not surprising you think this is normal. Your whole life is a charade. Why should your marriage be any different?’

  * * *

  Vicè stared at her, a muscle working in his jaw.

  ‘My life was just fine until I married you,’ he said slowly.

>   If she didn’t like charades then why was she making him act like some lovesick puppy in public and then relegating him to the sofa when they were alone?

  ‘How is this my fault?’ She seemed almost to choke in disbelief.

  He stared at her in frustration, her words replaying inside his head. He didn’t think this was normal. For him, ‘normal’ had always been his parents’ relationship. Normal, but unattainable.

  He was suddenly conscious of his heart hammering against his ribs.

  They had been so happy together, so comfortable, and yet still sweetly infatuated like the teenagers in love they had once been. Whereas he—

  His body tensed. The idea that he would ever be capable of replicating his parents’ marriage had always seemed too ludicrous to contemplate. So he had done what he always did—he’d pushed the possibility away, deliberately choosing a way of life that was the antithesis of theirs.

  And his parents had done what they always did too, indulging him even though he knew that they’d longed for him to fall in love and settle down.

  Remembering his mother’s reaction when he’d called to tell her he was married, he felt his heartbeat slow. It had been a bittersweet moment. She had been so happy for him, but also sad that Alessandro hadn’t been alive to see his eldest son finally find love.

  What would she say if she knew the truth?

  Looking over at Imma, he pushed the thought away, guilt making his voice harsher than he’d intended. ‘This “charade”, as you put it, wasn’t my idea.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘True. But if you’d had your way I’d have signed over the olive oil company the morning after we slept together and you and your vile brother would probably still be toasting your victory in some bar in Palermo.’

  Her description was just about close enough to his last meeting with Ciro for colour to stain his cheekbones.

  Shaking his head, he took a step back, his jaw tightening. ‘I don’t need this, and I certainly can’t live like this for a year.’

  ‘This isn’t just about you.’

  There was a tautness in her voice, and her mouth was trembling slightly. He realised that she was close to tears.

  She sucked in a breath. ‘For once I don’t want to have to think about what someone else wants or needs. I thought with you—’

  As she glanced away he felt his spine stiffen. The events of the last few days must be starting to catch up with her. Or maybe she had been in shock all along.

  ‘You’re right. This isn’t just about me.’ He flattened the anger in his voice, picking his words very carefully, suddenly afraid that the wrong ones would make her run again. ‘So tell me what you want—what you need.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. I’ve never known. Maybe if I had none of this would be happening.’

  Her shoulders tightened, making her look smaller, wounded, like a bird with a broken wing. Seeing her like that—so diminished, so vulnerable—made him ache inside.

  ‘I doubt that,’ he said gently.

  He sat down on the sofa, and after a moment, as he’d hoped she would, she sat down beside him.

  ‘There are a lot of reasons why this has happened, cara, but you’re not one of them.’

  She stiffened. ‘I know you hate him. My father, I mean. But he’s not all bad. He used to be different before...when my mother was alive. He’s just been on his own for too long.’

  His pulse stalled. He did hate her father—and yet right now the reason for that hate seemed irrelevant. What mattered more was Imma’s pain.

  ‘How old were you when she died?’

  ‘Eight.’

  Her stark single-word answer made his heart kick against his ribs. Watching the flicker of sadness in her green eyes, he felt the ache in his chest spread out like a dark rain cloud.

  His father’s death had felt like something tearing inside him—and he was an adult, a grown man. Imma had had to deal with the loss of her mother as a child.

  ‘He hated not being able to help her,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that’s why he’s like he is now. He can’t bear the idea of something happening to me and Claudia—something he can’t control.’

  Vicè felt his stomach clench. In that case he and Ciro had already had their revenge. And just like that his hunger for retribution was gone—diluted and washed away by the tears in her eyes.

  ‘He’s your father,’ he said. ‘Of course he doesn’t want to see you hurt.’

  It was meant to be a generic response, only for some reason he found himself thinking about his own father. Right up until his death Alessandro had spent his life protecting him, constantly levelling the playing field so that he wouldn’t have to compare himself unfavourably to Ciro. In fact, it had been that need to protect his eldest son that had ultimately caused his death.

  Something jarred in his chest, as if a depth charge had exploded. He’d made this about Cesare, but it was actually about him. It had always been about him and his failings as a son, as a man.

  He forced himself to look over and meet her gaze. ‘He loves you.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘But he still misses my mother. That’s why he works so much. Only now he’s become obsessed with building up the business, and...’ She hesitated, her face tensing. ‘It matters to him—his name, his legacy. He’s never said anything but I know he wishes he’d had a son. Instead, he’s got me. Only I can’t ever be good enough. He wants me to be tough and ruthless, but he also wants me to be a dutiful daughter. And then there’s Claudia...’

  The sudden softness in her eyes cut through him like a blade. ‘You’re close?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘She was so little when Mamma died. We had nannies, but they didn’t stay long. Papà was so angry, so exacting. Anyway, she always preferred me. And I didn’t mind. I wanted to look after her.’

  Her voice sounded scraped and bruised. It made something hard lodge in his throat. ‘You have looked after her.’

  ‘How?’ She bit her lip. ‘I let her marry Ciro and now he’s broken her heart.’ A tear slid down her cheek. ‘I was supposed to take care of her—’

  He caught her hands in his. Her whole body was rigid, braced for disaster. ‘You did—you are. But she’s not a child any more, cara—’

  ‘You don’t understand. I promised Mamma, and now I’ve broken that promise.’

  She was crying in earnest now and he pulled her onto his lap, wanting and needing to hold her close, to hold her for as long as it took to make her feel whole again.

  His skin burned with shame as he realised the mistake he’d made. Imma wasn’t her father’s daughter at all. She was just a little girl who had lost her mother and had to grow up fast. A little girl who had been so busy trying to be a daughter and a mother and a proxy son all at once that she had never had time to be herself. He couldn’t bear picturing her little face, her anxious green eyes.

  Gently, he stroked her hair. ‘Va tutto bene, cara,’ he murmured. ‘It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.’

  He understood now how her family had pushed their needs ahead of hers. And he had been no better. In fact, he had been worse. Deliberately and ruthlessly using her as a means to punish her father.

  His arms tightened and he kept on smoothing her hair until finally she let out a shuddering breath.

  ‘None of this is your fault, Imma,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a good sister, and a loyal daughter, but you’re way more than the sum of your parts. You’re an amazing woman. You’re beautiful and sexy and strong and smart. You can be anything you want.’ Pulling the towel from around his neck, he gently patted the tears from her cheeks. ‘And I’ll be there, remember? In the background...’

  Her lips curved up, as he had hoped they would.

  For a moment they stared at each other in sil
ence.

  ‘You didn’t sign up for this,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh, I signed up for everything, cara. Kiss-and-tell interview, miniseries, film franchise...’

  He was trying to make her relax, maybe enough to trust him. But he was surprised to find that he was also telling the truth.

  Her smile flickered. ‘I want to be there for Papà and Claudia, but I want to be myself too. I thought if I could break free just for one night, lose my virginity to someone I’d chosen, then it would all become clear. Who I am. What I want. And maybe somebody would want me for being me.’ She screwed up her face. ‘It sounds stupid, saying it out loud.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not stupid at all.’

  He’d left Sicily to do much the same. Not to lose his virginity, but to put as much distance as possible between himself and his parents’ carefully managed disappointment—and, of course, Ciro’s effortless success.

  ‘I thought it would be so easy.’ Her eyes found his. ‘And then I met you.’

  ‘You deserve better,’ he said slowly. ‘You deserve better than me.’ He hesitated. ‘How is she? Claudia? Is she okay?’

  Her smile faded a little and for a moment he didn’t think she was going to reply, but finally she nodded.

  ‘She will be. I’ll take of her.’

  ‘I know.’ His eyes met hers and he was suddenly conscious of her warm hands on his chest. ‘And what about you?’

  There was a beat of silence.

  ‘Me?’ She seemed stunned by the question. ‘I don’t—It’s not—’

  ‘I want to look after you, Imma.’ He stopped. ‘Look, I messed up. Ciro too. We were wrong. We made this about you and Claudia and that was wrong,’ he repeated. ‘Our fight is with your father—not you.’ His heart began to beat faster. ‘I want to make it up to you. What I’m trying to say is... Could we start this year over?’

  Her face didn’t change, and nor did she reply.

  ‘If you need more time—’ he began.