The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  ‘This year is about helping you. I wanted to do you a favour, that’s all,’ he lied.

  For a moment she seemed too stunned to speak, and then slowly she frowned. ‘I don’t think I need your help, actually. I can manage just fine on my own.’

  The hurt in her voice made his body tense. ‘I’m sorry, Imma.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  She lifted her chin and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. ‘We said no more lies, remember? I don’t think there’s any point in my staying now, do you?’

  In the silence that followed her question, her hurt was palpable. But what could he say? Yes, I want you to stay so we can keep on having sex?

  With an effort, he shook his head, and after a moment, she said quietly, ‘If you really don’t want the business then I’ll sign it back over to my father.’ When he didn’t respond, she gave him a small, sad smile. ‘I’ll go and pack.’

  He watched her walk upstairs. He’d never known a feeling like this—not even when his mother had called to tell him his father had died. His heart was like a living, struggling creature trapped inside his chest.

  Only what choice did he have? He couldn’t do to her what he had done to his father. He couldn’t be responsible for her love. Nor was he worthy of it. Not when he was so flawed, so imperfect, so bound to mess up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘GREAT PARTY, VICÈ!’

  Vicè turned, flicking on his hundred-kilowatt smile automatically as the pop-star-turned-actress who was standing in front of him tilted her head in provocation.

  ‘Thanks, Renée—and congratulations on the nomination.’ He raised the glass of champagne he was holding. ‘There’s a bottle of Cristal at the bar with your name on it.’

  ‘Care to come and share it with me?’ she invited, her mane of auburn hair falling into her eyes and the hem of her shimmering red minidress riding high on her thighs as she pouted up at him. ‘We could have our own private party.’

  His pulse accelerated. She was beautiful, willing, and she had booked a suite, and yet...

  He shook his head slowly, pretending regret. ‘I need to make sure this party keeps rolling, Renée.’

  He had never been too hung up dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, but mixing business and pleasure was one rule that should never be broken, no matter how much pleasure was being promised.

  His chest tightened.

  What a load of sanctimonious drivel!

  He liked Renée—she was sweet—but he wasn’t going to sleep with her, whatever the circumstances. There was only one woman he wanted, and he had let her slip through his fingers just over five weeks ago.

  His mouth twisted. Actually, he’d driven her to the airport.

  Way to go, Vicè. Drive the woman you love to the airport and wave her off.

  His heart was suddenly thumping so hard against his ribs he was surprised the shock waves didn’t shatter the glass he was holding.

  He loved her?

  For a moment he turned over his words in his mind, waiting for the denial that would surely follow. Instead, though, the echo grew louder, rebounding and filling his head.

  He loved her.

  But of course he did.

  Only he had pushed her away rather than admit it to himself. Or to her. And now she was gone. And he was going to have to live without her in an agonising charade of his own making for the rest of his life.

  ‘Sorry, Renée. I didn’t mean to sound so pompous.’ Holding up his hand, he tapped the ring on his finger. ‘It’s just that I’m missing my wife.’

  A flush of colour spread over her face. ‘I’m sorry... I didn’t know you were—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He pasted a smile on his face. ‘Look, you have a great night.’

  ‘You too, Vicè.’

  She blew him a kiss from her bee-stung mouth and he watched her sashay off on her towering heels.

  Eyes burning, he turned away from the laughing, dancing mass of people. Last time he had been on the yacht Imma had been by his side. Now, without her, he felt empty. Without her all of this—his life, his much-prized dolce far niente—was literally nothing.

  It was ironic, really. She had told him that she wanted to find herself, and he had blithely told her that he would give her a year, never once realising that he was the one who didn’t know who he was or what he wanted.

  But he did now.

  And pushing her away hadn’t changed a thing. Wherever she was in the world, she had his heart. He belonged to her. He would always belong to her.

  Only it was too late.

  Even though all the dots had been there in front of him he had been too scared to connect them—too scared of the picture they would make. So he had let her leave. Worse, he had let her end it. He hadn’t even had the courage to do that.

  He was a coward and a fool. For in trying to play it cool he had simply succeeded in making his own world a lot colder.

  The ache in his heart made him feel sick, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t lie to himself any more and pretend he felt nothing for Imma. His ‘sweet life’ tasted bitter now. The pain of loving had been replaced with the pain of loss, as bad as when his father had died.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured Alessandro’s face. He still missed him—probably he always would. And yet it didn’t hurt quite as much as before. The tension in his shoulders eased a little.

  Now it wasn’t the funeral he remembered, but happier times. Meals round the table. Stories before bedtime. And watching his father dance with his mother, her head resting against his chest and Alessandro singing softly.

  Now he could think about his father without flinching, and that was thanks to Imma. She had helped him grieve and had put words to his unspoken fears so that they had stopped being the terrifying larger-than-life problems he had always refused to face.

  Like the words of another of his father’s favourite songs, he had let her get under his skin and found he was a better person with her. Or at least good enough for her to confide her own fears.

  His heart began to beat a little faster.

  Imma had drawn strength from him too. Holding his hand, she had leapt into the unknown. That night on Pantelleria she had even trusted him to take her virginity, and then later entered into a marriage of convenience with him.

  She had even trusted him enough to love him.

  Staring out across the dark sea, he felt his fingers tighten against his glass.

  Maybe it was time he started trusting himself.

  * * *

  Pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head, Imma stopped beside the market stall. For a moment her hand hovered over a crate overflowing with lemons, and then, changing her mind, she selected a couple of peaches.

  Once—a lifetime ago—this would have been her dream. The freedom to wander alone among the colourful stalls, to linger and to chat to people without the continual unsmiling presence of her security team.

  But that dream felt childish now, in comparison to the loss of her dream of love with Vicè.

  Smiling politely at the tiny, leathery old woman who ran the stall, she took her change and made her way back past the boutiques and ice-cream parlours.

  She had chosen the small town of Cefalù in northern Sicily on a whim, but after nearly five weeks of living here she liked it a lot. It would be a good place to stay while she worked out what to do next.

  The villa she was renting was outside the town, a good ten-minute walk away from the noisy hubbub of the market. It was quiet—isolated, even—but right now that was exactly what she wanted. Somewhere quiet, away from the world, where she could lick her wounds.

  Thinking back to those horrific last hours with Vicè, she felt a rush of queasiness. She’d been so excited, so caught up in the thrilling realisation of her own love for him, that she’d completely misjudged his feelin
gs. And in the face of his less than enthusiastic response to her suggestion that they take over his father’s business together she’d had no option but to face the facts.

  He didn’t need or want her.

  He certainly didn’t want her love.

  And, to be fair, he hadn’t ever offered her a real relationship. As he’d said, he’d only been doing her a favour.

  She had wanted to call a taxi, but he had insisted on driving her to the airport. She would never forget that silent, never-ending journey to Genoa.

  As they’d left Portofino he had asked her if she wanted to listen to the radio. Then he had asked if she wanted him to turn up the air-conditioning.

  At no point had he asked her to stay.

  At the airport he had offered to go in with her, but her nerves had been in shreds by then and she had simply shaken her head.

  Her throat tightened. He hadn’t used his legendary powers of persuasion to convince her otherwise. Maybe he had been daunted by her silence.

  The other, more devastating but more likely explanation was that he had been desperate for her to be gone so that he could get back to the sweet, easy life he’d had before meeting her...

  Walking into the villa, she forced herself to unpack her shopping and put it away before checking her phone for messages. At first she had checked it obsessively, but as the hours had turned into days and the days had become weeks she had forced herself not to look.

  Before leaving, she had agreed with him that they would say nothing to their families. She couldn’t remember who had suggested it, but she was glad. There was no way she could face her father’s I-told-you-so reaction—or, worse, his clumsy attempts to try and make amends. Nor did she want to confide in Claudia. She was doing so well right now, and she feared offloading her problems on to her sister would ruin the fragile peace Claudia had found.

  Peace, and happiness at the discovery she was having a baby.

  Her breath twisted in her throat.

  She had wanted to go to her, of course, but Claudia had been firm and, hearing the flicker of determination in her voice, Imma had understood that her sister needed to prove she could cope alone.

  So she had carried on speaking to both of them every couple of days, acting as if nothing had happened, making sure that the conversation merely touched on Vicè.

  Her stomach clenched. Against her will she was living another charade, and it was only through sheer effort of will that she dragged herself out of bed each morning, got dressed and made herself eat breakfast.

  Incredibly, the one person she found herself wanting to talk to was Audenzia. During those few hours in Florence she had found herself admiring her quiet strength and love of life.

  Under other circumstances she would have liked to get to know her better.

  But now, of course, that was impossible.

  Almost as impossible as stopping all these incessant what-if and if-only thoughts.

  Glancing out of the window, she felt her heartbeat slow. She couldn’t see Portofino from the villa, but that didn’t stop her from closing her eyes and imagining. What would he be doing right now?

  Opening her eyes, she pushed the thought away before it could spiral out of control. Each morning she promised herself that she wouldn’t think about Vicè until lunchtime, and today she had almost managed it—that was something to celebrate.

  In fact, she was going to celebrate. She was going to take her lunch to the beach and have a picnic. Even though the ‘beach’ was not really a beach at all—more a patch of sand in a rocky alcove.

  After she’d finished eating, she watched the Palermo to Naples ferry heading off towards the mainland. It made her feel calmer, thinking about all those people on board, with all their hopes and dreams buzzing inside their heads.

  Her heart might have been broken by Vicè but that didn’t mean her life was over. She was going to be all right. He might not love her, but she couldn’t regret the time they had spent together. He had taught her to be brave, to take risks.

  Yes, she loved him still. Maybe she always would. But she was ready to face the world. On her terms.

  Standing up, she brushed the sand off her legs and began to walk carefully across the rocks and back up to the house. But as she reached the villa her feet suddenly faltered.

  A man was waiting for her.

  Her heart began to pound.

  Not because he was a stranger.

  But because he wasn’t.

  She stared at him, stunned and furious. Even if she wanted to run—and she did—nothing seemed to be functioning. Instead she stood woodenly while Vicè walked slowly towards her.

  How had he found her? And, more importantly, why was he here?

  He had no right to come here—not when she was finally beginning to get him out of her head, if not her heart, she thought as he stopped in front of her, his dark hair blowing in the breeze.

  He was dressed incongruously, in a dark suit and shirt, only it wasn’t his clothing that made her throat tighten. But she had learned from her mistakes, and she wasn’t ever going to let herself be distracted by his beauty again.

  ‘Hi,’ he said softly.

  She lifted her chin. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘With great difficulty.’ He smiled, and then, when she didn’t smile back, he shrugged. ‘My lawyer Vito knows some people who keep their ears to the ground. He uses them to find clients that skip bail.’

  ‘And I thought it was my father who had the shady friends.’

  His expression didn’t change—but then why should it? If he had ever cared what she thought of him, he certainly didn’t any more.

  ‘Why are you here, Vicè? I mean, I take it this isn’t a social call?’

  ‘I had a meeting with Vito this morning.’ He stared at her steadily. ‘I had some paperwork to complete.’

  Inside her head his words were bumping into one another in slow motion, like a train and its carriages hitting the buffers. Glancing down, she saw that he was holding an envelope. Her heart shrivelled in her chest.

  Paperwork. In other words, he wanted a divorce.

  Pain seared every nerve. ‘I thought you were giving me a year?’

  He glanced away. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

  She wanted to scream and shout and rage—at the unfairness of life and at the unknowable cruelty of loving someone who didn’t love you. But she had laid enough of her feelings bare to this man.

  ‘Fine. Just give me the paperwork and I’ll sign it.’

  ‘It’s already signed.’

  He took a step closer and she backed away from him, not caring that he could see her pain, just wanting him gone.

  ‘Your father signed it this morning.’

  She stared at him in confusion—and then suddenly she understood. ‘You came back for the business. That’s why you came to Sicily. For your father’s business.’

  He stared at her, his gaze steady and unflinching. ‘He signed it over to me this morning.’

  Why did it hurt so much? She’d known right from the start that he’d only ever wanted that. Whatever he’d said in the car on the way to Florence and then at the villa, it obviously was still.

  Her chest tightened.

  But why had her father agreed to hand it over? Had Vicenzu told him the truth about their marriage? Even though he knew what it would mean for her.

  ‘Did you tell him about us?’ she asked slowly.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then how—’

  His eyes met hers. ‘I threatened him. I told him I had enough on him to make sure he’d lose everything he cared about. Just like my father did.’

  On one level she knew her father deserved it, but it hurt hearing Vicè talk in that way.

  ‘Blackmail and extortion? That sounds more like my father than you.’

/>   ‘I said all that afterwards.’ He ran an agitated hand through his hair. ‘First I met him for breakfast. I told him that I wanted to buy back the business and that I would pay what he thought was a fair price.’

  ‘What...?’ Imma felt as if she was in a daze.

  ‘I’m not like your father, cara. I don’t bully or blackmail people into doing what I want. I paid him what he asked—twice what he paid my father—so that you and I can start with a clean sheet.’

  Her heart was in her mouth. ‘I don’t understand...’

  ‘You asked me why I was here.’ His eyes found hers. ‘You’re why. I’ve bought the business back. For us.’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no us.’

  ‘There is. Only it took you leaving for me to see it.’ He took another step closer. ‘I love you, Imma. And I want to be with you. Not for the cameras, or for the business, but because you’re in my heart.’

  His voice was shaking now, and she could see tears in his eyes.

  ‘You helped me find out what and who I want to be. And I want to be your husband. For real. Forever.’

  Reaching out, he took her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stop you leaving, but when you said you wanted us to run the business together I panicked. I mess up all the time, cara—with family, with work, with you. And I’ve hurt people, you especially, and I didn’t want to hurt you any more. I don’t ever want to hurt you.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I should never have let you go. But I thought that making you stay would have just been me being selfish—that it was what the old Vicè would have done. And I wanted to be a better man. So I let you go and I pretended everything was cool.’

  His mouth twisted.

  ‘Only it wasn’t. I missed you like crazy. So I went and saw Mamma and I told her everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ Her eyes widened with shock.

  ‘Everything. I was sick and tired of lying to everyone. To her...to you. To myself.’

  Screwing up his face, he shook his head.

  ‘I think it’s the first time she’s ever lost her temper with me. Cavolo, she was mad at me. Like, furious. Every time I thought she’d finished she’d start up again. She told me she was ashamed of me, that my father would be ashamed of me, and then she told me I had to put it right.’