Chapter 3
“I know.”
“Then why are you worried?”
His gaze moved to the passing trees.
“Because they can be... enthusiastic.”
“About you having a girlfriend?”
“About me bringing you.”
That wording caught me.
But before I could ask, Antonio announced from the front, “Five minutes.”
The Ricci estate stood behind white gates surrounded by old trees and hydrangeas.
I expected something grand and cold.
It was grand.
But not cold.
The house was pale stone and cedar shingles, with blue shutters, a long porch, and bicycles abandoned near the steps as though people actually lived there.
Before the SUV stopped completely, the front door opened.
A petite silver-haired woman hurried down the steps.
Marco sighed.
“My mother.”
Lucia Ricci ignored her son.
She came directly to my door.
Antonio barely managed to open it before she took both my hands.
“Emily.”
The warmth in her face was so genuine that my throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Lucia.”
“Good.”
She pulled me into a hug.
“You're thinner than I expected.”
Marco shut his door.
“Ma.”
“I am allowed to observe.”
“You're not allowed to inspect my girlfriend like produce.”
Girlfriend.
The word hit differently outside Manhattan.
Lucia stepped back.
Her eyes went from me to Marco.
Something knowing passed through them.
“Well,” she said. “At least you learned one thing.”
“What?”
“How to choose.”
Marco became very interested in the luggage.
The next hour was chaos in the gentlest possible way.
There was Sofia, Marco's older sister, a pediatric dentist with three children and the energy of six people.
Elena, his younger sister, taught art history and had recently become engaged to a quiet architect named Daniel.
Cousins appeared from kitchens and patios.
An uncle named Carlo insisted on carrying my suitcase despite being seventy-six.
Aunt Rosa handed me lemonade and demanded I try something called her “emergency focaccia.”
No one seemed remotely afraid of Marco.
Sofia told him his shirt made him look tired.
Elena stole his sunglasses.
His nephew Luca asked whether Uncle Marco really owned twelve cars.
“Seven,” Marco said.
Lucia shouted from the kitchen, “Still too many!”
I had never seen him look so normal.
It unsettled me more than his penthouse ever had.
At dinner, I sat beside him under strings of lights on the terrace.
There were twenty-two people.
Maybe twenty-five.
People kept arriving with food.
Marco's hand rested against the back of my chair.
Not touching me.
Just there.
I could feel its presence like warmth.
Sofia asked how long we'd been together.
“Four months,” Marco said.
I nodded.
Elena narrowed her eyes.
“Four?”
“Yes.”
“You came to my gallery opening five months ago.”
“I did.”
“With Emily.”
“I was working,” I said quickly.
Elena smiled.
“You wore a blue dress.”
My fork paused.
“You remember?”
“Marco mentioned it.”
I slowly turned my head.
Marco reached for his wine.
Sofia grinned.
“Oh, this is going to be interesting.”
“Nothing is interesting,” Marco said.
“That's exactly what people say right before things become interesting.”
Lucia appeared with another serving dish.
“Leave them alone.”
Marco relaxed.
Then his mother added, “Until dessert.”
Everyone laughed.
Including me.
Especially me.
And for one dangerous evening, pretending stopped feeling like pretending.
After dinner, Marco and I walked toward the guest wing.
“Your family is lovely,” I said.
He looked suspicious.
“No one's ever said it that early.”
“They are.”
“You haven't played cards with my uncle Carlo.”
“Should I be afraid?”
“Yes.”
I stopped outside my room.
Marco stopped too.
We stood beneath the soft hallway light.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“Coming.”
Something in his voice stripped away the joke I had been about to make.
“You're welcome.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then his eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.
Or maybe I imagined it.
“Goodnight, Emily.”
“Goodnight, Marco.”
I closed the door.
Then leaned against it.
This was a disaster.
Saturday morning made it worse.
Lucia found me alone in the kitchen at six-thirty.
I had always been an early riser.
Apparently so was she.
She was making coffee in a robe, her silver hair pinned loosely at the back of her head.
“Can't sleep?”
“I slept.”
“Marco snores?”
I nearly inhaled my own tongue.
“We have separate rooms.”
Lucia looked at me.
I realized too late that this was not part of the official story.
Then she smiled.
“Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“A woman should have her own room whenever she wants one.”
She handed me coffee.
No judgment.
No suspicion.
Just coffee.
We sat by the kitchen windows while the house remained quiet.
For several minutes, Lucia asked harmless questions.
My parents.
My work.
Whether I liked the city.
Then she stirred sugar into her cup.
“My son trusts you.”
I looked down.
“I hope so.”
“No. You don't understand.”
She studied me.
“Marco trusts very few people with the parts of himself that matter.”
“I organize his meetings.”
Lucia smiled.
“You think that's what I'm talking about?”
I didn't answer.
She continued.
“After his father died, Marco became very serious. Too serious. He decided being dependable meant never needing anything.”
I knew Marco's father had died six years earlier.
Heart attack.
Sudden but peaceful.
Marco rarely spoke about him.
“He took care of everyone,” Lucia said. “His sisters. Me. The businesses. Every problem became his problem.”
“He's good at that.”
“Yes.”
Her expression softened.
“But when a person spends too long solving everyone's problems, sometimes they forget they are allowed to have a life.”
I wrapped both hands around the coffee mug.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Lucia looked toward the doorway.
“Because two years ago, he started mentioning you.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Mentioning me how?”
“At first, he complained.”
That sounded more likely.
“What did he say?”
“That his new assistant argued with him.”
“I didn't argue.”
Lucia gave me a look.
“Emily.”
“Fine. Occasionally.”
“He said you moved meetings without asking. Made him eat lunch. Sent everyone home on Christmas Eve.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Later, he stopped complaining.”
Lucia's voice became quieter.
“He would say, ‘Emily thinks Sofia would like this.’ Or, ‘Emily reminded me Elena's opening is Thursday.’ Or, ‘Emily found that book you wanted.’”
I stared into my coffee.
May you like
“He was talking about work.”
“Maybe.”
