Page 173 of Vicious Intentions
Truth be told, I’ve never been to my father’s mansion in the Hamptons before, so I have no idea what awaits us. Still, that didn’t stop me from calling the caretakers last night while Anna slept in my arms, the second the idea took shape. I told them to air out the house and stock the fridge and pantry with enough food to last us five days. I wish it were longer, but that’s all the time I could get away with before the other heads of the families noticed my absence.
The drive takes longer than I expect, three hours to be precise, each mile putting more distance between us and all the obligations awaiting me back home. But by the time we finally turn onto the property, I’m feeling more hopeful that I made the right call coming here. That this plan of mine will work. And that when we return to Manhattan, Anna and I will be husband and wife in every sense of the word.
Just as optimism swells in my chest, my father’s beach house comes into view. The sun beats down on the pale stone drive as the car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires.My gaze settles on the house ahead, a sprawling shingle-clad estate with white trim and columned porches. Beyond it, the ocean stretches out endlessly, waves breaking in a steady rhythm against the sand.
This isn’t a beach house.
It’s a mega-million-dollar mansion worthy of my father’s overinflated ego.
I get out of the car first, walk around to my wife’s side, and open the door for her. Anna places her hand in mine and steps out beside me, her gaze sweeping over the lavish property as she takes it all in. Leaving the luggage in the trunk for now, I hook her arm in mine and lead her toward the entrance.
“Wow. When you said you had a summer home in the Hamptons, I wasn’t expecting it to be—”
“This ostentatious? Pretentious?”
“I was going to say… so big. But then again, you were four brothers. You probably needed the space. Did you spend all your summers here?” she asks as I push the key into the lock.
“I’ve never been here before,” I confess, and before she can ask me anything else, I swing the door open.
Cool air greets us, still carrying the stale weight of a house closed all winter, softened by a hint of salty ocean breeze. I step inside, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. It’s immaculate in its furnishings, every piece tied perfectly together. Just like Ginevra liked it. Still, it’s not the décor that has my throat tightening. It’s the fact that every mantel, every shelf, is lined with photographs. Photographs of a family frozen in time. Smiling faces that don’t include me. Or my brothers. Save for one—Carlo.
I can tell Anna wants to ask why I’ve never been here. What stories lie behind such a remark. But now is not the time to tell my wife all the fucked-up shit I went through.
“I’ll go and grab our things from the car so that we can unpack first,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Then I’ll make us something light for lunch. Sound good?”
Anna nods, but I can see it in her eyes that she’s trying to read what’s going on in my head. I don’t want that. Not now. Not when my thoughts are crowded with memories I’d rather keep buried.
I knew I’d probably have some sort of reaction coming here. After all, this was where my father loved to spend a quarter of his year. I just never expected another ghost to be haunting its walls.
This house… it’s where my father and Ginevra played pretend. Where they could be the loving parents to the son they actually wanted. This is where their picture-perfect family existed, while Niccolò, Raffaele, and I were nothing more than an afterthought. A secret they kept tucked away, afraid we’d shatter their blissful illusion.
“Come. Let’s find our room upstairs,” I mutter, once I’ve returned from the car.
“Are you okay?” she asks, studying me again.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.” I force another smile. “Just tired from the drive.”
We find the primary bedroom upstairs easily enough, the caretaker having made the bed with fresh sheets and leaving the windows cracked open to let the ocean air drift in. However, just as Anna is about to step inside, I hold onto her hand and pull her back.
“Not this one,” I say, already moving to find another room.
If Anna senses I’m acting peculiar, she doesn’t say anything, which I’m grateful for. Thankfully, we quickly realize most of the guest rooms have also been properly taken care of, so we settle on the largest one with an ocean view.
I’m quick to pack my things away, shoving them into drawers without much care. I don’t let myself linger or let mygaze rest anywhere for too long, afraid of what I might find… whose face I might see.
“I’m off to fix us some lunch. Cobb salad okay for you?” She nods, and I pretend not to see the confusion on her brow. “Okay. I’ll see you downstairs.” I press a brief kiss to her forehead before leaving her there.
When I step out and head downstairs, the weight of the house closes in around me, caging me in until I have to pause and grip the edge of the kitchen island just to steady my breathing.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. What was I thinking, bringing her here?
I should’ve taken her somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just not here. Never here. This place is dragging up things that should never see the light of day.Cazzo.
I should’ve sold this fucking house the second the old man died. But curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see it at least once before putting it on the market. And now I’m stuck here, angry and agitated, when I should be focusing on Anna. Fuck!
I take a few deep breaths and focus on making my wife something to eat. The monotony of slicing and dicing eases the tension in my shoulders, even if it can’t fully quiet the memories. By the time Anna arrives downstairs, I’ve already made lunch and set it out on the back patio by the pool. Out here, it’s easier to breathe. There are no eyes watching me out here.
“This is delicious,” Anna says after a few bites. “I didn’t know you cooked.”
