Page 43 of Claimed At First Sight

My search for a decent distraction, however, has been far less successful than his quest for power. My attempt to replace the memory of that unfortunate garden kiss has been a spectacular failure.

I have yet to find a single man I actually want to touch. Besides the fact that sneaking out unnoticed severely limits my options, every candidate seems either too soft, like that boy I kissed on the beach whose name I’ve already forgotten, or far too close to the new Chicago don’s self-assured arrogance.

Though in fairness, Maximo’s ego would be hard to top. He has cornered the market on supreme self-assurance.

There don’t seem to be any men in between. Apparently, the world, or at least the east coast of Sicily, is populated by either golden retrievers or wolves.

Perhaps I’m looking in the wrong places. Since I can only escape during the day, I’ve been exploring cafés, markets, and beaches. Not the one near our house, obviously.

No man has really caught my eye. And if one came close, I usually abandoned the mission after a few words and a little flirting.

It’s a tragedy. It’s been a week, and I’m still being haunted by the lips of a man who views women as high-yield investments and breeding cattle.

“Is Aldo going to come back here to visit?” Sienna asks.

She’s leaning in, her eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and something that looks suspiciously like genuine hope.

Mamma finally looks up from her book. There’s a softness in her face whenever his name is mentioned.

“There are no plans at this stage,” Mamma says.

Her voice is steady, but she can’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“We just enjoy talking for now.”

“An hour a night is a lot of talking,” Sienna persists.

Mamma just shrugs. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

I watch her, a tug-of-war happening in my chest. I want to cheer Mamma on. After a lifetime spent under our father’s iron thumb, she deserves a man who listens to her instead of just barking orders.

If Aldo Marino makes her glow like she’s discovered the fountain of youth, then I should be thrilled. From what I’ve observed so far, he seems to be a gentleman. He’s kind and clearly adores her. But that could also be a mask, one that might fall away later, just like it did with Father.

On top of that, he comes with one very large complication. He’s the advisor to a man I’d rather forget exists. Every mile Mamma moves closer to Aldo, figuratively and literally, is a mile I’m dragged closer to Maximo.

“I’m happy for you,” Isabella says. She reaches over and gives Mamma’s hand a squeeze. “You’ve earned a nice man in your life.”

Mamma beams at her, and my heart sinks even as it warms.

I’m happy for her. I truly am.

But it’s hard to celebrate the light when you’re fairly certain it’s just the headlight of a train hurtling directly toward you.

The next morning, Isa, Sienna, and I are halfway down the staircase when a loud knock echoes through the foyer. One of the maids hurries toward the front door.

I slow my pace, my hand sliding along the banister as four men in black step into the foyer carrying enormous bouquets of flowers fit for a royal wedding.

“What on earth…” Sienna says, her eyes going wide.

Then another group enters. And another.

By the time the last man walks through the door, the entire entrance hall looks like a florist exploded inside it.

It’s breathtaking.

As someone who’s spent more time than I’d like to admit studying botanical arrangements, I’m practically drooling. Huge, cheerful sunflowers rise above clusters of delicate golden ranunculus, their tissue-thin petals tucked among white lilies whose rich, sweet scent fills the hall.

The arrangements are absurdly extravagant. They are the kind of floral monuments reserved for a cathedral altar on a saint’s feast day, or for a peace treaty wedding between two families who were trying to kill each other the week before. It’s the sort of over-the-top display meant to distract everyone from the fact the bride is being traded for shipping routes and political favors.