Page 23 of Secrets of the Brother
The entire room was a vomit-inducing dusty pink with a glass and gold table and seventies-inspired rattan peacock fan chairs that creaked when you sat on them.
My mother’s upper lip curled as she scanned me from head to toe. “Seven months in America and you come back a heathen. Since when do you come to the breakfast table half-dressed?”
I tightened the belt on my robe. “I’m hardly half-dressed,” I responded under my breath, sitting down and cringing as the wicker chair shifted and creaked beneath my weight.
Her nose wrinkled. “What is that on your forehead? Dirt?”
I wiped my forehead and saw black on my fingertips. Snatching up my cloth napkin, I dipped the corner in my water and rubbed it over my face. “Nothing.”
“You better not have been scribbling with those dirt sticks in bed ruining my sheets again.”
My parents' view of my life’s passion and chosen career in a nutshell—scribbling with dirt sticks.
My father set his paper aside. “Your mother—”
“Claudia,” interrupted my mother.
My father sent her a disgruntled look. “Yourmotheris correct, Bianca. In the future, I expect you to display more decorum. You will come to the breakfast table precisely at seven o’clock dressed appropriately for the day.”
I smiled my thanks to the female servant who placed a cappuccino in front of me. I didn’t know her name yet. My parents had a history of running staff off every few months, so it was no surprise I didn’t recognize anyone in the household. I reached for a brioche and the crystal jar of preserves. “Since I plan to return to America and school by the end of the week, I don’t see that being a problem, Father.”
My father cleared his throat and picked up his newspaper. Snapping it open, he covered his face as he said, “You aren’t returning to school.”
The spoon I was holding clattered to my plate. “What?”
He cleared his throat again. “You heard me.”
I looked between him and my mother. “Why? What is going on?”
My mother picked up her knife and scraped the nonexistent burnt edge off her toast. “Now that your poor, beautiful sister is gone, you have a duty to your family to marry.”
I shook my head. “What does Renata’s death have to do with me marrying?”
My mother let out a long-suffering sigh. “Honestly, Bianca, I am disgusted you could be so selfish at a time like this. I thought I raised you better than that.”
I blinked several times. The fact that I wasn’tmoreself-centered was actually the miracle, and given my mother's complete lack of maternal instincts, I was pretty sure I would have been better off being raised by a pack of wolves than in this family.
My father slammed his fist down on the table, tipping my cappuccino over. The hot liquid pooled over the tablecloth and dribbled onto the floor. The servant rushed forward with a towel only to be screamed at by my father. I gave her a sympathetic look and whispered to her to return to the safety of the kitchen, then knelt down with my napkin in hand to mop up the mess.
“Get off the fucking floor," my father blustered at me, shoving his chair backward. "You’re not some common laborer.”
I rose and lowered my gaze to avoid reacting to my father's finger wagging in my face. “Your sister’s death cost this family a great deal of money.”
And there it was.
“We need a Cavalieri connection.”
My mouth dropped open in shock. “You are not suggesting I marry Enzo Cavalieri!”
My mother scoffed, giving me a scathing once-over. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be unseemly. Besides, he already rejected you once. No one would believe he wanted you now.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything.
My father continued. “There is an unmarried cousin, Matteo. You will marry him.”
“The hell I will!”
My father’s arm struck out so quickly I didn’t have time to duck.
