Page 70 of When She Loves
“You spit on everything my family stands for. Tradition. Honor. Virtue.” She shakes her head. “You get married to my cousin, and the first thing you do is spend his money. What? You don’t think we heard about that? You’re spoiled and vapid. I don’t need your help. I knew this was a waste of my time.”
Frustrated, I grab my purse and march out of the store. Rafaele might be manipulating me, but he’s right about not letting people talk to me like that. The wind nips at me as soon as I step outside. It’s barely past lunchtime, but Nero’s already back here.
He sees me from the car and frowns. “Done already?” he asks as soon as I get in.
“Yes.” I can feel his gaze probing the side of my face.
“How did it go?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
A beat passes. “Look, Loretta can be a bit prickly. Don’t take it personally.”
Yeah, right. Everything she said to me felt pretty fucking personal.
I sniff. “I’m not.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
Frustration rings deep inside my bones, so I take it out on Nero. “Are you my driver or my therapist? Can you just take me home?”
I force myself to look at him and immediately feel guilty for snapping like that.
But Nero just shrugs. “All right. Your mother called. Wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she’s worried about you after the attack.”
That’s doubtful.
“You can say no if you don’t want to,” he offers.
I don’t want to, but I could use a distraction after my disastrous first day. I’m not in any rush to tell Rafaele how poorly it went.
“Fine. Take me there.”
The city is gridlocked, and it takes us nearly an hour to get to my old house.
When we arrive, a servant I don’t recognize opens the door.
“Mrs. Garzolo is waiting for you in the living room,” he says. “Mr. De Luca, may I offer you some coffee?” He leads Nero away to the kitchen while I go search for Mamma.
Passing through the grand foyer, I briefly note the picture frames on the round foyer table. There are three. One of me and my sisters, one of the whole family, and one of just my parents. They seem perfectly normal, but I know the smiles in them are all forced. Mamma and Papà have always been big on appearances and little else.
I find my mother reading a magazine on the sofa. When she hears me enter, she puts the magazine away and stands. Her gaze scans over me, her nose wrinkling.
I know exactly what she’s thinking. My casual outfit is too sloppy. My hair’s not sufficiently styled. My makeup is too sparse.
Thank God, I don’t have to deal with this every day anymore.
She walks up to me. “I heard you were hurt during the shooting.” There isn’t a hint of warmth in her tone.
“Why did you want to see me?” I ask, knowing she’s not really concerned for me.
She sniffs, probably displeased at how quickly I saw through her facade. “Your father is waiting for you in his office.”
Irritation inches along my skin. So it’s Papà who really wants to talk to me, but he knew I’d never show up if the invitation came from him.
