Chapter Five

Riley POV

The next day I am up early, not because I want to be, but because apparently there is a set time to wake up. Something the sick man failed to mention. Note to self: check if grumpy menopause can hit at forty, because that is how old he is according to Matteo. Not that you could guess. He is built like a Greek statue and looks like one too.

I shake my head to push the thoughts away. Do not think about how he looks. The man threatened to murder you yesterday.

I meet the man who cost me my down payment. His name is Enzo, and he begrudgingly shows us around the house. It has three storeys and is comically huge for two people, since the staff commute in and out. Another interesting thing I learn is that the guards are not allowed near the house because the old man loves his privacy.

I stay for a week and quickly note a few things that piss me off.

One, only Giana and I have bodyguards. I do not know what that is about. Matteo gets to come and go as he pleases, while we have to ask for permission.

Two, breakfast is always at the same time. Seven. If you miss it, you wait until lunch. It takes me a few days to figure that out.

Three, there is a fucking church bell and it is loud. Why, you may ask? To call us like dumb cows. When food is ready, the bell rings. When the staff needs to assemble, it rings. And my favourite part, there are small bells in every room so you can be summoned like a dog. Why call my name when you can reduce me to a grovelling animal? In case it is not obvious, I hate it.

Four, the worst of them all is Matteo. He comes back bruised every day. What are they doing to him? It has only been a week and he already has every colour of the rainbow on his skin. It does not help that we do not share a room either. I guess that is another thing I hate. So five things.

Of course, there are some good things. I help in the kitchen and start learning Italian, which turns out to be nothing like high school Spanish. The staff members are kind and helpful. But whenever I ask about Lorenzo, they all get this starry-eyed look of fierce loyalty that makes me wonder what he did to earn it.

I also enjoy watching the guards train, a passion both Giana and I share. Enzo just rolls his eyes whenever he catches us. According to Giana, he is a big softie and the only person Lorenzo actually listens to. He is attractive too, but married. Good for him.

Giana and I sit by the pool. She reads a novel while I lie there bored out of my mind.

“Why is the east wing forbidden?” I ask with my eyes closed.

I hear her book close. I cannot tell whether she plans to ignore me or answer.

“It is my mother’s room,” she says softly.

“Oh. Is she around? I have not seen her.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Immediately I regret it. But Giana just smiles.

“She is dead.”

“Well, my mom is dead to me, so I guess we have that in common,” I think, but I keep it to myself.

“How did she die?” I ask.

“Lorenzo killed her.”

I sit up so fast I nearly get dizzy.

“What?” I blurt out.

She laughs, and it unsettles me. You do not say something like that and laugh.

“Aren’t you sad? Or angry?” I ask carefully.

“No. She cheated on him, so he killed her. Simple. That is how our world works.”

“In my world, we sue people and get divorced,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“It is not your world anymore,” she murmurs.

I shiver. She is right. I am no longer part of that world.

We sit in silence for a while before Giana suggests we go shopping and grab something to eat at a café. I agree and get ready. I insist we take a cab, and her bodyguard Vittorio scrunches his nose at the suggestion.

Our first stop is a jewellery store. I do not pick anything, even though I want to. Giana, on the other hand, has no problem spending her father’s money on things she will probably never wear. I may shy away from spending thousands on shiny rocks, but I have no problem dropping money on unnecessary fabrics. So I do.

“So how did you and Matteo meet?” Giana asks, sipping her coffee.

I cannot help but notice how graceful her posture is. Her back is straight, shoulders pulled back, auburn hair curled and falling past her shoulders. It makes me feel inadequate.

We sit outside while a warm breeze brushes our skin. I sip my cappuccino and smile.

“We grew up together. Our moms worked at the same diner. They were both struggling, and we both had awful dads. Misery loves company, I guess,” I say with a shrug.

I expect her to let it go. Most people do. She does not.

“So will your mom miss you? I mean, I know Matteo’s mom…” She trails off. “But what about yours?”

I freeze. Even after all these years, I still freeze. I hate myself for it.

“My mother is… indisposed,” I say vaguely.

She tilts her head in this innocent, puppy-like way that makes me want to protect her. All of a sudden, she feels like the sister I never had.

“Five years ago, when I was fifteen, my mom remarried and decided she did not want me,” I say.

I wait for pity. It never comes. Instead, I see anger in her eyes. The kind I know too well.

“She still sends money and calls at least once a month. She just asked me not to visit,” I add, feeling strangely defensive.

“That is not any better,” Giana says, horrified.

I shrug.

“At least she cared enough to call.” I say, and that successfully ends the conversation.