Chapter 2: Welcome to Hell

When Salvatore joins me at the reception, he maintains a stoic expression. He nods in greeting to some guests and takes a drink before approaching me at the table we share. Meanwhile, his father stops on the stage and calls for attention, just as Salvatore stops beside me.

“Today is an important day for the Rossetti and Di Sante families. I can say that after years of enmity, we have put our differences aside,” he smiles enigmatically. “Mauricio and I are today putting behind us the grudges that have plagued our families for years.”

Yeah, right.

I avoid making a face and glance at my father, who maintains a false expression of serenity.

“Today, our children become one,” he continues. “This evening, I have gained a daughter.” He raises his glass and gives me an almost sinister smile. “Welcome to the family, Helena Di Sante.”

I raise my glass, as does Salvatore and the rest of the guests, in a toast.

“I would like to invite the couple to have their first dance.”

I know neither of us wants to do this, but everyone is watching us expectantly. The sarcastic smile on the face of Martina Di Sante, Salvatore’s younger sister, annoys me, so I silently take the hand Salvatore offers and move to the center of the floor where the band begins to play a soft melody.

The man doesn't speak; in fact, he only speaks to say unpleasant things to me. So I enjoy the silence.

One of his hands rests firmly on my waist while mine rests on his shoulder. We look straight at each other, and for a second, I think about what he was doing in that room, and I just want to step back.

I have to admit, I’m curious. It might be useful.

“I assume you know how to dance,” he whispers, cold and low, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Do you think the Rossettis are a bunch of uncultured ignoramuses?”

“Almost,” he replies before beginning to move us around the floor with a surprising elegance. Although he is stiff and has a sour expression, I must admit he keeps pace with the music and does it very well.

“I didn't know they taught dancing in brothels,” I scoff, and he glares at me. “What? Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings.”

He executes a quick turn, making me stumble, but he doesn't let me fall. When I look at him, he has an imperceptible smile on his lips before returning to the usual rhythm. Everyone around us is watching, and I know what they must be thinking right now.

We are a joke.

When the band finishes, we stop in perfect sync, and applause rings out before the music changes, inviting everyone onto the floor.

I pull away and head back to the table before I can think better of it. Halfway there, I stop when three figures block my path.

“That was entertaining. You’re very good at pretending, I'll give you that.”

Martina Di Sante stands in front of me, wearing an elegant, long black dress with a V-neck. I know she isn't happy about this, but she isn't the only one. I look at the woman flanked by two others.

Martina's blue eyes, identical to her father's, study me with disdain. She sips her drink and grimaces.

“I think Salvatore didn’t deserve to be subjected to this humiliation,” says one of the women who has been silent. She wears an elegant, long, red dress in a fifties style, her coppery hair held up by a pin.

“That’s exactly what I told Martina,” the other woman seconds. This one is blonde, wearing a white one-shoulder dress, and her eyes look at me as if she wants to tear my head off. I arch my eyebrow, and she clears her throat. “But I understand Salvatore’s sense of honor.”

“My friends, Paulette and Eva,” she gestures respectively to each woman who just spoke, both close friends.

Of course.

“Eva, right?” I say to the woman, and she nods. “You say Salvatore has a sense of honor?” I look at Martina with a smile before leaning in slightly. “The Di Santes don't know what honor is. Excuse me.”

I walk away from them and return to my seat. I look at the three women and realize that Martina’s friends are just as annoying as she is.

The rest of the party is pure torture. I barely eat any of the dinner, and when it's time to cut the cake, I breathe a sigh of relief that no one has grown tired of pretending.

“Helena and I are retiring,” he announces in a tone that leaves no room for rebuttal.

Without a word, he pulls me away, not allowing me to say goodbye to anyone. My heels sink into the grass, and when we reach the indoors, I angrily yank myself free.

“Hey! Are you trying to pull my arm out of its socket?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns around with a straight back and looks at me.

“Aldo,” he calls over his shoulder. A short, thin man appears running.

“Sir?”

“Is the car ready?” he asks without a second glance.

“As you arranged,” he replies in a subservient tone.

“Go up and change. We don't have time,” he tells me. “A suite has been reserved at the hotel where we are supposed to spend the night.”

“What?!”

“Aldo, take her to the room,” he continues. “The rest of your things will be here tomorrow, or at least that's what your father said.”

I want to argue, but I am truly tired and just want this day to be over. So, somewhat stunned, I look at the man who maintains his attentive posture, take a deep breath, and follow the man.

I climb the stairs, gathering my dress so as not to fall, and we arrive at the upper floor. We walk down a long corridor. When he stops in front of one of the doors, he opens it and gives a small bow before stepping back.

I look at him strangely, but he seems unfazed.

I enter and stop inside before hearing the door close behind me.

I let out a weary sigh and walk over to the four-poster bed where a travel bag rests. It’s the one where I quickly packed a couple of changes of clothes and my personal items. My mother had requested it this morning, and I did it in a rush. I approach the bag; my cell phone is resting on top of everything, but I don't want to check the messages. I take off the dress and leave it on the carpet before taking the American-style black dress spread out to one side.

Leaving my heels on, I put on the dress and let my hair down, feeling more comfortable. I grab the bag and go back downstairs where Salvatore is waiting in the lobby.

He watches me descend but shows no expression. He moves toward the front door where the man named Aldo is standing.

I follow him, and outside, a car is waiting. I’m not surprised to see the McLaren. Salvatore gets into the car, and I sigh.

“Wow, what a gentleman,” I mutter, opening the car door and climbing in, placing my bag on my lap.

He starts the engine, and as soon as I close the door, he speeds out of the property.

“You know, I know you detest me—I mean, the feeling is mutual,” I start. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to talk to me, to converse, to feel like I have a human being next to me and not a robot.”

“Do you ever shut up?” he asks in an irritated tone.

So the Tin Man—who is now my husband—feels something.

“No, actually, I love to talk. I hate silence.” I look at him while he keeps his eyes on the road. “You never speak more than necessary, do you?”

He remains silent for a few seconds, and when I think he won’t answer my question, he speaks:

“Believe me, my silence is your good fortune,” he replies in an emotionless tone, and I frown.

He says nothing more, and we reach our destination in silence.

I'm not surprised when we arrive at one of the Di Sante hotels, the Portrait Firenze. I've never been inside this hotel, but it has one of the best panoramic views of Florence and the Arno River.

As we get out, the valet parking opens my door while Salvatore gets out and tosses the keys to another attendant. I walk, but his strides are longer, and I grit my teeth when I see him get into the elevator. I follow, stopping in front of him, but not before shooting him a murderous look.

I notice how no one else steps into the elevator when we do. In fact, a couple of men stop in front of it, preventing anyone from joining us. Without a word, Salvatore presses an upper floor, followed by a code, and the doors close.

My hands remain clutched to my travel bag. It takes everything I have not to tell him what I’m thinking.

The doors open, and I step out. I expect to find several doors, but I'm surprised to see only two.

He must notice my curiosity because he stops beside me.

“These are my private suites for important clients.”

Why do I feel like there’s something more?

He opens one of the doors and steps inside. I follow him, and I’m impressed by how beautiful and harmonious the suite is—dark tones, large windows. In the first room, there’s a sitting area, and in the background, overlooking the river, a dining room. To my right are double doors that suggest it’s the bedroom.

I drop my bag on the sofa and walk forward, opening the double doors. Indeed, there’s a large four-poster bed with gray and white sheets, and cushions of the same color.

“This is supposed to be our wedding night,” he says from behind me.

I look at him and see him sipping an amber liquid.

My father’s words echo in my mind, but I don't think I can do it, especially remembering he was with another woman this afternoon.

“You’re insane if you think you’re going to touch me.”

He laughs.

An empty laugh.

“Do you think I want to touch a child like you? Don’t take me for such an idiot.” He lifts his glass but stops midway before lowering it and looking at me with curiosity. “Are you a virgin?”

What did he just ask?

“Excuse me?”

I watch him set the glass down on a table and cross his arms, taking a step toward me. I look up, lifting my chin. Despite being five-foot-seven and wearing heels, he still towers over me.

“I asked if you are a virgin?”

“No,” I reply in a casual tone.

I refuse to tell him I can count my sexual partners on one hand, and that none of them has ever been able to find the damn G-spot; it’s like they’re searching for Atlantis.

I clear my throat when I realize he’s close.

“I don't know what you're trying to achieve with those words, but it’s none of your business.”

“It is, if my wife has high mileage.”

“Go to hell!”

His hand takes my hair by surprise and yanks my head back.

“What are you doing?”

He leans in and inhales my scent, sending shivers through my body.

“Don’t worry. As I told you, I’m not interested in little girls like you,” he speaks in a whispering voice. “You can rest easy knowing I won’t touch you that way.”

“You don't know how relieved I am,” I reply sarcastically, closing my eyes against the brush of his breath on my neck. I hesitate slightly. “Though I have one question: what will we tell everyone when they see there’s no heir?”

He clicks his tongue and releases me, making me lose my balance, and I fall onto the bed.

His eyes turn cold, and he curls his lip into a sneer that takes my breath away.

“I’ll deal with that later. For now, I suggest you enjoy your peace, because it will be the last day.”

I purse my lips and watch as he walks away toward the exit door. He opens it and stops there to throw me a triumphant look.

“Welcome to hell, Helena.”

With that, he leaves, slamming the door shut.