Chapter 2 - The Drive to the East End and the First Crack in the ArmorThe morning sun had barely cleared the Queens-Midtown Tunnel when the sleek black sedan swallowed us up in leather-scented silence.
I sat rigidly on the passenger side of the back seat, staring out the tinted window as the industrial grit of the city slowly gave way to the sprawling, manicured green expanses of Long Island. I was wearing a cream-colored linen sundress that had cost three weeks of grocery money—an emergency purchase I’d made online at 3:00 AM after Marco’s call—and my hair was neatly pinned back in a low bun.
Beside me, Marco was reviewing a stack of import logs on his tablet, looking impossibly sharp in a tailored navy blazer and an open-collared white shirt. He hadn't said a word in twenty minutes, but every few minutes, I could feel the invisible weight of his attention shifting toward me.
“You’re shivering,” he noted, not looking up from his screen.
“The air conditioning in here is set to arctic,” I lied, pulling a light cashmere cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
Marco sighed, set the tablet down on the console, and reached over. Without asking, he draped his own heavy blazer over my shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body, carrying that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and espresso that had haunted my dreams for years.
“Better?” he asked, his voice dropping into that low, intimate register that made my stomach flip.
“Much,” I whispered, staring straight ahead, terrified that if I turned my head, he’d see the absolute chaos written across my face.
The Ricci estate in East Hampton was less a summer home and more a Mediterranean fortress disguised as a coastal villa. White stucco walls, sprawling terracotta patios, centuries-old olive trees imported directly from Italy, and a private stretch of pristine white-sand beach made it look like something straight out of a billionaire lifestyle magazine.
As the sedan rolled up the crushed-stone driveway, a small army of relatives seemed to materialize from the manicured gardens.
“Remember the backstory,” Marco murmured, leaning in close as the driver cut the engine. His breath brushed against my ear, sending a hot shiver down my spine. “We met at the downtown charity gala six months ago. You laughed at my terrible jokes. We’ve been taking things slow, keeping it private away from the press.”
“Right. Slow and private,” I swallowed hard, my palms slick with nervous sweat. “Except for the part where we’re sharing a roof for a week.”
“Don’t worry,” Marco said, a faint, teasing smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll take the couch in the guest suite next to yours. I wouldn’t dare compromise your honor, Emily.”
Before I could fire back a sarcastic retort about his definition of honor, the car door swung open.
Sunlight flooded the interior, followed immediately by a sharp, melodic voice that cut through the coastal breeze.
“Marco! Finalmente! Look at you, dragging your poor mother out into the heat!”
Elena Ricci stepped forward. At sixty-nine, she was a formidable vision of elegance—silver hair styled in a flawless chignon, oversized designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head, and a floral silk dress that screamed old-money mafia matriarch. But it was her eyes—keen, intelligent, and fiercely observant—that locked onto me the second I stepped out of the car.
Marco instantly stepped around the vehicle, his hand coming up to rest naturally, possessively, at the small of my back. The heat of his palm burned right through the thin linen of my dress.
“Mother,” Marco said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Good to see you. And... I brought someone for you to meet.”
Elena’s gaze slid past her son, landing directly on me. For a terrifying second, the matriarch looked me up and down—from my sensible sandals to my pinned-back hair, taking in the slight tension in my shoulders.
I braced myself for the polite, freezing dismissal reserved for women who didn't belong in their social strata.
Instead, Elena’s face broke into a radiant, triumphant smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
“Dio mio,” Elena gasped, stepping forward and taking my trembling hands in hers. “You brought Emily. You actually brought my Emily!”
I froze, my jaw dropping slightly. “Your... your Emily?”
“Of course!” Elena beamed, pulling me into a warm, lavender-scented hug before I could process what was happening. She pulled back, patting my cheek affectionately. “Marco has been talking about his brilliant, hardworking assistant for three years! When he finally told me last month that he had the good sense to stop being an idiot and ask you out, I nearly popped a champagne cork! Come inside, child, you look exhausted—let’s get you some lemonade before the cousins start asking stupid questions.”
May you like
As Elena bustled ahead toward the grand double doors, pulling me along in her wake, I threw a stunned, disbelieving look back at Marco.
Marco stood by the car, stuffing his hands into his pockets, watching us with a slow, smug grin that suggested he had known this exact reaction would happen all along.
