Chapter 3 - Dinner Under the Chandeliers and the First TestThe first evening dinner at the Ricci estate was designed to test the limits of human endurance—or at least my ability to smile while holding a fork with sweating palms.
Seventeen family members gathered around an enormous mahogany dining table set up on the back veranda, lit by a canopy of twinkling fairy lights and heavy iron chandeliers. There were boisterous uncles arguing about importing Italian wines, giggling teenage cousins whispering behind wine glasses, and sharp-eyed aunts who analyzed every single micro-expression passing between Marco and me.
And right in the middle of it all, we were expected to play the part of a deeply enamored, newly minted couple.
“So, Emily, sweetheart,” boomed Uncle Salvatore from across the table, waving a chunk of garlic bread like a baton. “My nephew here is a notoriously stubborn bachelor. How on earth did a smart girl like you finally lasso the wild bull?”
A collective hush fell over the table. Dozens of eyes swung in our direction, waiting for the juicy details.
I choked slightly on my sip of sparkling water, my cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg. Lasso the wild bull? If they only knew that the wild bull’s primary form of romance consisted of sending late-night emails with red-flag urgency markers.
Before I could flounder for a coherent lie, Marco smoothly intervened.
Underneath the table, out of sight from the rest of the ravenous family audience, Marco’s hand slid across the white linen cloth. His warm, heavy fingers found my knee, gently squeezing the fabric of my dress before sliding up to intertwine his fingers with mine. His touch was an anchor in the middle of a hurricane.
“Uncle Sal, if you must know,” Marco said, his voice smooth, low, and laced with amusement, “she didn't lasso me. I tripped, fell flat on my face, and spent six months trying to convince her to give me a chance.”
A chorus of delighted gasps and rich, booming laughter erupted around the table.
“Ah, a humbling experience!” Aunt Rosa cackled, raising her glass. “It’s about time a woman put this boy in his place!”
Beside me, Marco didn't let go of my hand. In fact, his thumb began to trace lazy, hypnotic circles against my knuckles. The intimacy of the gesture—hidden just beneath the table while the family debated politics and pasta—made my pulse race dangerously out of control.
I risked a sideways glance at him. Marco was looking down at me, his green eyes catching the amber glow of the veranda lights, softening into something that felt entirely too tender for a staged performance.
“You’re doing brilliant,” he murmured under the cover of the family’s renewed noise, his face inches from mine.
“I’m going to have a heart attack before dessert,” I whispered back, my heart hammering against his thumb.
“Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”
Safe with me.
Those four words echoed in my chest, carrying a dangerous, seductive weight. How could I feel safe when sitting next to him was the most hazardous thing I had ever done in my entire life?
After dinner, while the family migrated toward the fire pit on the beach to open bottles of limoncello, Elena cornered me in the grand hallway near the sweeping staircase.
“Emily, darling,” Elena said softly, resting a manicured hand on my arm. “Can I steal you for a moment? I want to show you something in the conservatory.”
Panic flared in my chest. Had she seen through the act? Was this the part where she kindly told me to pack my bags and leave before the police were involved?
“Of course, Mrs. Ricci,” I managed politely.
She led me into a quiet, glass-enclosed room filled with blooming night-scented jasmine and antique armchairs. Instead of interrogating me, however, Elena walked over to a small wooden side table and picked up a heavy, velvet-lined jewelry box.
She opened it to reveal a stunning, vintage gold bracelet encrusted with small, brilliant emeralds and diamonds.
“This belonged to my grandmother,” Elena said quietly, her eyes glistening with a sudden, sentimental moisture. “When Marco was ten years old, he told me that when he grew up, he was going to find a woman as kind and strong as I was, and he was going to put this bracelet on her wrist.”
I stared at the velvet box, my breath catching in my throat.
“Elena... I couldn't possibly accept this. It’s a family heirloom. Marco and I—we’re just—we’re taking things slow—”
“Nonsense,” Elena interrupted gently, lifting the heavy gold band from its velvet bed and taking my left wrist. Before I could protest, she fastened the clasp securely around my pulse point. The metal was cool against my skin, but the gesture radiated a crushing wave of guilt.
“Marco has spent his whole life building walls, Emily,” Elena whispered, looking up into my eyes with fierce, maternal intuition. “He carries the weight of this family, this empire, on his shoulders every single day. He doesn't let people in. But when he looks at you... the walls come down. I saw it tonight at the table. Don't let him push you away, child. He needs someone who loves him for the man he is underneath all that armor.”
The words felt like a physical blow.
May you like
Someone who loves him.
She had no idea that I had been loving him in the dark for two years, fighting a losing battle against my own heart every single day.
