Chapter 2 - The Gateway to the Estate
The heavy oak doors of the boardroom clicked shut behind us, signaling the end of our hastily arranged weekend briefing, but my mind was still spinning from the packing list Marco had unceremoniously dropped on my desk at 8:00 AM sharp. He hadn't just asked me to pack a weekend bag; he had arranged for a personal stylist to deliver three racks of designer resort wear to my apartment—clothes that cost more than my entire annual college tuition.
By Friday afternoon, my little Honda Civic was parked behind Marco’s matte-black armored Mercedes SUV in the subterranean garage of his Tribeca building. As I hoisted my single canvas duffel bag toward the trunk, Marco appeared beside me, taking the strap out of my hand with effortless grace.
“You’re bringing one bag?” he asked, eyeing my worn canvas duffel as if it were an exotic artifact.
“I’m a minimalist,” I retorted, smoothing down the lapels of my cream-colored trench coat—one of the few items from the stylist’s rack I had agreed to keep. “Some of us don’t require a rolling armory of Italian silk suits for a weekend in the Hamptons.”
Marco’s lips twitched upward into a genuine, rare smile that transformed his intimidating face into something breathtaking. “You’ll need the dresses, Emily. My grandmother treats dinner like a state banquet. If you show up in jeans, she’ll assume I’m starving you and start throwing wooden spoons at my head.”
“Your grandmother sounds terrifying.”
“She survived Mussolini and three uncles in the import business,” Marco said, opening the passenger door for me with old-world gallantry that contrasted sharply with his modern, dangerous aura. “You’ll love her.”
The drive out of Manhattan and onto the Long Island Expressway took nearly two hours. Inside the quiet, climate-controlled cabin of the SUV, the initial panic of our charade gave way to an uneasy, simmering tension. Marco drove with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the highway ahead, while I stared out the window at the changing landscape as skyscrapers gave way to rolling estates, horse farms, and dense patches of pine forest.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Marco noted, glancing sideways at me as we exited toward Southampton.
“I’m mentally preparing myself to lie to a woman who probably spots falsehoods from three rooms away,” I replied honestly. “What’s her name again? Besides Isabella.”
“Nonma,” Marco said simply. “And she doesn’t just spot falsehoods, Emily. She reads people like classified government documents. Which is why we need to get our story straight right now before we pull through those gates.”
I sat up straight, turning toward him. “Right. The backstory. How long have we supposedly been together?”
“Six months,” Marco answered without hesitation. “Met at a charity auction in Tribeca. You outbid me on a vintage first-edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and I spent the rest of the evening trying to convince you to let me buy you dinner.”
I blinked, staring at him in shock. “That... that actually happened. To the letter. I outbid you six months ago.”
“I know,” Marco murmured, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, intense heat as he kept his focus on the winding country road ahead. “I didn’t have to invent our origin story, Emily. I just had to remember it.”
My breath caught in my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs with terrifying velocity. He remembered. He remembered the charity auction where I had nervously clutched my paddle, terrified that the stern, powerful businessman sitting across the aisle was going to crush my meager bid. He had remembered every single detail.
Before I could process the seismic shift those words caused in my chest, the SUV slowed down, turning sharply between two towering stone pillars topped by wrought-iron gates bearing the carved initial R.
The Hamptons estate wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling, limestone sanctuary nestled among manicured lawns, weeping willows, and the distant, crashing sound of the Atlantic Ocean. White wraparound porches, slate roofs, and gleaming windows stretched across the property like something out of a classic American novel.
And standing on the front porch, flanked by two middle-aged aunts and an intimidating older woman with sharp silver hair and an apron tied over a floral dress, was Isabella Ricci.
Marco killed the engine. He turned to me, his expression hardening into a mask of absolute calm, though his eyes held a silent, pleading question.
“Showtime,” he whispered.
“God help us,” I murmured back.
Marco stepped out of the SUV, walked around to my side, and opened the door. Instead of just offering a polite hand, he slid his palm securely around mine, his warm, calloused fingers intertwining with my trembling ones. A jolt of pure electricity shot up my arm, settling straight into my core.
May you like
As we walked up the stone steps toward the porch, Marco leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Smile, tesoro,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers down my spine. “And whatever you do... hold my hand tighter.”
