Chapter 4 - Dinner at the EstateThe kiss on the flybridge changed the gravitational pull of our entire universe.
For the rest of Saturday afternoon, neither of us mentioned what had happened. We anchored in a secluded cove, swam in the crisp, salt-scented Atlantic water, and laughed with his cousins on the deck as if we hadn’t just crossed an irreversible line. But every time Marco handed me a towel, every time his fingers brushed against mine when passing a glass of wine, the air between us crackled with live electricity.
By the time we returned to the estate and dressed for Saturday night’s dinner, the psychological stakes had multiplied tenfold.
Tonight was the primary family banquet—a formal affair where extended relatives, business associates, and local dignitaries gathered in the estate’s grand dining hall to celebrate Elena Ricci’s impending birthday milestone.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the master suite, staring at my reflection with a mixture of awe and panic. Marco had insisted on having a private stylist overnight a gown from a Manhattan boutique. It was a stunning emerald-green silk dress that hugged my curves, slit dramatically up the left leg, with a delicate halter neckline that left my shoulders bare.
The door clicked open, and Marco stepped into the bedroom.
He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal-gray tuxedo, his white shirt crisp and unbuttoned at the top collar, his dark hair neatly styled. When his green eyes landed on me in the mirror, he stopped dead in his tracks.
For several seconds, the reflection showed the two of us standing in absolute silence. The hunger from the boat ride flickered back into his expression, sharp and unapologetic.
“Well?” I asked, turning slightly, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his intense scrutiny. “Does it pass inspection? Will your mother believe I didn't buy this off a rack in Times Square?”
Marco closed the distance between us in three long strides. He didn't smile, but his eyes burned with an expression that made my pulse spike. He reached out, his fingers lightly tracing the bare skin of my shoulder down to my collarbone, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
“You don't look like an employee playing a part, Emily,” Marco whispered, his voice dangerously low. “You look like a queen.”
My breath caught. “Marco…”
“Tonight is going to be complicated,” he interrupted softly, his thumb gently brushing my lower lip. “Half the people in that room are old guard. They smell weakness, and they love gossip. They’re going to test you. They’re going to ask about our past, our future, everything.”
“I can handle them,” I said, tilting my chin up with stubborn resolve.
A slow, appreciative smile finally broke across his face. “I know you can. That’s why I’m terrified of you.”
The dining hall looked like something out of a Renaissance painting. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over long tables draped in white lace, laden with silver candelabras, crystal glassware, and an absurd amount of food.
As Marco and I entered arm-in-arm, a hush fell over the room, followed immediately by a wave of polite applause led by Uncle Salvatore.
We took our seats at the head of the table, flanked by Elena on one side and an imposing elderly cousin named Donato on the other. Throughout the multi-course meal, the anticipated interrogation began.
“So, Emily,” Donato rumbled, cutting into a rare steak while fixing me with a heavy-lidded stare. “Marco has kept you hidden away in Manhattan for two years. How is it that a bright girl like you ends up working for a tyrant like my cousin?”
Before I could formulate a diplomatic response, Marco interjected, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute, unshakable authority.
“She didn't end up anywhere, Donato. I chased her for six months before she finally agreed to give me the time of day.”
I snapped my head around to look at him in shock. That wasn't part of the agreed backstory!
Across the table, Elena let out a sharp, delighted laugh, raising her glass of red wine. “Ah! Finally, a Ricci man who admits when he’s outmatched! To the only woman in New York who made Marco work for it!”
The table erupted into a chorus of cheers and clinking glasses. I felt my cheeks flush crimson, though I managed to maintain a poised, demure smile, sliding my hand onto Marco’s thigh beneath the heavy tablecloth. My fingernails dug slightly into his suit trousers as a silent warning for his theatrical embellishments.
Marco didn't flinch. Instead, his hand dropped down to cover mine, his large fingers lacing tightly through mine, squeezing back with a reassuring, grounding pressure.
By 11:00 PM, the formal dinner had dissolved into a lively courtyard reception filled with music, laughter, and flowing Limoncello.
I had slipped away from the main crowd for a few minutes, seeking refuge in the quiet, stone-paved garden maze on the western side of the estate. The night air was cool, smelling of night-blooming jasmine and ocean salt. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below provided a soothing counterpoint to the chaotic social whirlwind inside.
I leaned against an old stone fountain, closing my eyes and letting out a long, exhausted breath.
Just six more days, I reminded myself. Only six more days of pretending to be the center of Marco Ricci’s world.
“Hiding?”
A deep, familiar voice broke the silence.
I opened my eyes to see Marco stepping out from the shadowed archway of the hedge maze. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, holding it loosely over one shoulder, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle and dark ink along his forearms.
“I wasn't hiding,” I defended myself, crossing my arms over my emerald silk dress. “I was engaging in strategic tactical withdrawal from your Aunt Rosa’s third interrogation about our future wedding registry.”
Marco chuckled, stepping closer until he was standing right beside me at the edge of the fountain. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the intimidating aura that usually surrounded him in Manhattan boardrooms.
“Rosa is relentless,” Marco conceded. “She already asked me if we were planning a cathedral wedding in Manhattan or a seaside ceremony here in the Hamptons.”
My heart skipped a beat. I forced a light, teasing tone into my voice. “And what did you tell her?”
Marco stopped moving. He turned to face me fully, leaning back against the stone rim of the fountain. His green eyes searched my face in the dim moonlight, holding my gaze with an intensity that made the air feel suddenly thin.
“I told her,” Marco said slowly, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper, “that it depends entirely on whether the woman I’m asking actually wants to stay.”
The world seemed to stop spinning.
I stared up at him, the rehearsed boundaries, the corporate protocols, the lies we had constructed—everything fractured right down the middle.
“Marco…” I breathed, my voice barely audible over the sound of the ocean. “What are you saying?”
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Marco reached out, his hand gently cupping the side of my face. His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, his touch impossibly tender for a man feared by half of New York.
“I’m saying the lie stopped being a lie the moment I kissed you on that boat, Emily,” he whispered against my lips. “And I don't intend to let you go back to being just my assistant when Monday morning comes.”
