Chapter 2 - The Grandmother’s Breakfast
Nine o'clock arrived with the blinding brilliance of an October sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Romano breakfast room.
I sat at the massive oak table, squeezed into an ivory wool dress that Massimo's personal stylist had delivered to my guest quarters at dawn.
Every thread felt like a golden shackle, reminding me that twenty armed guards patrolled the perimeter gates outside.
At the head of the table sat Donna Caterina Romano, the seventy-eight-year-old matriarch whose sharp silver eyes missed nothing.
To her right sat Massimo’s mother, Francesca, wearing black lace and pearls, staring at me as if I were a venomous snake that had crawled across her Persian rug.
Massimo sat directly beside me, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit, methodically buttering a croissant as if we were an ordinary suburban couple.
"You have very delicate hands for a girl who manages delivery trucks, Miss Miller," Francesca said, her tone dripping with polished poison.
"I arrange flowers, Mrs. Romano," I replied, setting my silver fork down with careful precision.
"Stems have thorns. You learn to handle delicate things without letting them draw blood."
Donna Caterina chuckled, a rich, appreciative sound that made Francesca’s lips tighten into a thin, bloodless line.
"I like her already," the grandmother announced, waving her gold spoon.
"She speaks with her chin up. Adriana always looked at the floor whenever I entered the room, like a beaten dog waiting for scraps."
"Adriana Vitali carries three hundred years of Sicilian nobility, Mother!" Francesca hissed, leaning forward.
"This girl was found half-naked in Massimo’s private quarters while the council was downstairs!"
"It is a humiliation to our name!"
Massimo set his knife down with a soft, definitive ring against the china.
The entire room went instantly still.
"Sophie was in my quarters because I invited her there, Mother," Massimo said, his voice flat, icy, and carrying the weight of an iron gavel.
"And the next person who refers to my future wife as an outsider will answer to me in the lower cellar."
Francesca’s face drained of color, her eyes darting between her son’s unyielding stare and my forced composure.
Underneath the heavy linen tablecloth, Massimo’s large, warm hand found mine.
His fingers slid between my knuckles, gripping me with an intensity that was half reassurance, half warning.
His touch sent a shockwave of heat through my veins, confusing my panic with something dangerously magnetic.
Before Francesca could formulate another insult, the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open with a resounding bang.
Standing in the entryway was a stunning woman with raven hair, wearing a scarlet designer suit and carrying a leather portfolio under her arm.
Beside her stood an older, thick-set man with cold gray eyes and a heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger.
Adriana Vitali and her father, Salvatore.
May you like
"Good morning, Romano family," Salvatore boomed, his smile reeking of calculated malice.
"We came to finalize the wedding contract for next month. But I hear rumors that Massimo spent the night entertaining the hired help."
