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Classic. Classy. Timeless.

But as much as I have dreamt of this dress, I cannot bear to wear anything like it. It will stay in my precious dreams where I can still imagine that it will be Giovanna waiting for me at the end of the aisle.

I pick out three dresses that are as different from my dream dress as I can find. One is a long-sleeved lace number a la Kate Middleton at her wedding to Prince William. Beautiful, but not what I dreamed of.

The next is less modern princess and more Disney princess. The skirt is big and voluminous with lots of organza. I hate it. I choose it because I know Mum will too.

And the third is a Grecian-style dress with a plunging neckline and lots of drapery. I like the first and third dresses, but I don’t care which I end up wearing.

“Are you okay?” I’m pulling on the first dress with Penny’s assistance when she pauses and whispers to me.

“Yes,” I sigh, but I’m touched that someone, even this over-the-top stranger, has cared enough to ask. “I’m not happy about getting married, but that’s what divorce is for right?”

She gives me an uncertain smile. “They can’t make you get married though can they? That’s like…not legal, right?”Oh yes, they can. They don’t care about legal.

“Of course not,” I giggle, lying through my teeth. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine. Truth be told, I had a fight with my fiance last night and it has just put me in a mood.”

Happy to be absolved of any responsibility for assisting in the forced marriage of a distressed young woman, Penny goes back to chirping about the dress. She lists all the pros and cons of wearing such a design and primps and preens me.

After much discussion, mostly between Mum and Peta, the Kate Middleton style dress is purchased and taken away to be adjusted to my size.

I look lovely in it and I’m sure everyone will ooh and aah over me as I trudge down the aisle. It is elegant and suits me, but I’m fantasising about the moment I can take it off and burn it.

Chapter Forty-Three

Giovanna

“Where’s Francesca?” I’ve waited fifteen minutes to ask Massimo this question so that it seems casual and not something I have been desperate to know since I walked in the door.

Stretched out on the massive sofa in the TV room, Massi doesn’t take his eyes off the rugby league match on the big screen. “Staying at her parents’ tonight,” he says.

“Is everything okay?” It is no secret that there is little love lost between Francesca and her dad and her mum is a self-absorbed moll who didn’t deserve the daughter she packed off at 16. It seems unlikely that Francesca would choose to stay at their house when, despite the dramas with Elio, she had been relieved to have an escape from her parents.

“Yeah, why?” he frowns, irritated that I’m asking him questions when there are eight minutes left on the clock and his team is down by six points.

“No reason,” I ruffle his chestnut mop of hair and turn to leave him to watch the remainder of the game in peace.

I’m nearly at the door when he speaks, just loud enough for me to hear. “Don’t mess with her head, G. She’s been through a lot.”

For a split second, I consider responding. Instead, I just keep walking. I’m surprised that Francesca has told him about us, but then maybe she hasn’t and he has just picked up on a vibe. Sigh. He’s right though. I should never have dipped my toe in the water. She needs to be encouraged to build a life with Elio, not fuck his sister.

Thankfully, I don’t have much chance to dwell on Massi’s comments as just as I have made myself a peppermint tea, Bluey appears in the kitchen.

“Boss, Stefan’s at the door…” he says.

My head jerks up from blowing on the hot tea.What the fuck is he doing here? Has he come to gloat about the ambush or to deny involvement?

Bluey continues. “Says he wants to speak to you.”

Tapping my fingers against my lips, I think for a second. I don’t want to look like I’m afraid, but I don’t want to roll out the red carpet for someone who is plotting to take everything my family has worked for.

“Righto. Bring him up to my office. Get Massi to go with you.” I head upstairs to my office and clear anything confidential off my desk, sitting down and puffing on my e-cigarette as I wait for Stefan Rossi.

“Knock knock,” Stefan says, poking his head around the door. His expression is friendly and open, but I wouldn’t trust the bastard as far as I could throw him.

“Stefan. What can I help you with?” My clipped tone carries no hospitality or desire to make him feel welcome.

He sidles into the room despite never receiving an invitation. He is wearing an immaculate Italian suit, tapered to his lean body. He is sinewy, tough. Like an old goat despite being just a little older than I am. It is difficult to believe that he shares half his DNA with Francesca. Her features are soft and feminine to the extreme. Stefan is all angles and harshness.