Page 19 of Enzo (Legacy of Heathens #3)

PENELOPE

I t was inevitable that I’d recognize most of the Marchetti extended family since our families ran in many of the same circles.

I briefly wondered how I’d never crossed paths with Enzo and Amadeo Marchetti prior to our dinner last week, but realized soon enough that it had been by design.

A ploy, surely, to keep the peace between our families before we were tied forever.

The fact that I was now a married woman didn’t seem real to me at all.

It felt like a punishment for a crime I didn’t commit, and I kept waiting to wake up from it all.

Unfortunately, the arm wrapped around my waist and the heat radiating from my husband—despite the December temperatures—made it all too real.

Our family’s Sicilian estate had been dressed up for the occasion, complete with a giant white canvas tent—because nothing says romance like planning for rain—and fire pits that tried their best to warm up what was essentially a cold, joyless merger disguised as a wedding.

The flames crackled. The champagne flowed.

So I put on my best Stepford smile and let my husband parade me around the lawn, surrounded by lemon trees and grapevines. He led me around this reception like I was a prized show pony, and I wanted nothing more than to bite him.

Instead, beneath the lace, lies, and suffocating small talk, I was already plotting my next move, ignoring the inconvenient fact that I’d just married a man I wouldn’t hesitate to poison if I knew I’d get away with it.

I was politely greeted by his father. Stepmother. His half-siblings. His uncle and aunt. His cousin.

To be fair, they were all perfectly nice and smiling, complimenting my dress, clinking their glasses like this was some fairy-tale ending.

But my cheeks ached from the constant effort of pretending to be gracious.

I smiled so hard, I was one polite comment away from lockjaw.

They knew this entire thing was a performance, so why pretend with a beautifully staged farce, complete with hors d’oeuvres and blood-stained history?

Maybe they didn’t care. Or maybe they were just used to pretending.

Enzo was busy discussing something with his brother and his father when Mrs. Marchetti’s soft voice reached me.

“Enzo tells me you play the cello.”

My brow furrowed. I’d never told him I played any instrument, and I was certain my family wouldn’t have offered the information.

“Just a bit,” I murmured, eyeing my petite mother-in-law. No taller than five-four, she wore a silk scarf around her neck and a long-sleeved satin gown, looking very chic despite being married to the enemy.

“He says you play amazingly.” What the actual fuck? Did I marry a stalker? “I play the violin,” she continued, oblivious to my internal meltdown.

I nodded absently, familiar with Isla Marchetti’s skills. It wasn’t exactly a secret.

“Why the cello?” she asked curiously when I remained quiet.

“My sister’s always loved the rich, mellow sounds it produces.

She claims it’s soothing.” My eyes flickered to my youngest sibling, who sat near the roaring fire where the wedding planner had set up some lounges and heavy wool rugs.

My brothers were regaling her with a tale that had her giggling, though the strain on her face was clear: it’d been a long, tiring day.

“It calmed her when she was little, even when my bow made screeching sounds. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with it.”

I didn’t tell her that it’d become part of my baby sister’s routine following her chemo treatments.

Or that I performed with the orchestra because my sister once told me it was her wish to sit in the audience of a show.

Or that she’d tried so desperately to learn the instrument but had been too weak to hold it, so I’d spent countless hours sitting at her side, holding it in the rare instances when she had the strength in her bones to play.

Mrs. Marchetti’s eyes flickered to my sister, then back to me, and she nodded in understanding.

“She loves you very much. She’s always watching you.”

As if on cue, my eyes met Amara’s across the lawn and I nodded, my throat stinging with emotion. I couldn’t imagine this world without her.

“She means the world to me.”

She patted my hand gently. “Amadeo and Enzo are close like that, too. Thick as thieves. It’s a special bond.”

Suddenly, a high-pitched meow sounded and Isla Marchetti’s head whipped around. “Is that a cat?”

I shrugged at her odd reaction. “I guess.”

“Oh no, no,” she muttered. “I didn’t know you had cats.”

I paused at her odd behavior. “We don’t. Probably some stray roaming around, looking for scraps. There’re a lot of homeless cats in Sicily.”

“But they won’t come near us, right?”

Huh?

“I don’t think so. They’re feral and tend to avoid people.”

She flashed me a relieved smile and breathed easier. “Sorry, it’s just that Enzo is allergic, and I’d hate for something so trivial to ruin his wedding day.”

Well, that piqued my interest. “He is?”

“Yeah.”

“Just cats?”

“Yes.”

“Very interesting,” I said.

“What is?” Enzo was at my side again and I stiffened. The dude was constantly lurking around.

“Nothing, darling,” his stepmother answered. “When are you going to share your honeymoon plans?”

“Yeah, when?” I asked, batting my eyes innocently. “Considering it involves me, I have the right to have a say, no?”

“You’ll find out in due time,” Enzo stated, his eyes flashing with a hint of dark amusement.

I signaled to the nearest waiter and lifted a glass of champagne off his tray, then took a sip and held it up in a toast.

“So will you, Enzo Marchetti,” I said, then made my way toward the long white table reserved for the bride and groom. A towering patio heater stood right behind it, blasting heat like its life depended on it.

I scoffed.

Apparently, someone figured the atmosphere between us was so icy it’d take industrial firepower to thaw it.

Enzo followed, taking a seat beside me, and asked, “What do you mean, mia anima ?”

I froze, my glass held halfway to my lips, and slid my eyes over to him. “ What did you just call me?”

His expression shuttered. “I thought you spoke Italian.”

“I do.” My pulse thundered in my ears. “Why did you call me that ?”

Of all the nicknames at his disposal, he chose the one my masked stranger bestowed on me. It meant my soul , and up until thirty seconds ago, I’d thought it the most romantic thing ever. And here Enzo was, staining it with his tongue and that mouth.

Silverware chimed against glass from a table nearby and put our conversation on hold.

“Toast time,” someone shouted.

Our guests were seated at long tables nestled among lemon trees and winding grapevines.

Though the branches were mostly bare after the fall harvest, they still cast a rustic, romantic charm over the setting.

Overhead, festoon lights twinkled softly, while candles flickered across the tables, bathing the scene in a warm amber glow.

The evening air carried a crisp chill, but thoughtfully placed heaters and cozy woven blankets wrapped us in comfort.

Despite all of this being an arrangement, the scene was all too real: a table set up with champagne glasses waiting for a toast, an oak-paneled dance floor where we were about to have our first dance.

“Welcome to our family,” Enrico Marchetti announced. “May this be a bridge to a new alliance and better years for our families.”

The toast was met with Papà’s steely expression and even steelier words. “Hardly a joyous occasion when my daughter only met Enzo the other day.”

“And whose fault was that?” my husband interjected coolly, his eyes on my father as he took a sip of his champagne.

“She had no business knowing someone like you. Someone your age,” he answered bitterly.

“As if your own wife isn’t a decade younger than you, Luca,” Manuel Marchetti, Enzo’s uncle, deadpanned.

“Age-gap romances all around!” Amadeo snickered. “Right, Aunt Athena? You write about that stuff. It’s popular for a reason, I’m sure.”

My husband rolled his eyes while Papà looked at my new brother-in-law like he was contemplating murder.

“Fuck whatever trend you’re talking about,” Papà spat.

I slanted a look to my mama, who pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head, exasperated.

Enzo seized the moment and stood abruptly, his chair nearly tumbling behind him. “We’re done with toasts.” My mouth parted in shock. “My wife and I have a honeymoon to get to. The rest of you, enjoy the celebrations.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I hissed under my breath. “Besides, I’m not packed.”

“Just take whatever toiletries you’ll need. We can buy the rest.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m not going.”

“What about the dance?” my baby sister inquired, although truthfully, I didn’t give a shit about the wedding dance. This day had been a nightmare from the start. “Please, I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Enzo’s eyes darted to Amara and he dipped his chin obligingly.

“Anything for my new sister-in-law.” Her face lit up, and a part of me softened toward this stranger who was now my husband.

He signaled to the band that stood off to the side and mostly out of sight. The first notes of a song traveled through the air and I stared at my husband in surprise.

“That’s an odd choice,” I remarked, hearing Andrea Bocelli’s song fill the lawn. “Vivo per lei hardly sums up the two of us. We hardly know each other.”

He extended his hand. “We’ll remedy that soon.”

I took his hand, seeing him in a new light somehow, as he led me onto the dance floor.

His tall frame and broad shoulders caged me in as he pulled me closer. We moved as one, our bodies brushing together, and every touch from him ignited a grudging fire beneath my skin.

The tension sizzled and my skin tightened in anticipation. For what, I didn’t know.

All I could do was feel. His strength. His breath. His body.

I was getting drunk off his presence, his musky scent seeping into my cells and doing shit to me it had no business doing.

It was me who broke the silence, unable to bear another second of the unspoken words that bubbled between us. “Feel free to seek other women.”

He let out a sardonic breath. “Why would I when I have the woman?”

My eyes lifted to his. “What do you mean?”

“I’m married. I won’t look at, let alone touch, another woman as long as I live.”

“But I’m giving you permission.”

“No, you’re looking for ways to end this before it even starts. You’re my woman, my wife. I’ll only kiss you, only touch and fuck you. Until my dying breath.”

He pulled me even closer, my breasts pressing against his abdomen.

My cheeks heated. “Is this your vow?”

“It’s my promise.” Panic squeezed my chest. Something was afoot here, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing a very important detail. “I’m yours now, and you’re mine.”

“And if I don’t want to be yours?” I breathed. “If I run?”

His jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed. “I’ll chase you down. I’ll follow you to the ends of this earth, Penelope Marchetti, and bring you back with me.”

“You’re seriously disturbed.” More than disturbed.

The song ended and he took a step back, his eyes homing in on mine. “Go pack. Now.”

The moment decidedly broken by his clipped words, I clicked my heels and saluted him, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”