Page 31 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

“Signor is not going to believe his eyes,” Viola says, bustling around me like a mother hen. “You look radiant, signora.”

“Viola, what have I told you a thousand times? You should call me Sera.”

I smile at my reflection in the mirror. The dress I picked out matches the color of my eyes. A dusty blue gown that clings to my body, accentuating every curve until it fans into a subtle fishtail. It covers enough skin to be modest but the one shoulder style gives it a super sexy feel.

I’ve heeded Viola’s advice and gathered my hair up into a loose knot, leaving a few curls here and there to fall about my face and shoulders. Small diamonds decorate my ears and throat, complementing but not overshadowing the enormous rock on my finger.

I press slightly shaking fingers to my collarbone.

I’m nervous. I haven’t seen Andreas since the night of our wedding three weeks ago and I haven’t heard from him either in that time.

I’ve heard from and seen a lot of other people though.

In particular, Dr. Nowak—the first person to make me confront my past and how I feel about losing my mama at such a young age.

Our meetings have been hard and painful.

I’ve dredged up memories I would sooner forget.

But she’s already opened my eyes to perspectives I hadn’t thought to consider.

Perspectives like even though I wasn’t in the car when someone brutally took her life, I have just as much right as anybody to grieve my mother.

Just because I found solace in my astrology books doesn’t mean I didn’t need comforting.

I never asked for help because I thought it was selfish, but now I know it would have helped me process my feelings better.

As much as I hate to admit it, the therapy is helping. We don’t just talk about my past, Dr. Nowak has also given me some tools to help me manage my desire to self-harm. I put them into practice whenever I feel the urge, and the desire does seem to be waning bit by bit.

The spa therapies are nice too, providing I can withstand the touching without leaping off the table every two minutes.

The food that Chef Alessandro has been preparing is out of this world, and Ali, my personal trainer, is helping me keep at least some of it from clinging to my thighs.

And Viola… Where would I be without Viola?

Andreas’ housekeeper has been a Godsend.

I’m actually a lot busier than I’d expected to be, with all the appointments I have, but during my downtime, Viola distracts me from my feelings by taking me for walks around the grounds, loaning me books to read and giving me small jobs to do in the garden.

She swears it’s because she hasn’t had any female company for as long as she can remember, but I suspect Andreas has put her up to much of it.

My husband communicates through Viola. This is how I know he’s taking me to a gala dinner this evening.

It’s a business dinner, of course, so I have to look the part.

But for all intents and purposes, this is our first night out, not just as husband and wife but as a couple.

I will be on show for the whole of Massachusetts’ political elite to see and I’m nervous.

Nervous of how people will treat me because of my connection to the Di Santo’s, and nervous about how Andreas is going to be with me.

The last look I saw on his face was one of horror.

He saw the real me, scars and all, and then he left.

Andreas may have been orchestrating an army to improve my physical and mental health but he ’s withdrawn from me completely. Turns out my cards were right. I have been abandoned. Apparently, I’m only worth what I can bring to political dinners because of who my sister married.

I haven’t raised this with Dr. Nowak because I’m not stupid—I know she’s on my husband’s payroll. But the irony hasn’t escaped me—he’s trying to get me well whichever way he can, while shattering my confidence by not being able to look me in the face.

Viola glances over her shoulder from her spot at the window.

“He’s here, signora.”

She must notice how my face has paled because she walks back to me and takes hold of my hands. “It’s all going to be fine. You’re a natural with people; you’ll take the whole evening in your stride. And you look sensational.”

I thank her apprehensively. I’m good with people when I’m providing a service. I have no idea how to be around people who are actually interested in me and what I supposedly stand for.

The nerves rattling around my chest and stomach intensify at the sound of Oliver Sweeney shoes walking along the hardwood floor downstairs. Viola holds the door open.

I take one more look at my reflection, then swoosh my way out of the room to the staircase.

When I reach the top, I stutter to a standstill. And gulp.

Andreas is waiting at the bottom, his chin tilting up at me.

At first, all I see is the impeccably tailored tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and bowtie.

His hands are resting casually in his pockets making the jacket bunch slightly at his hips.

My breath sticks in my throat as I slowly move my gaze upward to his broad shoulders, at ease and unfazed by the fact we are about to meet with Boston’s chief governing bodies.

Then his neck—smooth, shaven, thick with muscle.

His jawline—sharp, firm and still. His cheekbones—crafted by the devil’s hands to lure unsuspecting interns into his pointed talons.

And finally his eyes—hard and narrowed, shadows framed by black lashes, alarmingly smooth rocks of coal burning into me.

A hot flare reaches up my spine. I can’t decipher that look but it makes my knees weak.

Viola rests a hand on my arm and I realize I’ve been standing at the top of the stairs staring at Andreas for a full minute.

I somehow avert my eyes and walk slowly down the stairs gripping the handrail like it’s a life raft.

Once I’m at the foot of the staircase, I look up. He’s been watching me the whole time with an unfathomable expression on his face. I’m a disappointment. That has to be it. Surely he’d have said something by now if he likes what he sees.

I catch myself quickly and look away. I don’t care if he likes me or not.

I’ve already decided I don’t particularly like him after the way he gained my trust then betrayed me.

But I’ve done everything he’s asked of me.

I’ve attended the therapy sessions, I’ve let those massage people torture me with their fingertips and I’ve eaten everything Chef Alessandro has prepared for me.

My weight hasn’t declined—if anything I’m a little heavier than I used to be, even though I feel healthier than ever.

Can’t he at least offer me a little praise?

Viola gives me a small smile and a nod. Without looking up again at Andreas, I slip my hand through his extended arm and we walk through the open front door, out to a waiting town car. I keep my gaze averted as he opens the passenger door and waits for me to slide onto the seat in my blue gown.

I love this dress. It fits me like a glove and makes me feel… well, sexy. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter what my husband thinks, but my foolish heart still breaks a little at the lack of acknowledgement.

Instead of staring out the passenger window, I keep my gaze fixed on the road ahead as we drive through the Winchester streets to the city.

In the corner of my eye I see Andreas’ jaw moving from side-to-side.

When I drop my gaze for a brief moment, I notice his hands are resting on his knees, his fingers curled into white-knuckled fists.

Alarmed at the visual, I turn my head a fraction and see his chest rising and falling at a forceful tempo.

I can hear his breath being pushed through flared nostrils.

My heart hammers nervously. What have I done? I’ve clearly pissed him off, but I don’t know how. I’ve done everything that’s been expected of me. Is he still angry at the self-harming? Does he not like my hair? Does he not care for blue?

I swallow and use every bit of strength I have to hold back the tears.

I’m growing very fond of Viola but I suddenly miss my family so much.

I don’t belong in this world or this city.

I’m so far out of my depth I can’t see the sea bed anymore.

And I’m not sure I’m going to be able to survive this loneliness and hostility for the rest of my life.

My thoughts are spinning so fast I don’t notice that the car has stopped and Andreas is holding the door open again for me to step out.

There are photographers lining the sidewalk and the second I step out of the car they rush over and start snapping.

The flash guns take me by surprise so I’m relieved when a large hand envelopes mine and pulls me gently towards the entrance.

“Serafina! Serafina! Over here!”

“How are you finding Boston?”

“Should we expect to see more of your family here in the future?”

A low rumble cuts through the questions and slides into my ears. “Don’t answer.”

I manage to blink my eyes open and offer a smile before Andreas tugs me through the doorway and into the grand building.

Once inside, he turns me to face him and his eyes feel like daggers. “Never answer.”

I nod once. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good,” he says, tightly. His eyes dart over me quickly then he looks up at the sound of his name.

I spend the next hour standing at his side while he exchanges pleasantries with a good number of people I’ve never heard of before but who seem to be popular and influential.

Andreas introduces me as his wife to them all, his gaze flaring each time he looks at me.

I take it as a warning sign to be careful what I say.

So, I say very little but smile and nod in what I hope is all the right places.