Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
She must sense it because she glances at me. I subtly touch my elbow with my hand. She winces and removes her elbows.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mother says, waving a hand. “What do you think of La Dolce Vita, for example?”
“That seems random, Mother,” I mutter, wondering if she’s trying to trip Elena up already.
She rolls her eyes at me. “We have to start somewhere, don’t we?”
Elena’s cheeks flush, her lips parting slightly. It’s clear she’s never heard of the classic Italian film, which is surprising considering she’s an actress. Then again, maybe her tastes are more recent than nineteen-sixty.
“I think they’re way better than Dolce & Gabbana,” she says.
I force out a laugh, pretending it’s a joke. Elena might not be as prepared as I’d like, but she’s quick to react and follow my lead, laughing with me. “I told you she was funny, Mother,” I say.
“Hmm,” Mother says, with that searching expression on her face.
I usually feel stifled at these sorts of dinners, with both of my parents watching me for any sign of boredom or impatience with Family customs. This evening is even worse. For a few moments, when walking down the hallway with Elena, it was like I wasn’t part of the Family at all. It felt, for the briefest moment, almost enjoyable. Almost real. Almost.
I kill the feeling before it can even begin to grow.
Our conversation is interrupted by the steaks. Elena looks relieved when she sees what the meal is. It takes me a moment to figure out it’s because she won’t have trouble choosing which knife to use. Guilt hits me when I see the emotions playing so clearly across her face. This dinner is torture for her, even more so than for me.
“Thank you,” Elena says when the server places her plate down.
I grit my teeth. It’s a damn shame to have to tell a person not to be kind to somebody else just because they’re socially beneath them, but I’m going to have to remind Elena after this dinner.
She doesn’t start eating straightaway; instead, she looks at me for her next cue. I meet her eye, reading the panic there. She looks like she’s drowning in social etiquette. I’m paying her, for Christ’s sake. I shouldn’t care or feel guilty.
And I don’t, I tell myself, even if it’s a lie. I don’t care if this upsets her or if she’ll have to spend hours every night studying to be somebody she’s not. It’s why I hired her, after all. Maybe I should’ve given her time to learn her role and not thrown her into the deep end, but it’s too late for that now.
When my father cuts into his steak, I do, then so does Elena. Now, there’s another issue. She begins to cut her steak into several small pieces instead of cutting, eating, and then cutting again. I clear my throat. She glances at my plate, realizes, then quickly stuffs the food into her mouth. I almost laugh as she chews two pieces, much too big.
I can feel Mother looking at me with judgment, but Elena looks … cute? Is that the word? I don’t know, but it’s endearing in a way I don’t understand. Still, it’s not like it matters. I’m paying her to be here. Mother and Father would freak if their son, their prince, ever married a girl beneath him.
“It’s such a shame about your family, Elena,” Mother says. “I hope you don’t mind me saying.”
The story is that Elena’s family, of extremely high social status, perished in a fire, leaving only her and her Aunt Rosa, who has Guillain-Barré Syndrome. As far as I understand, the latter half is true.
“Thank you,” Elena says. “That’s very kind.”
“A shame indeed,” my father says, looking at me. “About your family.”
“How’s the deal going, Father?” I ask, swiftly changing the subject. I see they already have their suspicions, but in our life, they’d never come outright and say it during dinner.
“Keeping me busy,” he says. It’s true and probably the one thing that will make this scheme possible. My father’s attempting a land grab at the docks, involving long meetings and plenty of stress. “At least I have my son to handle matters skillfully until business concludes.”
“It’s my duty,” I tell him.
If there’s one thing a Moretti knows, it’s duty.
We eat without conversation, and then my father’s cell phone rings. I repress the urge to let out a sigh of relief. The tension felt like it was building up to a near explosion for a few minutes. He speaks quickly into his phone and then stands. “I apologize. Business awaits. Perhaps we can pick this up at brunch tomorrow.”
My mother stands with an undecipherable smile. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
“Allow me to see you out,” I say.
I lead them to the door. Mother throws her arms around me and gives me a big hug. She always does that, despite the distance in this family, in the Family. I return the hug, holding her tight and close. She’s always been more loving than my father. Father offers me his hand, and we shake.