Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 142640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 713(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 475(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 713(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 475(@300wpm)
She drops her knife with a clang. “You will do no such thing.”
Here we go.
“I’m not asking for your permission, I’m just telling you that because I’m already in Italy and out of respect for Lorenzo and Giuliano…and my father. I’m going.”
“And what about respect for me?” she whispers angrily.
“I’m just going to go to the service. I’ll be there half an hour…tops.”
“No. You are not.” She looks around guiltily. “How will it look if my only daughter goes to my late husband’s mistress’s funeral?”
I stare at her, infuriated but not surprised. “I don’t care how it looks.”
“I do.”
“Seriously?” My annoyance begins to bubble. “Please don’t act the innocent one here mother. You encouraged him to have that mistress, I’ve read the letters, it was your idea. Stop playing the victim,” I whisper. “It’s getting very old.”
“Giuliano had no right giving you that letter to Enrico,” she snaps. “If your father wanted you to know these things, he would have written a letter for you. You are not going,” she chastises me.
I sip my drink, honestly, why did I even tell her? “Fine.”
“You won’t go?”
It’s not worth the trouble.
“I have a lot on tomorrow anyway,” I lie.
She reaches over and rubs the back of my hand and smiles triumphantly. “Thank you. I appreciate it, I don’t want you mixing with that crowd, they’re bad to the bone.”
I exhale heavily. “It’s a funeral, Mother, what do you think is going to happen, strippers dancing on the tables or something?”
“If Giuliano organized it, nothing would surprise me.” She mutters in disgust, her hand rises up to the waiter with a smile. “Two more martinis, please.”
* * *
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my long dark hair is out and full, my makeup is natural and I’m wearing a Valentino fitted black dress with long sleeves with the sheer black stockings and patent sky-high stilettos. The dress is stylish without being too much, it laces up with a black satin ribbon down the front.
I’m nervous about going to Angelina’s funeral today, I really have no idea if it’s the right thing to do, but it feels wrong not to go.
At the very least, the woman who loved my father so deeply deserves my respect.
My phone beeps a text.
Your car is here
I take one last look at myself and reapply my lipstick, I grab my purse and jacket and I make my way downstairs. I stay at my penthouse whenever I’m in Milan, it feels so weird having my own places.
Good weird.
Like my brothers, I’m grateful that Giuliano has set us all up financially for life.
He didn’t have to do that, the fact that he did means a lot.
The elevator opens to the grand foyer and a doorman dressed in a gray suit opens the front door for me. “Good morning, Miss Ferrara,” he says with a kind nod.
“Good morning Steven.” I smile. The staff are all so nice in my building, my visits home always leave me feeling welcome. I walk out the huge glass doors to see that it’s raining, Antonio is waiting by the door with an oversized umbrella.
“Good morning, Miss Ferrara.” He holds the umbrella over my head as he leads me to the black Mercedes that is waiting by the curb.
“Good morning, Antonio.” I smile. “Thank you.” I climb into the back seat and the car door closes behind me. The car pulls out into the heavy traffic and we head toward Lake Como.
I have no idea what awaits me, but the thought of the oncoming event makes me nervous.
Maybe my mother is right and I shouldn’t have come.
I pull my jacket around my shoulders and sit back into the leather seat, I guess we’ll soon see.
The car pulls up out the front of the Catholic church as the rain pours down.
As if the day isn’t depressing enough as it is.
Antonio opens my door as he protects me with the umbrella, I am ushered inside and led to the fourth row of the already packed church. I sit at the end near the aisle. I look up to the dark wood casket sitting in front, covered in pink roses of every shade. A large photo of Angelina sits on a gold easel. I stare at her face as she looks out over the church, she was such a gorgeous looking woman, her face oozes kindness.
“Francesca Ferrara is here,” I hear someone gasp from behind me as I sit down. “Oh my God,” whispers someone else.
Fuck.
Mother was right, this doesn’t look good.
With my back ramrod straight, I clasp my hands on my lap and wait.
The front row is empty and I know it’s reserved for the family, they mustn’t be here yet. I let myself look around and see so many familiar faces, my stomach drops.
So many friends of my father.