Italian vows

Chapter 2

A House Built on Rules

The visitor room Isabella appeared to be that night, was bigger than the loft she had grown up in.

"Harshly perfect: cream-colored dividers, tall windows shrouded in sheer drapes, and a dull wooden bed that seemed meant to vex. A subtle hint of lavender lingered in everything." As clean, as though no one had ever genuinely lived here, as it had passed through.

A room arranged, not chosen.

When the entryway closed behind her, the quiet returned more thickly, pressing against her ears. Isabella stood in the center of the room, clutch still in hand, and at last permitted herself to breathe.

So that is it, she thought.

This is where I started to disappear.

She put her clutch on the dresser and gradually expelled her heels, jumping as sensation surged back into her feet. The calm increased everything, the delicate stir of texture as she extricated her coat, the far-off murmur of the Palazzo settling into itself, the blacked-out resound of voices distant away.

The De Lucas lived like apparitions in their own home.

“As she reached the window, she pushed the shades back. Beneath her, the patio shone, stone paths weaving like hidden knowledge through the trimmed fences.” Somewhere beyond the dividers, Rome beat with life, laughter, and activity, partners competing on balconies.

Freedom.

The entryway thumped softly.

Isabella stiffened.

“Yes?” she called.

The entryway was open fair enough for a lady in her early forties to peer in. She wore a basic dark dress, her hair flawlessly pulled back, her expression tender but cautious.

“I am Sofia,” the lady said. “I manage the family staff. Signor De Luca asked me to guarantee you have everything you need.”

Of course, he did.

“Thank you,” Isabella answered. “I’m fine.”

Sofia delayed. “Dinner will be served without further ado. You are expected.”

Expected.

Isabella gestured. “I’ll be down.”

When the entryway closed once more, she breathed out strongly and squeezed her fingers against the glass. This was not a fair marriage. It was an assimilation.

“Downstairs, candlelight filled the dining room, where a serene specialist moved quietly among the tables.” A table long enough to seat a dozen held as if it were two put settings. Directly over from each other.

Alessandro stood at a distant conclusion, as of now there, his sleeves rolled up marginally as he examined something on his phone. He looked diverse with the jacket less formal, more unsafe, somehow or another. Like a man quickly off guard.

He looked up as she entered.

“You found your room,” he said.

“I did,” she answered, taking her seat. “It’s… generous.”

He gestured once. “All visitor rooms are.”

Guest.

The word waited between them.

Dinner was served by noiseless staff who moved like shadows. Isabella attempted to center on the food, perfectly arranged, delightfully plated, but her craving was tangled with nerves.

“This house runs on schedule,” Alessandro said all of a sudden, breaking the hush. “Breakfast at seven. Meals are anticipated unless trade mediates. Open appearances will be planned.”

“And my work?” Isabella inquired. “I expected to proceed with it.”

He examined her for a minute and then gestured. “I expected you would.”

That astounded her.

“I won’t interfere,” he proceeded. “As long as it doesn’t meddle with us.”

“With appearances,” she corrected.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “Appearances.”

She lifted her glass of water. “Then we get it each other.”

“Do we?” he inquired quietly.

Their eyes met once more, and for a pulse, the room appeared to contract, center fixed on the space between them.

After supper, Alessandro rose. “There are rules,” he said. “They’re simple.”

She collapsed her hands in her lap. “I’m listening.”

“My mother values control,” he said doubtlessly. “She will test you. Overlook it. Don’t challenge her publicly.”

“And privately?” Isabella asked.

His mouth bent faintly. “That’s up to you.”

She gestured gradually. “And you?”

“I esteem discretion,” he said. “What happens between us remains between us.”

A pause.

“And what happens between us?” she asked.

He met her look relentlessly. “Nothing you don’t concur with.”

The reply ought to have consoled her.

Instead, it unsettled her.

That night, the rest refused to come effectively. Isabella lay alert underneath flawless sheets, tuning in to the Palazzo breath. Each sound felt amplified by the far-off closing of entryways, the strides reverberating down distant passages, the blacked-out mumble of voices she couldn’t place.

She was not alone here.

Sometime past midnight, she rose and slipped unobtrusively from her room, drawn more by anxiety than interest. The hallways were dim, lit by delicate divider lights that cast long shadows over the floor.

She meandered without reason until she found herself, some time recently, a tall wooden entryway, which was somewhat ajar.

Light spilled out.

Inside was a study with dark racks lined with books, a huge work area cluttered with records, maps, and other items. And standing in the work area, sleeves rolled up, tie released, was Alessandro.

He looked up, clearly surprised.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

She faltered, and at that point ventured interior. “Neither might you, it seems.”

“Sleep is inefficient,” he answered, even though there was an exhaustion underneath the words.

She looked at the papers in his work area. “Empire-building doesn’t rest.”

He took after her look but didn’t move to cover anything. “Something like that.”

They stood there, the quiet distinctive now not tense, but charged.

“This house,” Isabella said gradually, “feels like it’s watching.”

A black-out grin touched his lips. “It is.”

She turned to him. “Why me, Alessandro? There were other choices. Ladies with more cash. More ambition.”

His expression shifted subtly, but unmistakably.

“You were the right choice,” he said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“One might say this is the one I presented this evening.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t like being a pawn.”

“Neither do I,” he said quietly.

For the first time, she saw something glint underneath his controlled exterior fatigue, maybe. Or something closer to loneliness.

“I couldn’t imagine this would be easy,” he proceeded. “But we can make it… manageable.”

“Manageable,” she resounded. “What a sentimental promise.”

He huffed a brief breath, nearly a snicker. “We concurred that sentiment wasn’t part of this.”

“Yes,” she said. “We did.”

And however, standing there, the discussion between them was thick with

Inferred things, Isabella felt the split in her certainty.

She cleared out without further ado, returning to her room with more questions than answers.

As she closed the entryway behind her, one thought refused to be ignored:

This marriage was built on rules.

And rules, she knew, were meant to be broken.