Violet’s face was pale, her mouth pinched tight. ‘But make your own.’
Her own choice. Freedom at last. Overwhelming, frightening freedom, more than she’d ever had before, more than she’d even know what to do with. Instead of shackling herself to a man, even a good man, she would be her own person. Free to choose, to live.
The realisation made her feel sick with fear, dizzy with hope. Sierra closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know, Mamma...’
‘I cannot choose for you, Sierra.’ Her mother brushed her cheek lightly with her fingertips. ‘Only you can decide your own destiny. But a marriage without love...’ Her mother swallowed hard. ‘I would not wish that on anyone.’
Not every man is like Arturo Rocci. Not every man is cruel, controlling, hard. Sierra swallowed down the words. Marco Ferranti might not be like her father, but he might very well be. After what she’d heard and realised tonight, she knew she couldn’t take the risk.
Her hand clenched on the envelope of euros. Violet nodded, seeing the decision made in Sierra’s face. ‘God go with you, Sierra.’
Sierra hugged her mother tightly, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Quickly now,’ Violet said, and Sierra hurried from the room. Down the hall to her own bedroom, the wedding dress hanging from the wardrobe like a ghost. She dressed quickly and then grabbed a bag and stuffed some clothes into it. Her hands shook.
The house was quiet, the night air still and silent. Sierra glanced at the violin case under her bed and hesitated. It would be difficult to bring, and yet...
Music had been her only solace for much of her life. Leaving her violin would be akin to leaving a piece of her soul. She grabbed the case and swung the holdall of clothes over her shoulder. And then she tiptoed downstairs, holding her breath, her heart pounding so hard her chest hurt. The front door was locked for the night, but Sierra slid the bolt from its hinges without so much as a squeak. From the study she heard her father shift in his chair, rustle some papers. For a terrible moment her heart stilled, suspended in her chest as she froze in terror.
Then he let out a sigh and she eased the door open slowly, so slowly, every second seeming to last an hour. She slipped through and closed it carefully behind her before glancing at the dark, empty street. She looked back at the house with its lit windows one last time before hurrying into the night.
Seven years later
‘SHE MIGHT NOT COME.’
Marco Ferranti turned from the window and his indifferent perusal of Palermo’s business district with a shrug. ‘She might not.’ He glanced at the lawyer seated behind the large mahogany desk and then strode from the window, every taut, controlled movement belying the restlessness inside him.
‘She didn’t come to her mother’s funeral,’ the lawyer, Roberto di Santis, reminded him cautiously.
Marco’s hands curled into fists and he unclenched them deliberately before shoving them into the pockets of his trousers and turning to face the man. ‘I know.’
Violet Rocci had died three years ago; cancer had stalked her and killed her in a handful of months. Sierra had not come back for her mother’s illness or funeral, despite Arturo’s beseeching requests. She had not even sent a letter or card, much to her father’s sorrow. The last time Marco had seen her had been the night before their wedding, when he’d kissed her and felt her trembling, passionate response.
The next morning he’d waited at the front of the church of Santa Caterina for his bride to process down the aisle. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Seven years later he was still waiting for Sierra Rocci to show up.
The lawyer shuffled some papers before clearing his throat noisily. He was nervous, impatient, wanting to get the ordeal of Arturo Rocci’s will over with. He’d assured Marco it was straightforward if uncomfortable; Marco had seen the document himself, before Arturo had died. He knew what it said. He didn’t think Sierra did, though, and he grimly looked forward to acquainting her with its details.
Surely she would come?
Marco had instructed the lawyer to contact her personally. Marco had known where Sierra was for a while; about five years ago, when the first tidal wave of rage had finally receded to a mist, he’d hired a private investigator to discover her whereabouts. He’d never contacted her, never wanted to. But he’d needed to know where she was, what had happened to her. The knowledge that she was living a seemingly quiet, unassuming life in London had not been satisfying in the least. Nothing was.
‘She said she would come, didn’t she?’ he demanded, although he already knew the answer.
When di Santis had called her at her home, she’d agreed to meet here, at the lawyer’s office, at ten o’clock on June fifteenth. It was now nearing half past.
‘Perhaps we should just begin...?’
‘No.’ Marco paced the room, back to the window where he gazed out at the snarl of traffic. ‘We’ll wait.’ He wanted to see Sierra’s face when the will was read. He wanted to see the expression in her eyes as realisation dawned of how much she’d lost, how much she’d sacrificed simply to get away from him.
‘If it pleases you, signor,’ di Santis murmured and Marco did not bother to answer.
Thirty seconds later the outer door to the building opened with a telling cautious creak; di Santis’s assistant murmured something, and then a knock sounded on the office door.
Every muscle in Marco’s body tensed; his nerves felt as if they were scraped raw, every sense on high alert. It had to be her.
‘Signor di Santis?’ the assistant murmured. ‘Signorina Rocci has arrived.’
Marco straightened, forcing himself to relax as Sierra came into the room. She looked exactly the same. The same long, dark blond hair, now pulled back into a sleek chignon, the same wide blue-grey eyes. The same lush mouth, the same tiny, kissable mole at its left corner. The same slender, willowy figure with gentle curves that even now he itched to touch.
Desire flared through him, a single, intense flame that he resolutely quenched.
Her gaze moved to him and then quickly away again, too fast for him to gauge her expression. She stood straight, her shoulders thrown back, her chin tilted at a proud, almost haughty angle. And then Marco realised that she was not the same.
She was seven years older, and he saw it in the faint lines by her eyes and mouth. He saw it in the clothing she wore, a charcoal-grey pencil skirt and a pale pink silk blouse. Sophisticated, elegant clothing for a woman, rather than the girlish dresses she’d worn seven years earlier.
But the inner sense of stillness he’d always admired she still possessed. The sense that no one could touch or affect her. He’d been drawn to that, after the tempest of his own childhood. He’d liked her almost unnatural sense of calm, her cool purpose. Even though she’d only been nineteen she’d seemed older, wiser. And yet so innocent.
‘Signorina Rocci. I’m so glad you could join us.’ Di Santis moved forward, hands outstretched. Sierra barely brushed her fingertips with his before she moved away, to one of the club chairs. She sat down, her back straight, her ankles crossed, ever the lady. She didn’t look at Marco.
He was looking at her, his stare burning. Marco jerked his gaze from Sierra and moved back to the window. Stared blindly out at the traffic that crawled down the Via Libertà.
‘Shall we begin?’ suggested di Santis, and Marco nodded. Sierra did not speak. ‘The will is, in point of fact, quite straightforward.’ Di Santis cleared his throat and Marco felt his body tense once more. He knew just how straightforward the will was. ‘Signor Rocci, that is, your father, signorina—’ he gave Sierra an abashed smile that Marco saw from the corner of his eye she did not return ‘—made his provisions quite clear.’