“You’ve done a lovely job of raising her Angelo. She’s grown into a fine young woman.” Veronica smiled coldly at Juliet, no warmth in her gaze for her son or anything to do with him. It was about the bondage. The prize. That’s how all of this worked.
I sighed softly, turning to greet Angelo as well. “Thank you for having us, sir. I couldn’t be more honored to be approved by you.” I dipped my head respectfully.
I don't think that I'd ever seen Angelo this happy before—at least, not after the death of my mother. He shook his head modestly and smiled. "Thank you, Veronica, and I might say the same about your son." To Paris, he nodded with more warmth than he'd ever directed at me. "You'll do well, I think. Julieta—"
I froze.
"Why don't you show Paris around the gardens while I have a little chat with his parents? A maid will call you in for dinner."
I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming wave of relief as Angelo seemed to approve of me. My mother seemed quite proud as well. As long as I didn’t mess this up, I’d be fine. I looked to Juliet, waiting for her to lead the way.
"Of course," I nodded, somehow managing to keep the false smile plastered to my face. It was a miracle that I hadn't caved in to the panic, the sheer terror—how on earth had I not crumbled into a trembling mess?
My stomach twisted as I took hold of his hand, leading him down a pleasantly-lit hallway towards the salon, where we could promptly exit to the gardens.
Juliet grabbed me by the hand, leading me off towards the gardens. Her skin was soft and warm against mine. “Do you go in the gardens often?” I asked quietly.
I was shocked by his gentility. I'd expected the harsh son of a mafia boss, a picture of perfection in my own father's eyes. Not this seemingly softened man.
"I do," I responded softly, leading him down a path. How old are you, Paris? At least twenty. Three years in my senior? Longer?
(what does he look like?)
(He’s probably an inch or two taller than Romeo, fluffy brown hair, deep blue eyes. Stocky build, broad shoulders, and well muscles. Light olive toned skin.)
(thumbs up
how long is his hair?)
(Probably shoulder length, usually tied back, back awkwardly gelled back at the moment.)
(got it
is it still my turn?)
“I dont have a garden at home, my mother never quite believed in them.” I continued, trying to make conversation. “I do like to draw them though.”
(I have to go for about an hour! Sorry!)
(aw okay, ttyl!)
"Draw?" This piqued my interest, despite the fact that I was on high alert, every single cell in my body searching for red flags. "Are you an artist?"
(Back!)
“I would love to call myself one, but my parents don’t quite approve of the title.” I smiled, softly squeezing her hand. “Are you an artist?”
(hey!)
I was mere seconds away from turning around and emptying the contents of my stomach into a flowerbed. "No," I lied to him—Nice or not, he didn't deserve to know about that small, secret part of him. "I—Forgive me for being rude, but…. Can I ask how old you are?" For the first time that night, I faltered. "My father–My father didn't tell me much."
“Don’t apologize, I understand your concern.” I nodded my head politely. “I’m twenty one, just a few years older than you.” I kept my voice even, trying to soothe her. “You must be grateful that your father is distancing you from the war a bit.”
Twenty-one.
Panic began to crowd my thoughts again. Four years—he was four years older than me. He was a man, and I wasn't even an adult. My seventeenth birthday had been three months ago.
"I—" Realizing that my composure had slipped, I forced the smile back onto my face. "Yes, I am. It'll be nice, a bit of peace…"
I nodded silently, sensing some sort of discomfort. Was I coming on threatening? I was trying my best not to, but I must have been to some extent. “I apologize if I may have arisen discomfort from you, Juliet.” I responded after a moment.
(Nooooooooooooooooooooo)
"Oh, you don't need to apologize," I told him quickly, wiping all traces of anxiety from my features. "You haven't done anything wrong, I'm just nervous about……well, appealing to you, if I'm being honest."
Ha. The irony.
I continued the lie, allowing myself to get lost in it for the moment. "I want you to find me nice. Funny. Smart… I don't know. Is that strange?"
“Not at all. I’ve been told I come off as intimidating.” I admitted, looking over at Juliet. She seemed calm now, so I allowed myself to relax a bit. “I’m quite nervous as well.” I realized I liked Juliet, perhaps a bit more than I should have since we were meeting for the first time.
"You're much less intimidating than I expected," I confessed, a nugget of truth among the web of lies I was spinning around us both. "And you don't need to be nervous when it comes to me—But I'll admit, I can be……harsh, in other scenarios."
Ragazza del fuoco.
(SCREW YOU STUPID FACE)
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, being raised in a war.” I spoke as we stepped out into the garden. “What’s that old saying? Violent delights have violent ends, or something like that.”
(How long are you up, for tonight?)
I nodded, relieved that he seemed to understand. “What’s it like?” I spoke up after a moment, “In Sicily, I mean.”
(Sorry I keep taking so long to reply! I was talking to my cousins on the phone for a couple hours. I have a snow day tomorrow so probab 1-2 AM)
“It’s… nice. Quaint, for lack of a better word. The beaches are the most beautiful. My family owns a vineyard that’s particularly good to watch the sunrise from in the balcony off my bedroom window.” I explained, trying to follow my mother’s advice. Be sensitive.