Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 163540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 818(@200wpm)___ 654(@250wpm)___ 545(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 818(@200wpm)___ 654(@250wpm)___ 545(@300wpm)
Enrico chuckles. “Nobody is listening to your shoes because your outfit screams bend me over the pew and fuck me hard.”
“This suit is such a slut. I had no idea.”
“Filthy. In fact, get out here now.”
I go back into the wardrobe to continue getting ready. I apply sensible makeup and style my hair in big waves. I clip it back on one side. Twenty minutes later, I walk out into my bedroom. “Are you ready to go?”
“Have been for half an hour now,” he replies flatly. He walks over to me and does up my top button. I let him because he will make me do it up anyway.
“It’s not easy being this beautiful.” I smile up at him.
He chuckles and rubs his hand down my behind. “I can only imagine.”
The car pulls up at Milan Cathedral, and I dip my head to peer through the window. “Wow,” I whisper. The church is majestic. It seems like everything in Italy is that way. Italians definitely don’t do things in halves.
The stone detail is incredible, and a gold statue sits perched way up above, as if looking down from the Heavens.
Enrico smiles and holds my hand in his lap as he, too, peers up. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It took over six centuries to build.”
Nerves flutter in my stomach as Marly opens my door. “Miss Olivia.” He nods with a smile.
“Thank you, Marly.”
I get out of the car and Enrico takes my hand.
We walk up the gray stone steps and into the foyer of the church. Century old artwork lines the walls. There’s tapestry and huge paintings, and holy cow, this place is on another level. Enrico leads me farther into the church where the floors are mainly white with a large black and apricot pattern on it. I look up at the ceiling. It’s hundreds of feet high and lined with exotic, stained-glass windows. This place is simply breathtaking. It reminds me a lot of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, filled with huge, gray stone columns and so many beautiful things, you don’t know where to look first.
Enrico leads me to the side of the second entry doors and over to a white marble dish. He dips his fingertips in and crosses his chest.
“Now you do it,” he whispers.
Oh, shit. I dip my fingers into the holy water and copy what he just did. He gives me a soft smile and leads me down toward the front of the church. He kneels toward the alter, bows his head, and crosses his chest again as he mutters something quietly before walking to sit down. He turns and gestures for to me to the do the same.
What do I say?
He bows, as if to prompt me, and I quickly bow and do the cross thing on my chest. Then I scurry into the church pew behind him. Oh man, I’m terrible at being a Catholic already. I need a full lesson on church etiquette when we get home.
The church is silent—sacred.
Hushed voices can be heard but nobody dares speak aloud.
We sit down behind his mother and Francesca. An older woman is with them, who I am assuming is Enrico’s grandmother, and his two brothers sit to the left of them.
The priest appears and the worshipers all watch on with love.
They adore him, I can feel it.
He addresses the parish. His voice echoes through the majestic church as if a rock star singing the crowd’s favorite song.
He seems kind and knowledgeable, although I can’t understand anything he is saying. It’s all in Italian.
For the next hour, I sit silently through the service, as everyone seems to know a secret protocol—one I don’t. They stand and sit in perfect unison. They know all the songs and they sing proudly.
Enrico doesn’t look my way. His focus is completely on his priest, and it becomes clear very quickly why he wants me to be catholic.
Religion is important to him.
His family are all focused as they watch on. My eyes roam between them, and I wonder what was it like growing up in this family.
A heritage based on tradition.
Rules and regulations that cannot be broken.
I watch Bianca from behind, her back ramrod straight. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, a blouse, sheer stockings, and sky-high stilettos. She looks like a super model.
She fascinates me, to have lived the life she has lived. I can’t wait until I get to know her better. His grandmother is in black, too, Enrico explained that they are in mourning and will wear black for three years after their husbands died.
It seems so bizarre, and is yet another tradition I don’t understand.
The service ends and people begin to leave the church. Bianca turns and smiles. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I reply nervously. I grip my bag tightly.
The priest walks down to us and shakes Enrico’s hand. “Hello, my child.”