Union Of Death (Secrets of The Famiglia Part 2) novel Chapter 44

Aliyana

I leave straight away and head to my future husband, Marco Catelli.

I arrive at his Penthouse on the outskirts of Washington DC. It is funny that I know exactly where he lives without even coming here.

The doorman looks at me, probably wondering what a small thing like me is doing here at nine at night.

“Marco Catelli please, tell him it's Aliyana Capello.”

The door man phones and talks to Marco and I am surprised when he ushers me to the elevator and slides his card in without a pause.

“The lift should take you right to the Penthouse Miss Capello. You have a good day.”

“Thank you.”

I get to the Penthouse and Marco is waiting for me with a scowl on his face. His short hair is in a tumbled mess.

He has a right to be dishevelled, his fiancé just died. He lost his father and watched his brother become head of the Famiglia in one month. And made his first big decision since his own rise in power. Me

I didn't blame him for the brandy on his breath, and the creases on his shirt. Standing in his Penthouse, just by the door, I look at my future husband. As sorry as I am for his loss, if I was going to marry him, we needed to talk.

“What are you doing here Aliyana, now isn't the time.”

“I don't love you. Why marry me? I'm not right for you."

He smiles, “We marry for many things, Aliyana, love is not one of them.”

“But why, answer me.”

He stands and glares at me, this is the first time I can actually say that Marco Catelli scares me. I am not frightened for myself, but for the ones who have put that look in his eyes. He suffers pain, but I see his need for revenge.

“What do you want me to tell you Aliyana? You are a problem I can’t just get rid of.”

He turns around and walks into his place, with the door open. I walk in after him and that is when I see it. On the wall, taking up a good piece in the centre, is a picture in black and white, blown up of Camilla. BUT that isn’t what surprises me, no, it is the provocative pose.

She is wearing a man’s t-shirt, with her legs up on the table, looking at the one behind the camera as if he, is the sole purpose of her existence. Is that what love looks like?

I frown, when I walk through and follow him into the lounge. Strong shoulders, I once touched, look forlorn as he slouches. A hand on the brick bare wall, as the fireplace he is standing in front of with the brandy filled glass in his other hand, crackles.