nursery opened and he heard soft footsteps go past his room.
He willed his eyes to shut but they refused, just as they had refused since he had come to bed five hours ago.
There was too much going on in his head to sleep. This was the first time he had been alone with his thoughts since he had learned of Grace’s location. Not even the sedatives in his painkillers could switch his brain off.
He had found her. After ten long months he had really found her. It had all happened so quickly the day held a dream-like quality to it. Or was it a nightmare?
He was a father. That was his daughter crying in the dark. That was his wife comforting her. She was here, back under his roof. Unwillingly back under his roof.
There were no words to describe the loathing he felt towards Grace, as if an angry nest of vipers were festering in his guts, stabbing their fangs into him.
Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to pack her stuff and tell her to leave, to get out and never come back. But he could not. Even after everything she had put him through, he retained enough rationality to know it would be Lily who would suffer the most.
No, Grace’s punishment would be of an entirely different nature.
From now on, when they entertained guests or left the estate, she would damn well be deferential towards him. No longer would he tolerate having his business activities probed, his opinions contradicted or his word questioned. No longer would he tolerate a wife who neglected her appearance because her mind was too full of whatever she was currently creating on a canvas to run a brush through her hair or wear clothes that matched. No longer would he find these particular quirks endearing.
He’d never met anyone like her before: someone who saw all the colour the world had to offer. Before Grace, the women he’d dated had always been perfectly turned out with opinions that were in line with his own. They could have been identikit. Until Grace appeared, as if by magic, casting him under her spell, he’d never realised how boring he found them all, or how predictable his life had been.
He’d taken such pride in her talents and the freshness she’d brought to his life that the last thing he’d wanted to do was change her in any way.
He’d loved her exactly as she was.
Well, more fool him.
Grace would learn to be a proper Sicilian wife.
Sleep was not going to come any time soon. Throwing the sheets off, he climbed out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown, carefully navigating the sling.
All the lights were off.
Grace and Lily were nowhere to be found.
He opened every door in the wing, his chest tightening with every empty room.
He returned to Grace’s room. Her suitcases lay on the floor, seemingly unpacked. Her toothbrush and toothpaste had been laid on the sink of the en suite, a bulging bag of toiletries placed on the cabinet.
Entering the adjoining room, he flipped on the light. His heart twisted at the empty cot. A pile of nappies and baby accessories he did not recognise had been neatly placed on the dresser.
Where the hell had they gone?
Just as he was debating waking the household and conducting a thorough search for them, Grace walked into the room, her dressing gown covering her tall, slender frame, carrying Lily and a bottle of formula.
Immediately she switched the light off but not before he caught the glare she directed at him.
She walked soundlessly past him and settled in the old rocking chair, curling her legs in a ball and placing the teat of the bottle in Lily’s tiny mouth. ‘I want her to go back to sleep after she’s had this,’ she whispered, nodding at the light switch.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked, adopting an identical whisper.
‘In the kitchen warming the bottle up.’
The kitchen was on the other side of the monastery. In the early hours of winter it was always freezing down there. ‘Why didn’t you get a member of staff to do it for you?’
Even in the dusky light he could clearly identify the look of disdain that crossed her face. ‘Apart from your security guards, everyone’s asleep.’
‘Does she always wake so early?’ It was five a.m.
She nodded. ‘If I’m lucky she might go back down for another couple of hours. I had worried that after all the travelling she might have trouble settling, but she nodded off without any problems.’
‘In future I will ensure someone is available to warm the milk for you.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll get a kettle and a jug brought up to my room.’
‘That’s what I pay the staff for.’
‘Luca, I’m not going to argue with you about it. I’m not going to have someone else’s sleep disrupted for the sake of a kettle and a jug.’
‘I think you’ll find you are already arguing with me about it.’
The whisper of a smile curved on her cheeks. ‘No change there, then.’
Grace had always enjoyed sparring with him but it had always been done in a gentle, amused fashion. She was the only person, aside from his mother and brother, who did not automatically assume his word was on a par with God’s. She challenged him, made him look at the world through a different prism. Where he saw things in black or white, she saw the varying shades of grey in between. It was one of the many things he’d loved about her: the context and sense she helped him make of the world.
Having taken over the running of the estate at the age of twenty-one, he’d been so focused on keeping the high standards set by his father and keeping his family safe from those who would snatch everything away from them, he’d never had the time to really think about his place in the world.
When, a year into Luca’s marriage, Francesco Calvetti, an old childhood acquaintance whose family had been the Mastrangelos’ bitter enemies, had suggested going into business together, it had seemed like perfect timing. Luca had already been toying with the idea. Both men were keen to establish themselves away from the long shadows cast over them by their respective fathers and equally keen to end a feud neither had wanted.
Being with Grace and the fresh perspective she had on life had, for the first time, made him see that the life he had been living was the life expected of him. He was living in his father’s footsteps. His own hopes and dreams had been suppressed for the good of the family. For duty.
It was time to strike out in his own name.
Yet, for all the context his wife had given his world, he failed to see the context or sense in why she had run away.
She thought he was a monster. She had wilfully kept their child a secret from him. Where was the context in that? So they’d had an argument? All couples rowed. One proper argument was not good enough reason to rip a marriage apart.
A lump formed in his chest. He swallowed hard to dislodge it. ‘Did you
