Chapter 77 Date
Russo
Her expression turns thoughtful. "Twice in one day? What if someone sees us? I thought we were keeping this a secret until you were ready to make an official announcement."
"I'm not really worried about it anymore, Rose." The desire to keep our secret is the only reason a bastard like Alexander would even consider getting close to what's mine.
"Plus, if it's believable, we might as well be seen together in public a few times."
She nods understandingly. I get out of the car and go to open her door. When she gets out, she even lets me hold her hand. That's progress. I try, but I can't ignore how well her hand fits in mine. It's dainty, petite, yet perfect. As if I was always meant to hold it.
Inside the restaurant, we're offered seats in a private area. We start talking after ordering wine and food, and I realize Rose has several burning questions. Some she's eager to get out of. "If I ask you anything, promise you won't bite my head off?"
"That remains to be seen, my dear. I do tend to grow fangs every full moon," I say jokingly.
She laughs. "You know what I meant."
"Shoot," I said.
"Where were you staying? Before you took over as Don. You've never been to the US." She said.
My instinct is to deflect the question, to hide my truth, to keep it under lock and key. But she's not asking because she wants to use what I say against me. She's genuinely curious, and she's right. If we want this to work, we need to try to get to know each other better. It can't be one-sided.
"I lived in London for a while when I was nineteen. Then I went to Italy and South Africa. Actually, I've been to many countries. I've never really settled in one place." I said calmly.
"Why not? Were you running away from something?" she asks quietly.
I shake my head. Nothing. Everything. The demons of my past. The expectations of my future. I ran from my responsibility, trying to ignore my duty. For a while, I succeeded, until I couldn't take it anymore and realized I needed to return.
Rose doesn't press the question. I think she sees in my eyes that I can't answer, because she quickly moves on to the next one. "So, if you've traveled so much, how many languages can you speak?"
I pause to think about it for a second. "Six," I answer.
Her eyes widen. "No way. How come you know six languages? Which ones?"
I list them for her. "Italian, English, Spanish, French. Those are the ones I can speak fluently. I also know some Portuguese people who lived in Brazil for a while. I also learned a little Chinese, but I'm not that fluent."
"That's... impressive," she says with a slight smile.
"My IQ is surprisingly high. I learn a lot of things easily," I say.
"Humble bragging," she mutters with a grin. "Maybe you could teach me French someday. I always liked hearing that."
"Of course, dear," I grin. "I'll whisper this in your ear every night before you fall asleep."
Her cheeks flush as the meaning of my words sinks in. She clears her throat and looks away from me. I lean back in my chair with a smile. Thankfully, the conversation turns to her and her life. She tells me a little about growing up. Her brother, her family. Then I decided to ask her something I've always been curious about.
"When did you start learning pottery? It's not a hobby many people cultivate. And you not only cultivated it, but you also thrived on it. How did you get started?"
Rose pauses for a second. I see a flicker of hesitation in her blue eyes before she suppresses it.
"I was pretty isolated as a child. While my father was grooming Roman to take over the family business, I was practically alone. No one really paid attention to me. I know they all loved me, but my father treated me like another one of his possessions, and my brother treated me like something he had to protect. And my mother was probably the worst.
She treated me like a project. She raised me to be perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect sister, and finally, the perfect wife.”
There's a hint of bitterness in her tone.
"I know she did it to protect me. She thought it was the best way to prepare me for the world we live in. I had to do everything right. And when you have that burden of expectation, it starts to feel crushing. I needed an escape. Some form of freedom. And I've always liked art.
Even as a child, I loved drawing, creating things. One day, my mother took me to an event where so many different artists were showcasing their talents. I was drawn to a potter. Something about what he was doing reminded me of how he shaped clay with his hands.
The process was intriguing. That day, before going to bed, I asked my mother for some practice tools. When I returned home from school a few days later, I had everything I needed, and from that moment on, I blossomed. "Pottery is an outlet for me," she says softly.
"You haven't worked on it since you moved here," I point out. "Did you need me to make something for you?"
She shakes her head. "No, that's normal. I'm still trying to figure it all out, and I prefer to deal with it head-on. As I said, art is an escape for me. A way to express my feelings without going crazy. I guess you could say it's my therapy, but I think I need to face it head-on to know what I'm really getting myself into."