Bodyguard Beast - Georgia Le Carre Page 0,8

Piero, who was second in command to my father, and another person I didn’t know.

“Take your seat by Fabio, Sienna,” my mother said. “We’re beginning now.”

Fabio? Who the hell is that? Painfully conscious of the at least thirty pairs of eyes on me, I ran my gaze down the table, found the empty seat halfway down the table, and hurried over to it. I settled down and my napkin folded into a formal bishop’s hat shape, was whisked open and spread neatly across my lap by a waiter who appeared behind me.

I murmured my thanks, then turned to the vaguely familiar woman on my right and smiled at her politely. “Hello.”

“Sienna,” she acknowledged with a nod.

I knew the person my mother actually wanted me to sit next to was on my right. Reluctantly, I turned to that person and stopped. His sharp, dark gaze, wide nose and thin lips, all instantly recognizable features of the Siciliana clan, made him seem familiar.

“Hello,” I greeted.

He was actually good looking, that was, until his lips curved into a smug smile.

I immediately suspected he and I would not get on. When almost a whole minute passed and he still had not taken his gaze away from me, my prediction was confirmed.

The waiters began moving around, serving the first course, lobster bisque. I waited till mine had been placed in front of me, and when he still hadn’t looked away, I squashed my irritation, and said in a light tone, “If you carry on like this, you’re going to bore holes into me …”

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

I turned to face him. “I apologize. I’ve been away for so long that everyone seems so changed. I’m still trying to familiarize myself with everything.”

“You really don’t remember me?” he asked incredulously. His voice rose louder than necessary and piqued the interest of the other guests.

I took a deep breath, my gaze on the finely chopped chives in the midst of my creamy soup. Then I turned to him again with a smile plastered across my face. “I do—”

“Then who am I?” he demanded aggressively.

I exhaled my growing anger through a breathy laugh. “If you had allowed me to finish you would have heard me say, I don’t remember you, but you look very familiar.”

Suddenly, he swung his gaze away from me and towards my mother. “Aunt Marzia,” he bellowed.

The entire room’s attention was arrested. Even my mother looked startled by his outburst.

I wanted to bury myself in the ground—actually, he was the one I wanted to bury. Arrogant, little prick. I wished I had the freedom to tell him to piss off. That I didn’t give a damn who he was, but all I could do was maintain a serene smile. I didn’t want to embarrass my parents like the idiot was doing.

“Aunt Marzia, Sienna doesn’t know who I am?” he fired off in Italian.

I didn't miss the glance she gave my father before she let out a tinkling laugh and said, “That’s your cousin Fabio, Sienna. Don't you remember? He used to come with us to Rosedale vineyard for the summer vacation. You used to ride bicycles together and play in the pool.”

“Sienna,” one of my other cousins who I actually remembered, spoke up from across the table. “Fabio used to chase you around with frogs from the fish pond.”

“Ah,” I exclaimed, as the reminder jacked an old forgotten memory to life. Fabio was an arrogant, entitled, idiot even then. I turned towards him with a smile. “I remember now. It’s very nice to see you again.”

He kept frowning. Apparently, this hadn’t been the memory he wanted everyone to remember. “No worries. Henceforth, it’ll be impossible to forget me,” he boasted.

For a moment I almost asked what he meant by that but I caught myself. Don’t feed the troll, Sienna. Praying he wouldn’t speak to me again that night or preferably ever, I returned to my soup and took a spoonful. It tasted wonderfully fiery and smooth in my mouth.

“Fabio just graduated from a university in Edinburgh,” my mother said. “Since both of you have similar educational experiences from the United Kingdom, I’m sure you’ll have lots to talk about.”

“Sure, Aunt Marzia,” he replied, “but the rigors of a postgraduate degree are not to be spoken lightly of, or even compared to the minimal effort needed for an undergraduate degree. Even if we were in the same country, I doubt Sienna would be able to fathom the level of stress and demands