Italy's Most Scandalous Virgin - Carol Marinelli Page 0,32

was her turn to be introduced, Mia entered the ballroom alone.

Heads turned as Rafael Romano’s widow made her entrance. There were, Mia was sure, whispers behind manicured hands that the widow wore red. Still, she focussed instead on the gorgeous décor as she made her way to the head table. The ballroom was heavenly and lavishly furnished, with rose-gold brocade walls and ornate arches and a central chandelier that cast endless stars over the many tables, which were adorned with silverware and a centrepiece each of a tall column of fragrant gardenias.

The people seated at her table were all standing and as Mia approached she was grateful to Gian, who politely kissed her on the cheeks, and only when she had taken her seat on a gorgeous Chiavari chair did the rest of her table sit down.

It was going to be a very awkward night, although she had expected no less.

Mia was seated between a minister—of what, she couldn’t quite catch—and Gian, which provided somewhat of a buffer for this dinner of discontent. Ariana, looked ravishing in a black ballgown, was seated on the other side of Gian. She was pointedly silent towards Mia. Stefano and Eloa had eyes only for each other, while Luigi and his wife made no attempt to be friendly.

And Dante?

He sat opposite Mia, with the minister’s wife by his side and someone Mia didn’t know on the other. But she was beautiful and laughed loudly at everything Dante said and gazed up at him with utter adoration.

Would he be so cruel as to bring a date?

Mia truly didn’t know.

There was a toast to Rafael to kick off the night, and they were told by the MC that all the champagne was from his private cellar. Naturally Mia raised a glass and took a pretend sip, though the flash of tears in her eyes as she toasted Rafael were genuine as she thought of her dear friend.

They nibbled their way through the antipasti and for the primo piatto it was ravioli, stuffed with pecorino, in a creamy white truffle sauce. It was perfection and Mia wished she wasn’t too nervous to fully enjoy it.

‘This was Rafael’s favourite meal,’ Mia commented to Gian.

‘Indeed.’ Gian nodded. ‘The whole menu was chosen by Ariana to reflect that—the truffles are from his home.’

‘How lovely,’ Mia said, and glanced over at Ariana, who refused even the slightest truce, and instead rather pointedly turned her elegant shoulders and spoke to the guest on her other side.

When the main course was served, Mia had filetto di maiale alla mela, and it took her straight back to the fragrant scent that had greeted her after a long ride on Massimo, but the gentle reminiscence was soured when she saw the woman next to Dante place her hand on his arm as she vied for his attention. Worse, he turned to her and smiled in agreement at whatever it was she had said.

Oh, Mia was more than jealous. Disappointment coursed through her for no matter how she might deny her reasons for being here, the simple fact was that she wanted time alone with Dante.

She wanted that dangerous dance.

As desserts were cleared away—again a selection of Rafael’s favourites all chosen by Ariana and displayed to perfection—Eloa at least made an attempt at conversation. ‘Ariana has also been helping us with our wedding preparations.’

‘Oh.’ Mia smiled. ‘When is the wedding?’

‘May,’ Eloa said.

‘It’s going to be amazing.’ Ariana slipped in a dig. ‘Anyone who’s anyone has been invited.’

And Mia, given she hadn’t been, was clearly a no one to them.

Eloa at least had the decency to blush.

When the meal was over, and before the speeches and silent auction, there was to be socialising and dancing. Of course, out of respect to Rafael, Mia sat out the dancing and thankfully Gian took the poisonous Ariana off to dance.

Yet, despite the tension at the table, despite Ariana’s caustic words, despite herself even, Mia found that she had missed them all.

Yes, even if it made perfect sense that she hadn’t been invited to Stefano and Eloa’s wedding, even if it would be hell to attend, it hurt that she wouldn’t be there.

That their lives were all moving on without her.

She was hormonal, Mia decided, sniffing back sudden tears and then doing her best to speak with the Minister of Something, though she had no real idea what was being said. That she could not focus had nothing to do with her less than fluent Italian, for the minister spoke in