Chapter 2
“BELLLLLA!” TRILLED Madame Gothel as Bella pulled the front door to the apartment closed and locked it. “Is that youuuuuu?”
Bella rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Dio dammi la forza. God give me strength, she thought, crossing herself.
“Sí, Madrina.” Yes, Godmother.
“English, pleeeeease,” her godmother reminded her, rounding the corner of the living room in a pink silk bathrobe, her long, dark hair wound up in a scarf and her face covered with an aqua-colored masque. “What took so long? Did you lock up?”
Bella offered her boss/godmother a small smile, quickly deciding to keep her dealings with the De’Medici twins to herself. “Sí...uh, yes.”
“Excellent,” said her godmother, putting her arm around Bella’s small shoulders. “Whatever would I dooooo without you?”
You did just fine until I got here, she thought, letting herself be ushered into the living room, which her godmother preferred to call “the Gran Salon.”
Helga Gothel and Bella’s mother, Karin Schmidt, had been girlhood friends, growing up in the same historic German-Swiss village of Brig, not far from the Italian border. In primary school and secondary school, the girls and Bella’s father, Giorgio Capelli, had been inseparable. When they turned eighteen, Giorgio had proposed to Karin, and Helga had decided to study abroad in America.
With the help of their parents, Karin and Giorgio had purchased and tended a small vineyard and grotto—a rustic, family-run restaurant—making local wines and serving good Swiss-Italian fare. Helga, on the other hand, had used her parents’ money to open a small but prosperous hair salon in Brooklyn, New York, that eventually turned into six salons in Manhattan. When she met Klaus Ingraham, partial owner of the New York Metro Tower Hotel, she was thirty to his fifty-six, but he gave her what she’d wanted from the very beginning: a chance to own and operate the premiere hotel salon and spa in New York City—the Innsbruck.
Klaus had passed away in short order, leaving his young bride a penthouse apartment, the salon, and his share of the hotel.
Unbeknown to Helga, the Capellis had named her Bella’s legal guardian, and when Karin and Giorgio died in a train crash when Bella was only seventeen, Helga had been compelled to offer Bella a place to live. So Bella had moved into her godmother’s luxurious penthouse on the thirtieth floor of the hotel...
...and while she grieved the terrible loss of her beloved parents, she became a combination of Madame’s right-hand gal, student, apprentice, companion, and the child she’d never had.
But Bella had quickly learned that Helga and Karin had very different ideas about motherhood, and where Bella’s own mother had been warm and loving, encouraging her daughter to make her own path in the world, Helga was domineering and manipulative, expecting Bella to work very long hours and dedicate her life wholly to the Innsbruck and to Helga’s comfort. With her own mother, Bella had been encouraged to chase her dreams; with Madame, Bella felt like a prisoner in a velvet-padded cell.
But with her passport and green card locked up in her godmother’s desk for “safekeeping,” it wasn’t as if she could just grab them and leave. And anyway, where would she go? Madame didn’t pay her a salary; Bella lived rent-free with her godmother and was, for all intents and purposes, her daughter. She was given a credit card for clothes and toiletries and was fed and sheltered in luxury. And yet...with no real money of her own and no identification, Bella was trapped.
Trapped in a beautiful place and being taught a valuable trade, she reminded herself, trying to be grateful. One day, Bella believed she would own and operate the Innsbruck herself. Certainly then she’d be able to do whatever and go wherever she pleased.
“Bella, daaaaaarling,” said Madame, leading her goddaughter to the sofa by the elbow and forcing her to sit down beside her, “we must talk briefly, my love, about your manner with the conteeeeeeessa this evening.”
Briefly? Ha.
“At the Innsbruck,” started Madame pedantically with an edge in her voice, “we offer luxury. We cater to a certain kind of clientele. We cannot afford to make European royalty feel unwanted, dearest. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Madrina, but—”
“There are no buts, Bella,” said Madame, her eyes narrowing to irritated slits. “You will rearrange the appointments tomorrow so that the Countess of Perugia is with Joaquin at two o’clock sharp.”
“And Mrs. Carnegie, who is already booked with him...?” she asked, daring to question her boss.
Madame raised her chin, her eyes narrowing further, her lips pursing. “Figure it out.”
Bella’s shoulders slumped. How was she was supposed to figure it out? How was she supposed to have Joaquin service two clients at once? Looking into her godmother’s steel-gray eyes, Bella felt an overwhelming wave of longing for her mother’s kind brown eyes and blinked back a sudden burn of tears.
“Oh, Bella, you look absolutely exhausted,” said Madame, pushing Bella’s long, black hair behind her shoulder. “After you straighten up here, you simply muuuuuuust go to bed.”
Though Bella’s aunt had the hotel maid staff at their disposal, Madame felt that it was good discipline for Bella to “pitch in” at home too. So after her shift at the salon each day, she was expected to “straighten up” at home...which meant wiping down the kitchen counters; collecting the garbage and taking it to the incinerator; running the vacuum over the carpets in the living room, dining room and den; and giving the three penthouse bathrooms a quick but thorough clean.
“Yes, Madrina.”
Madame toyed with a strand of Bella’s hair, running it through her fingers, the shiny, blood red of her lacquered nails a striking contrast against the black tresses. “This hair is probably worth thousands of dollars.”
“Really?”
“Mmmm. Beautiful, black, virgin hair. So like Giorgio’s.”
Bella’s face softened, and she looked up at Madame, hoping for a few kind words about her parents. “I miss them so much.”
Madame dropped the hair suddenly, offering her charge a brittle smile. “This mask is dry. I must rinse it off. Turn off the lights when you’re finished, dear? And get some sleeeeeeeeep, dearest. You look almost haggard. Tsk, tsk, tsk. What will our clients think? You must take better caaaaaaare of yourself.”
“Yes, Madrina.”
Her godmother patted her cheek gently, then rose from the couch, sauntering across the living room and down the hallway to her bedroom suite, leaving Bella alone.
I NEED AIR.
Nico stepped onto the elevator, staring at the panel of buttons for a second before deciding to try his luck with the roof instead of the lobby. Certainly, in the lobby, there’d be more American heiresses with visions of tiaras on their heads, far more in love with the idea of marrying a prince than actually getting to know him.
He watched the numbers over the door light up, going higher and higher. With any luck, there’d be a door that led to the roof on the thirty-third floor, and he’d have a few minutes of quiet before retiring to bed. Alone.
A bell dinged on his arrival at the top floor, and he exited the elevator onto a dimly lit, quiet lobby. Directly across from him was a long, gilt-framed mirror, and he stared at his reflection as the chrome doors closed behind him.
He hated what was happening to Tina downstairs, having to put on a happy face and pretend she was fine with marrying an American businessman she barely knew and didn’t love. But having a child out of wedlock, while normale for most other twentysomethings in Europe, was absolutely unthinkable for most European royalty.
Unless you lived in Monaco, he thought with a grimace.
Tina’s fiancé, Steve Trainor, whom Nico had only met for the first time tonight, was someone their father had suggested as a suitor. Fifteen years older than Tina, and richer than Midas, he owned one of the largest shipping companies in America. A forty-one year old bachelor with impeccable style, rumors about his sexuality had plagued him for the past decade. Marrying Tina would solve two big problems for Steve: one, it would upgrade his landside connections in Genoa, Italy, the second-largest shipping port in the country, but two, it would put to rest whispers of Steve’s homosexuality, something that had apparently bothered him for years.
But the casualty of this arrangement would certainly be Tina.
With such a huge age gap and no promise of compatibility, she would be bound in marriage to someone she didn’t know and couldn’t love. But she’d be paid well for it: a generous allowance while they were married and a fifty million dollar settlement at the end of ten years. One of Steve’s major conditions had been Tina’s promise to remain married to him for a decade...which meant that Tina, his beloved twin, would be trapped with Steve until she was in her late-thirties—all so that the De’Medici name wouldn’t have the public blight of a bastard, and money to refill its coffers. It simply seemed too high a price for one person to pay. But Tina had adamantly refused to share the name of her lover, which had left Nico’s hands tied, unable to help her.
He closed his eyes and sighed, turning away from the mirror and starting left down the hallway. He saw a nondescript door at the end with a sign that read, “Roof Access. Hotel Personnel Only.”
To hell with that. He felt in his pocket for his Swiss army knife. If he had to, he’d pick the lock for a few minutes of fresh air and solitude.
But as luck would have it, he didn’t have to pick anything. As he approached, he could see that there was something lodged in the door, holding it open. Looking closely, he realized that it was a comb. A black plastic hair comb. He plucked it from its spot, carefully replacing it as soon as he was on the other side and wondering who’d put it there. The face of the beautiful hair stylist from earlier tonight flitted through his mind.
Bella Capelli.
Although he’d been seeking quiet, he certainly wouldn’t mind running into her again. She’d been an oasis of calm in an otherwise chaotic evening, agreeing to help him and speaking his native language with her charming, country accent. Even joking with him about meeting royalty one day, there was still nothing wheedling or conniving about her. She was a figurative breath of fresh air, and Nico, unable to stop thinking about her for the remainder of the evening, found himself longing for more, no matter how ill advised.
Taking the dingy stairs two at a time, he opened the door to the roof and stepped outside, careful not to let the door slam shut behind him.
He wasn’t surprised to find that there was no pool or bar on this rooftop—it was a functional space with air conditioning vents and satellite dishes mounted along a low balustrade made of cement. It had been paved, however, and was well maintained, and as Nico turned to the left, rounding the stairway, he saw a lone woman several yards away sitting at a picnic table, her elbows propped up and the white light of a cell phone screen backlighting her head.
“Hello!” he called out, not wanting to frighten her with his sudden presence.
She whipped her head around, several feet of long black hair swishing to the side. “Who’s there?”
“I’m a hotel guest,” he said, approaching slowly, coming into the moonlight as he moved away from the stairway. “It’s...Bella, right?”
She nodded.
“I’m Nico De’Medici. Remember? We met earlier.”
Her shoulders, which he realized had been up around her ears, relaxed, and she nodded again. “Of course. Buona notte, signor.”
“Buona notte, signorina,” he said, dropping a glance to her cell phone. “I’m interrupting you.”
“You are,” she said, but she softened the words by grinning up at him as she placed the phone on the table. “But I don’t mind.”
He felt his smile swell before he could stop it. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, offering him a small, sweet smile of her own, “and you’ve found my secret hiding place, though hotel guests are really not allowed up here.”
“If you don’t tell, I won’t.” He gestured to the rickety table. “May I join you?”
“Of course,” she said, opening her palm to indicate that the bench across from her was free.
Unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket, he shrugged out of it, laying it across the wooden bench before sitting down. As he reached for his left cuff link, removing it to roll up his sleeve, he looked at her. “It’s good to see you again, Bella Capelli.”
If it wasn’t so dark, he was sure he would have seen her blush.
“How is your sister?” she asked. “Valentina?”
Nico’s smile faded as he placed the second cuff link on the table and rolled up his right sleeve. “Bearing up.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Go for it,” he said, propping his elbows on the table.
“Why is she marrying someone she doesn’t love?”
He clenched his jaw reflexively. “Did she say that?”
Bella nodded. “She did. Well, actually she said that she doesn’t know him...and she looked—well, honestly—miserable. I’m just—I guess I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“There’s only one reason to marry,” she said simply.
“And that is...?”
“Love,” she said, holding his eyes so earnestly, his heart clutched. She was so guileless, so sincere and straightforward, he wished he could see the world through her brown eyes instead of his own far-more-jaded blue.
“That is the best reason,” he said gently. Somewhat reluctant to shatter her romantic notions about marriage, he offered her a sad smile to cushion the blow of his next words. “But there are other reasons, of course.”
“How can there be? Pledging to love, honor, and cherish someone would be so much easier if it was actually true.”
Nico leaned back a little. It wasn’t his nature to talk about his sister to someone he barely knew. In fact, most of their lives, he and Tina had been counseled not to ever talk about personal matters with someone whose loyalty hadn’t been trusted and found strong.
But this girl, sitting in the moonlight with her dark hair and gentle questions, seemed so genuine, he couldn’t help unburdening himself.
“Lei é incinta,” he said softly. “The baby’s coming this winter.”
“Oh,” murmured Bella, her delectable lips open in a perfect O. “Oh, I see. An...unplanned pregnancy. They didn’t mean to—”
“Her fiancé isn’t the father.”
“Oh!”
If her eyes got any wider, they’d take up her whole face, he thought, his lips twitching in unexpected merriment.
“Why...um, I mean, that is—why isn’t she marrying the baby’s father?”
Nico’s mood instantly soured. “She would be...if she’d tell me who it was.”
Bella winced, then nodded. “She’s keeping him a secret? Do you have any idea who it might be?”
Sighing, he shook his head. “Tina’s an independent woman. Her own job. Her own apartment. Her own friends. She works in Rome. I love her, but I don’t see her that often. She came home when she found out she was in trouble.”
“You’re Catholic?”
He nodded. “Very.”
She held his eyes, but he could almost feel the gears in her head shifting and whirring; he knew that she was thinking carefully about the situation, and somehow he knew that she was trying to find the good in it. When her lips tipped up and her eyes brightened, he held his breath.
“Then she is marrying for love, after all,” said Bella, reaching across the table to take his hands in hers.
“What do you mean?” he asked, letting her delicate fingers wrap around his hands and hold them.
Her smile grew, and she squeezed his fingers. “For the love of her child.”
For the love of her child.
It was so simple, yet so enormous.
So obvious, yet so pure.
Tina could have quietly gotten rid of the child, of course, but she’d chosen not to. She’d chosen to have it. She’d chosen to marry someone she barely knew so that her child would have a name and respectability. Bella was right. Tina was marrying for love.
Tears pricked his eyes, and he blinked them, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth as he adjusted his fingers to lace through hers. When his lungs started burning, he took a deep breath, then released it, feeling less in knots than he’d felt for three weeks.
“Where did you come from?” he asked softly, thinking, From heaven.
“Ticino,” she answered, cocking her head to the side and grinning at him.
“Let me take you out for dinner tomorrow night.”
Looking down at their hands as though she’d just realized they were clasped together, she pulled hers away and folded them on the edge of the table, just in front of her breasts. It was a defensive move, and he didn’t like it.
“I work very late hours on Saturday.”
“Sunday then?”
She shook her head. “I reconcile the books on Sunday nights.”
“Monday.”
“I deep clean the salon and spa.”
“Tuesday?”
“Work.”
“Wednesday, then.”
“I take a class at City College,” she said, swinging her legs over the bench as though preparing to leave.
“Thursday?” he cried, standing from his seat.
She stood as well, then turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’m busy,” she said, her wistful smile filled with such quiet longing, it tightened his chest and hurt his heart.
Why did she have to work so hard? Weren’t there maids here at the hotel to deep clean the facilities? Why was she stuck doing it?
Was it just an excuse so that she didn’t have to go out with him?
No. He didn’t believe that. They had just enjoyed talking to one another. He was certain of it.
Besides, his debt to her was mounting: first, she’d come to Tina’s rescue earlier, and now, she’d somehow found the perfect way to comfort him about his sister’s marriage.
And yet, while she was so busy being his savior, he sensed that her life—full of work without a moment for fun—wasn’t at all what she wanted and certainly wasn’t at all what she deserved.
She lifted her arm and swept it from one side of her body to the other. “Aren’t the lights magnificent?”
Nico glanced over his shoulder. It looked like every other major city at night—no different, no better.
“Someday,” she said. “Someday I’m going to get to see this big city.”
“Friday?” he murmured urgently. “Please.”
“I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath and smiled gently at him. “Good night, Nico De’Medici. Buona notte.”
He watched her turn and walk away, wondering if he should try to stop her, then deciding against it. He’d figure out another way to see her.
“Good night, Bella,” he called to her back, missing her already. “Buona notte, dolce angelo.”
Good night, sweet angel.
HOW TEMPTED SHE’D BEEN to say yes to handsome Nico last night in the moonlight, but Madame Gothel strictly forbade Bella to date hotel guests. It was the first and most important of her godmother’s many rules, and Bella simply didn’t have the courage to break it. Not for a man who’d be gone in a week.
Before he’d interrupted her, she’d been looking at pictures of her parents in their vineyard, at their restaurant, on vacation in Milan, Florence, and Rome. She’d been feeling very melancholy, in fact, before he’d arrived. He had no idea how much his company had been needed and how much his invitation to dinner flattered her. She had no idea what he did for a living, though he had the polished look of a banker or lawyer and was staying on the most expensive floor of the hotel.
What fun we could have for a week, she thought longingly but banished the idea quickly. And then what? If Madame found out, she’d throw Bella out of the hotel. Penniless. Homeless. Heartbroken. Alone. It wasn’t worth it, no matter how handsome or funny or caring Nico was. He’d be gone, and she’d be left behind.
“Bellllla!” exclaimed Madame, click-clacking through the reception area. “Your head is in the clouds today! Look lively, girl. Someone’s coming.”
Bella had been slouching on the desk, a mix of tired and dreamy, but now she sat up straight, fixing a smile on her face for...for...Valentina De’Medici.
Dressed in ankle-length skinny black pants, a black-and-white shell, and a tiny, trendy black blazer, with a Kate Spade purse and her blonde hair held back by Gucci sunglasses, she was the very picture of modern sophistication.
“Hello,” said Bella, blinking in surprise at their unexpected guest. “Welcome, Miss De’Medici.”
“De’Medici?” repeated Madame. “Not...Valentina De’Medici?”
“Sí,” said Valentina with an arrogant shrug of her shoulders.
“Oh!” cried Madame, pressing a palm to her heart. “Oh, your Serene Highness! What an honor. May I congratulate you on your upcoming wedding? My goodness. How may we be of service?”
Bella’s mouth dropped open as she stared at Valentina in shock.
Serene Highness?
A...princess?
Wait. A. Minute.
Her eyes widened in dismay as she recalled scoffing when Valentina asked for “hair for a princess.” Was this true? And, Oh. My. God. If she was a princess, than her brother was a...a...
“Wouldn’t that be something? To meet a real Medici or Borghese?”
“Think so?”
“The Italian nobility isn’t nearly as famous as the British, of course. I mean, I could pick William or Harry out of a crowd, but plop an Italian prince in front of me and I’d have no idea.”
She supposed that a black hole opening in the floor of the Innsbruck Salon and Spa and swallowing her whole was unlikely, but Dio, she’d never wished for anything more.
“Thees stylist girl,” said Valentina, gesturing to Bella with a dismissive flick of her hand. “She deed my hair last night. Last minute. Now she comes to have lunch with me. Subito.”
Madame’s head jerked to face her goddaughter, her eyes wide. “Is this true? Were you of service to the De’Medicis last night, Bella?”
“Tina—that is, the princess, um, Princess Valentina—her royal...um...”
“Serene Highness,” supplied Valentina, keeping a hand on her jutted hip and looking at neither Madame nor Bella, just posed as though the paparazzi would be arriving momentarily, and she’d be ready.
“She needed a last-minute updo!” finished Bella frantically. “And no one else was here.”
“Yes. Yes,” said Valentina, sighing. “We are feenished talking. She comes with me to have lunch. Subito. Andiamo.”
Bella looked at Madame, shrugging her shoulders and cringing as Madame fluttered her fingers around her throat. “B-But your Serene Highness, Bella has clients to—”
“I don’t care about thees,” said Valentina, looking at Madame like she was a flea on a junkyard dog. “She will be back later. Ciao, signora.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Bella must join you for lunch. I am so sorry I questioned you.” She turned to Bella with a wavering smile, whisking her hands at her goddaughter. “Bella? Why are you standing there? Her Serene Highness has invited you to lunch. Andiamo! Subito!”
Bella scurried from behind the desk, smoothing the sides of her intricate braid and tucking her crisp, white, button-down blouse into the waistband of her pink-and-white toile pencil skirt.
Following Valentina into the elevator, she turned to the princess—princess!—as soon as the doors closed.
“Princess Valentina, I had no idea who you were yesterday. You must allow me to apologize for—”
Valentina groaned and waved her away with another bored flick of her hand, then opened her purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to Bella.
On the front it read, in black script letters,
His Serene Highness Nicolo Alessandro Lorenzo Giovanni De’Medici
Her heart skipped a beat as she flipped it over to read,
The boathouse in Central Park 12:00.—Nico
“Your lunch ees with him, not me,” she said, lowering her sunglasses, but damn if Bella didn’t catch the slight tilt of her lips as she said it. “My brother talks about you all morning until I keel him or I go get you.” She shrugged. “He ees my twin. I decide to let him leeve.”
Bella’s cheeks were aching from the width of her smile as she clutched the stiff white card in her hand. She chuckled softly. “Grazie, Valentina.”
“Prego, Bella. Ciao,” she said, striding out of the elevator and across the marble lobby without glancing back.
And Bella, who rarely left the New York Metro Tower Hotel at all, let alone for something as fun as a lunch date with a handsome prince, sailed through the lobby behind her, hailed a cab, and asked to be taken to the boathouse.