He rifled through the leaves and mud with the branch, catching Jet’s attention. He poked the wood at her playfully, muttering, “meriggiare,” which meant,to escape the heat of the midday sun by resting in the shade. She attacked before stalking a moth flittering in and out of the grass.
“I must apologize,” he said suddenly. “For what transpired on the island in Greece. It was Ettore who arranged the meeting and the terms. I was drawn out by the description of you Nemours gave to us. An old man such as myself believes he has seen it all, so when an opportunity arises that he may see what is new, he takes it. Also, you are family; it was important to see the kind of woman my grandson took as his bride. You represent our family now, the Fausti name.” He sighed, long and hard. “I must also confess that it was a blessing that I was there. If not—” he shrugged and looked at me with tender eyes “—I am not sure we would be here today. Your husband would not be alive.”
He didn’t have to spell it out. He was there to stop them from doing me any more harm, and in turn, from Brando dying to protect me. It didn’t matter that I was his niece, or it would kill his nephew, Ettore saw me as a business decision and his nephew as a threat to the throne.
“I love my children,” he said fiercely. “That does not mean that I like their ways. Two of them are condensed ruthlessness, without the substance of understanding and love to even out their makeup. Lucious understands passion more than Ettore, but love? They believe it always comes at a price. That is not to say that I have not made plenty of mistakes, but I am old now, and I see truths that were hidden from young eyes.”
Underneath the lemon heaven, the air held the citrusy scent, along with the tender harmony of honeysuckle. A few bees buzzed around, as well as other small flying bugs bewitched by the shade and the seductive aromas. The old man kept me to his side, and we took a seat on the bench, the iron hot against bare legs.
Kicking my heels off to the side, I set my feet in the grass, enjoying the feel of the warm earth beneath. Marzio followed, kicking off shoes and socks, sighing at the feel of it. My husband’s feet were a reflection of his, only younger.
From this area of the land, the farmhouse and all that surrounded it was visible, a lookout over our small slice of paradise on earth. Though we were a distance away, I knew Brando could still see me, so I lifted my hand in greeting.I’m all right. He didn’t respond. Still, I knew he caught the gesture.
Marzio gazed through space and time, eyes falling lovingly on the villa. Music (the appropriate music that I had planned) was borne on the breeze, like a romantic perfume. He seemed drawn to it.
I touched his still muscular arm, but his stare stood firm. “Did you really know him?” I asked softly. “The man singing?”
During my time with Lola and Rosaria, I questioned them endlessly, gleaning enough information to write a juicy novel. I liked to call it, “A Handbook to Charming Your Husband’s Grandfather, Who Also Happened to be the Godfather Equivalent of a Powerful Crime Family.”
“Ah.” He opened his mouth to speak but closed it. “Sì,” he said finally. “He sang at our wedding.”
“To Grazia.”
Grazia Angeli was Brando’s grandmother. She had been one of the most famous actresses in Italy during her time. She had died of cancer in the midst of her beautiful years. This left Marzio a widower with five sons and no mother to look after them.
“My only wedding,” he whispered. “You must know this place belonged to herfamiglia. You purchased the place from her brother, Silvio. He is getting too old to take care of the many places they own. He is the last living descendant, apart from my children. He refused to sell to them. He fell in love with the idea of a young couple buying the place, and then the vision of a ballerina dancing along her floors.”
He brought my hand to his mouth, placing a kiss there.
“When most of Italy heads to the water, Grazia’s family would summer here.” His eyes, the color of seafoam, glossed over and became hooded. “I courted her here.”
“Would you sneak below the lemon trees with her for a dance, or perhaps to steal a kiss?” I smiled. The old man was still quite romantic.
“More than a kiss,” he whispered. “We came togetherinnamorato.”In love.
Finally, he turned to me.
“My sister and Rosaria have schooled you. You are much better at this game than most would give you credit for. You may not realize the depth of temptation your innocence provokes, but you understand the power enough. Are you sure you are notItaliano?”
“Yes.” I laughed, almost shyly, shaking my head.
“Ah, well.” He waved a hand. “You are Catholic,sì?”
“Sì.”
“May I ask you something,dolce gatinno?”
“Of course.”
“Do you truly believe me a misguided angel?”
His question took me off guard. It triggered something. What, I wasn’t too sure—a lost thought, or a familiar memory?
Even at his age, he’s still beautiful…strong profile, strong features, able body, and gorgeous eyes. The power can’t be contained to his body. It emanates from him, like the heat from the sun against water.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I do.”
He opened his palm to me, showcasing every line, almost like a roadmap to the travels of his years, sending me directly to the memories he kept close to the heart. “These hands have done much in this life. I have cut the heart out of a man's chest. Watched as it beat in my palm until the very last second. This same hand has caressed many women into love. No woman as special as my wife. Her love was worth warring for, dying for.”
