I spritzed some of the perfume Brando had given to me on each pressure point—behind ears, neck, and wrists. I would have sprayed it behind my knees and on my inner thighs, but not with Rocco looking on. He seemed hypnotized by my movements, so I stopped, meeting his eye.
He cleared his throat. “I hate to see you go alone today,bella. Shall I accompany you?”
I smiled, the best one I could manage. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be alone. My parents are coming. The barracuda and her family too.”
Rocco laughed at this, sliding his thumb against his bottom lip. “Is she wearing Gucci today?”
“Surely. She probably turned in some poor sap for their newest handbag. Or she’s wearing one of my mother’s designs—same here.”
Rocco tilted his head, a searching look in his eyes. “I see it now. Perhaps because I did not connect the two before, I could not. You and Monica. You shall see. The resemblance is not astounding, but it is there, nonetheless. In the eyes, I think. In the lips as well.”
“Huh,” I said, turning to study my reflection in the mirror. Would I be able to see it?
The door had been left wide open, and Brando walked in, glancing between the two of us. Not a word was uttered, but none had to be. His displeasure was written all over his face.
Rocco wished us both good luck and then shut the door behind him with a soft click. Brando readied himself without a word to me, and me to him, but I hoped the gratefulness that I felt scented the air, like the perfume.
As he drove us along the Tuscan roads, he was as cold and as quiet as he had been.
I studied him from the side of my eye. He left his hair dry, no product in it. The gorgeous strands waved above his head—his sideburns, mustache, and the stubble on his chin outlined his fierce bone structure, making him seem that much more chiseled.
He had dressed in a gray cardigan over a white button-down shirt, black tie tucked in between the thin sweater and shirt, slacks, and leather boots. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. The new ring on his little finger glinted in the sun.
His veins strained with the tightness of his hands around the wheel. His cologne filled the interior of the Maserati and swayed with the more subtle scent of mine.
I fiddled some more with my dress and then ran a finger over the aubergine paint on my fingernails. Violet had made sure my toes matched. I turned the intricate bracelet that Brando had given me around my wrist, and then turned the wedding band around the third finger on my right hand untilit almost made me feel lightheaded.
“Stop,” he said, putting his hand on top of mine. “Sei bellissima.Ah.”He thought for a moment.“Fai quel colore ancora più splendido. Viola è il tuo colore. Ma ti sembra bello in qualsiasi cosa.”You look beautiful. You make that color even more gorgeous. Purple is your color. But you look beautiful in anything.
He started naming off colors. Pink, blue, gold, white, black…
“Grazie, mio marito,”I said softly, leaning toward him, covering his hand with my free one. “Will you—hold my hand? Until we get there?”
“Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean that I stop caring or loving you,” he continued in Italian. “I will hold your hand as long as you need me to. Or want me to.”
“Ti vorrò sempre,” I said so low that I doubted he even heard me.I will always want you.
His thumb stroked my skin. I knew that he had.
He refused to look at me, though, or to do more than what he was doing. I leaned back in the seat, enjoying the view and the golden sun streaming through the windows.
The drive from Siena to Perugia was just over an hour. The medieval town was known for its thirteenth-century art, its defensive wall, and its historic center that boastedFontana Maggiore, a marble fountain decorated with biblical scenes and carvings with the stars in mind—these to do with zodiac signs.
Right outside of the city’s limits,Castello di Ballerini, the castle that my grandfather grew up in, waited for us.
I leaned forward as we drove up the winding drive, excited to see the ancient castle. It didn’t take long for it to spring into view, like an Italian cypress from the hillside. It was clearly as old as Perugia’s art, but fully restored to as close to its roots as possible.
Courtyards, terraces, rose gardens…a castle fit for aprincipessa.
I wondered if the history of the place could create a book. If I were to judge by looks alone, yes, it certainly could. Old surrounds you in the new, and something well beyond our own time lived here. It might have felt cliché, but it didn’t. I felt welcomed, as though my soul had been here before.
I wondered if Maja had ever come to the castle? Did I stand where she once had? Where she and Matteo had walked, enjoying the courtyards during a day like this one—bulbous with sun and heat, a sweet smell sweeping off the grounds from the light breeze—or enjoying one of the terraces during romantic nights, when the sky became velvet and the stars were out? Did he take her for a stroll through the rose gardens? Through a perfume-laced evening, creating a bouquet of her favorite flowers, scarlet colored and full ofpassione.
Matteo had mentioned that in one of his infamous letters. Scarlet roses had made her passionate, for food, for life, for him.
Brando opened the door for me, giving me his hand to help me from the car. I sighed, and what felt like a barrel full of nerves rolled with me as heel met gravel and I stood on trembling legs.
“Che cos’è?”What is it?
