“How many places like this one?”
“Five others.”
“Huh.” Why five? If each place was made for a son, Luca had four, not five. I didn’t inquire though. I gazed at the cottage and the stars blazing beyond it. If it wouldn’t have been attached to the beast’s lair, and under different circumstances, I would have found it charming. Almost enchanting.
Vincenzo glanced at me from the rear-view mirror. “He was an infant when he died.”
He must have read the question that had formed behind my eyes but never made it to my mouth:Luca had a son who died?
He nodded. “He would have been the oldest. Italo was his name.”
“What happened to him?” My voice came out soft.
“The woman—” He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “She had a, ah, stroke, after the birth. The baby fell out of her arms. Both mother and child were lost at once.”
“Oh.” I sniffed, suddenly overcome with sadness.
Since the car had stopped, I unlatched Mia, bringing her against my chest to feel her heartbeat next to mine. She was warm, smelling of milk and lavender, and a subtle undercurrent of vanilla. Each breath that she took came out nice and easy.
“He did not love the mother of the child. Still, he grieved for Italo. He still does.” Vincenzo stared at the cottage, seeing things I didn’t even want to imagine. “He is not as bad as you think.”
I scoffed.Says one really bad guy about another.
“Toward women and children,” he amended. “Marzio brought his sons up to respect women. Without a woman where would we be? We would not have our children. Our women are the beats of our hearts, the blood in our veins. They go down to the marrow of our bones. A womb was once a man’s home. A woman should be respected and revered. Any man who hits a woman is no man. He should be taken out to a field and bled dry. Children are the highest blessing from God. Marzio taught his sons to be respectful men.”
“He did,” I agreed, resting my cheek against Mia’s head. “Vincenzo. Has Luca ever hit you?”
His eyes slowly moved to meet mine. “I am a man,” he said simply.
“Yes. You are. But—if you had a son, would you want him in this life? Would you want your life for him?”
He became still, as still as a leaf on an extending branch that has no breeze to give it life. He stared at Mia through the mirror, almost transfixed by her innocence. Her beauty.
At last, he sighed. “Let us get ourpappagallopiccolointo the villa. It is cold out.”
* * *
If the outside of the villa was a fairytale, the inside matched. It was impeccably decorated.
The walls were done in pale colors, and those that weren’t came alive with ancient frescoes. Details were mostly done in gold, even down to the bannisters connecting one floor to another. Ceilings were coffered, and if not, streamlined with antique wooden beams. Some in shades that were a light oak, others in dark mahogany.
Original terracotta floors stretched throughout, gorgeous in their originality, but as cold as a midwinter’s night. Fireplaces that were fitting to a period long past were still where they had originally been placed.
Chandeliers graced almost every room, sconces still held wax candles, and the dining room had an old wood-burning stove, complete with metal skewer and bucket. It gave me a pang when I saw it. It was a replica of ours.
The furnishings were brand-new but done in an old-world style. The bathrooms were all marble and hand-painted tile.
From what I could see out of the many windows, stones made a trail around the place, leading out to a rose garden, a vegetable garden that had gone to ruins, and to the road that led us here.
Beyond that, Vincio di Brandeglio Valley rose out of the darkness, rolling on for miles and miles. With the new day, light would take the monstrous shapes and make them mundane.
Cold air from outside clashed with the fire-warmed air inside, and condensation pooled on some of the windows, running down the panes. The reflection of the fire in the background raged crimson and orange against the silver fog outside.
The place smelled dank. It was apparent that it hadn’t been occupied in some time. If at all. I could imagine protective coverings being removed from all of the furnishings, dust moats dancing in the golden Tuscan light, looking for other places to cling to after being evicted from their homes.
Other smells danced in the air too; the fresh scent of autumn, about to be booted out by winter. Wood burning in fireplaces, their ashes drifting out of chimneys, roasting chestnuts, rich and sweet, and cinnamon, a stroke of spice. A subtle drift of lemon—from wood polish? Or real lemons taken from a garden to perfume the air? And the fresh scent of clean linen.
Mia moved her face back and forth against my chest, her hands moving up to touch my face.
