Time moved forward regardless, and the scent was only going to increase after my father “requested” a meeting with me at my villa in Maranello, which Matteo and Stella were to attend. It was an odd request. Most business meetings were held at my father’s place in Lucca. Even odder, Rosaria was requested to be present as well.
Scarlett and Brando’s youngest son, Maestro, arrived with my father. Rosaria stood at the top of the staircase and stared down at us. After Maestro waved to her, she turned and left. After I greeted my father, I squeezed Maestro’s shoulder, and he went in search of the piano while we prepared for business. Maestro was a gifted musician and composer. He would make a name for himself in that world someday. He was even interested in becoming a conductor.
My father’s eyes hadn’t moved from the staircase. The spot where Rosaria had been empty and dark.
“Gelido,” he almost whispered to the spot his eyes were frozen on. I had missed the first part of his comment, but I believe he had said the area where Rosaria had been standing had grown cold. He turned to me directly after, ripping his eyes away. “We will have two additional guests at this meeting.”
I did not narrow my eyes at his statement or question it, a deeply embedded instinct to follow the leader stopping me, but I felt the oddness of this all.
A few minutes later, my nephew and his wife arrived with their son, Luca, named after my father. He smiled at me, his stormy blue eyes taking in my face. I touched his chin, and his smile seemed to widen.
My nephew and his wife parted, revealing the two new guests behind them: a woman around my age with a leather purse across her body and a child sitting on her hip. The child was around the same age as Luca. He was a smaller version of my son. Of me. The woman stepped inside, attempting to be brave. Her unsure eyes and the too-firm set of her lip gave her unease away.
The woman nodded at me. “SignoreFausti,” she said in a prim and proper voice.
“Clairee De Bourbon,” my father said, giving me the woman’s name. “My son, Rocco Fausti.”
“I am charmed,” I said.
“Nice to meet you,” Clairee said with a cut and dry tone.
“This is not business,” my father said. “This is personal. We will discuss this at the dining table.”
Stella did not usually bother herself with our business, and since this was not, she was including herself in this personal issue. Fixing my suit, I followed behind my father, Matteo and his family followed behind me, and the woman and the child followed last.
My father reached the dining room first, and as if on cue, Rosaria stepped out of the shadows and stepped next me. Her face was void of any expression, though I knew she and the woman’s eyes had met. I had caught the slight grin on thewoman’s face. It was not a grin of pleasure, but one a person would wear while handing out retribution.
Matteo held the chair for his wife, and I held the chair for Clairee. No one held out Rosaria’s chair. She wanted a man’s position. As she wished. She did not outwardly show or speak her displeasure, but her hands balled into fists.
Papà tapped his finger against the table, leaving us in suspense, until he cleared his throat. He nodded toward the child in Clairee’s arms. “He is Massimo’s son. Rocco’s grandson. My great-grandson. Michelangelo Rembrandt Fausti.”
Rosaria sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes on Michelangelo. Michelangelo stared at me, his eyes wide, but not afraid. More curious.
“Chloe’s mamma would like to explain the rest.” Papà nodded at Clairee.
She sat up straighter and reached into her purse, removing a folded piece of paper. She read from it a message from Chloe. It explained that before her wedding, and after Massimo had killed the man she was to marry, she and Massimo had been together. Her heart’s decision to separate was made of stone, but her flesh had been weak. She could not control her hands, as Michelangelo could not when he created one of his masterpieces. Michelangelo Rembrandt Fausti was she and my son’s masterpiece come to life.
“Give him to me,” Rosaria interrupted, about to stand. “He belongs here. He will be raised in this life. It is his birthright.”
“Not so fast, Rosario,” Clairee said purposely mispronouncing—or not—Rosaria’s name. “Let me finish the letter my daughter wrote. That’s the least you can do, seeing as you are the ruination of her life.” The woman started reading before Rosaria could speak another word.
“Rosaria Caffi will never touch my son. She will never dim his light as she dimmed the light between Massimo and me. That’s why I’m writing this letter. I may not be sound of heart, but I am of sound mind when I express these wishes.
“Michelangelo Rembrandt Fausti will live with Luca andMaggie Beautiful, and maybe Matteo and Stella Fausti can help whenever they can. Our son will be raised in the Fausti way, since I am not a part of this family and never wish to be. But it is his birthright, and I don’t want to take from him what has already been stolen. My mom and I could raise him together, but I don’t think we’ll be enough in time. If he stumbles on his family in Italy at some point in his life, I refuse to allow it to be Rosaria Caffi who causes his fall.”
“I am sorry,Signore Fausti,” Clairee repeated the last lines of the letter, looking directly at me as she did. She had purposefully enunciatedSignore Fausti, as if in speaking for Chloe, she did not even want to make a mistake through her heartfelt letter. Rosaria had made her daughter feel as if she was not worthy when she had called me “Mr.” during the engagement party.
Rosaria shot up from her chair. “Give him to me!” she ordered Clairee.
“Sit down, Rosaria,” my father ordered. He did not scream, but the threat underneath his command was there.
Rosaria slowly got to her seat, her fists balling underneath the table this time. She turned her eyes on me. I kept mine on my grandson. Suddenly, my arms felt empty. When he started to cry, his eyes overflowing with tears, but not screaming out, Clairee attempted to console him by bouncing him on her knee. When that did not work, she asked me if I would like to take him.
“Sì,” I said, going to him. He came right into my arms as if he had been a part of my chest all along. After the remaining tears fell, he was content, splaying his hands on the table and looking around it. When his eyes met Luca’s, hiscugino, Luca assumed the same position and started to make anah, ah, ahnoise, which Michelangelo started to mimic.
Rosaria seemed satisfied. As if I would defy Chloe’s wishes in return for hers. She sat up taller, as if she had a bargaining chip in her arms. She looked at my father. “What does this mean for Michelangelo’s future? If he lives with you? Matteo? Does thatmean he becomes a son of their blood? Will he be second in line to lead?”
This question made Stella’s eyes narrow. She was going to speak up, but before she could, her husband seemed to give her hand a light squeeze. I could not help but look at them and feel awe at the way fate played her hand. Rosaria had attempted to arrange Massimo’s marriage to Ornella. He met Chloe, and his one heart had found a home. My nephew found his star, his Stella, in the underground darkness of the Nemours’ dance scene. She rose above it, finding her place in my nephew’s darkness instead, and then she became the star my wife had wished for our son to marry. Stella had become an actress, performing in Italian-based pictures.
