Perhaps life was unfolding as it was because Rosaria had attempted to control it as well.
My father studied Rosaria as he tapped his fingers against the table. “What this means, Rosaria Caffi, is that you are no longer a part of this meeting. Your part in this scene of the story has come to an end.” He nodded toward the door, dismissing her.
It was not that my father disliked Rosaria. He had respect for her drive. Her fierce nature. Even her passion when it came to our family. However, my father had seen men become possessed with control. He was seeing it in Rosaria. The need for control controlled her.
She stood slowly from her spot, setting her hands on the table as our grandson had, before she took her leave. It seemed as if all the tension in the room left with her. The two women sitting at the table relaxed. Even the men. If it was a man standing against us, it would not matter, but a woman was a different creature altogether.
As Michelangelo kept quiet in my arms, content, we discussed the situation. Clairee explained that her daughter was of sound mind when she wrote the letter, but she was not sound emotionally.
“I can’t tell you how hard this is.” Clairee took a deep breath. “My daughter cries tears of blood, and her son cries, and no one can console him. This is the first time I’ve seen him content since we brought him home.”
I nodded. “We will take care of him.” I fixed his dark hair.
Michelangelo looked up at me and smiled.
I grinned at him, touching his chin.
Handing him to Matteo, I felt as anguished as if I had lost my second heart to a wasteful situation. However, this was what made a king a king, separating him from the rest of the monarchy. Thefamigliacame first, as those we love came first. We do what we must for their best interests.
Michelangelo narrowed his eyes at me when he was settled into Matteo’s arms. But he did not cry. He stared at me, and I nodded to him, a silent vow between the two of us. I would be around. He was not alone.
Luca, the namesake of my father’s, made a noise at him, and Michelangelo turned away from me, getting to know thecuginothat he would one day consider hisfratello.
Clairee had stood from her seat, and she set her hand on my arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Chloe knew she could trust you with her baby.”
Matteo and his wife stood after my father did. Stella set her arm on mine before she left. “If anything changes…he’s their son,” she whispered. “We’ll always remember that, but we’re honored Chloe included us to care for Michelangelo.”
My father squeezed my shoulder before he left.
I stared at the empty seat where my first-born son had once sat, where my first-born grandson had just sat, until the light dimmed, and darkness cast itself upon me.
Chapter 4
Rage that is Contained is Bad for the Health
The villa in Maranello was dark except for swaying candlelight and the red hue of fireplaces blazing, scenting the air with beeswax and toasting wood. Underneath it all, I smelled the richness of Rosaria’s perfume. Perhaps we had not built this place with our own two hands, but it was the place we had made our bed and lain in it—even if we were not alone.
I had made the most of the loneliness, and she had made the most of whatever was left of me. Those times were gone. Dead and shriveled. What we were left with was an emptiness that could not be filled, not even as the ornate furniture filled this palatial villa. I would not grieve for them, and neither would she. Neither of us were built in that fashion. On the outside, we were both made of stone, but on the inside, we were whiting and linseed oil. Easily manipulated by the Faustifamiglia,but able to recover without much fanfare.
Removing the jacket from my shoulders, resting it over my arm, I stopped in the grand entrance and took a deep breath, sensing the atmosphere.
The villa was as silent as a dead city. Not even my footfalls echoed. The air was cold, not even the fires heating it. I wasimmune to the temperature, but the air seemed to be filled with a haze—a haze from the warmth of the fires and the chill in the air battling for control.
The chill was, so far, the victor.
From the rooms where the fires raged on, shadows danced along the walls and spilled out on the floors in red and black shapes.
Cool air seemed to drift past me, and in it, I caught the scent of Monica lingering on my clothes and skin. The taste of her was still on my tongue. Her voice echoed inside of my memories, a whisper ending our intimate relationship. She was still chasing a ghost from long ago and was becoming tired of filling the emptiness with the wrong men. She would love me as a dear friend, speak to me, but that aspect of our relationship had finally come to an end. She had come face to face with mortality, and she decided not to live a lie any longer.
My father was not hers, and she was not his.
The truth had finally set her free.
This was what I had advised her all along. This was why the Fausti family believed in it. Was able to create a term from it and repeat it as a vow.La mia parola è buona come il mio sangue.
Monica had suggested I take my own advice. But as my father did not understand, neither did she. Rosaria and I were twisted in a life we could not unravel. Even though we could no longer understand each other, we both remembered the time when we had. Those memories were fumes that kept us barely going.
I would miss the long nights in Monica’s bed. However, she was not mine to fight for, in terms of her love, and I was not hers. We both had understood this and used each other to fill the emptiness. There were times we would almost destroy each other’s bodies to get to something deeper that did not exist in each other, but we hungered nonetheless.
