"Good. Our world has been cruel enough to her as it is."
"Why? What happened? Is it something to do with her illness?"
Damiano's whole demeanor changes. His shoulders stiffen.
"It's not an illness, Violetta, not really. My mother suffered terrible injuries at the hands of my father. He beat her unconscious and left her for dead. She recovered but she's not the woman she was before."
"And your father?"
"You've heard the rumors?"
I nod. People have whispered about Damiano Volante killing his father from the moment he came to Florence.
"They're true," Damiano confirms. "But I didn't kill him to take his throne. I killed him so he could never hurt her again. I should have done it sooner."
The emotion in his voice is something I've never heard before, raw in a way that makes me feel almost guilty for witnessing it. Iunderstand now why he is the way he is. The control, the coldness, the refusal to show weakness. It’s because he learned young what happens when a man loses his grip on himself.
Rather than trying to soothe him with meaningless platitudes, I allow him to retreat.
The silence continues until the plane lands in Rome forty minutes later. On the tarmac there's another chauffeur-driven car waiting for us. Damiano and I get into the back and we're driven to a large villa in the hills to the north of the city. It's small compared to the palazzo but still a substantial dwelling. There are window boxes planted with colorful flowers and the shuttershave recently been painted. A cat sleeps on the front step. It’s an unexpectedly domestic scene.
As we get out of the car, a man strolls toward us. Damiano greets him with a hug then steps back to present me to him.
"Marco, this is my wife, Violetta."
"A pleasure to meet you." His brown eyes dance with mischief. He turns to Damiano. "I hope you don't intend to dump your girl here and leave her to find her own way home."
"What's this?" I ask.
Damiano rolls his eyes. "My asshole brother brought Lucia to meet our mother, got cold feet or something and walked out."
"Oh? But they're still together."
Marco laughs. "Yeah, young love is crazy." He sobers. "Your Mamma is in the garden. She's having a good day but she keeps bringing up Gabriele. Since Lorenzo visited she's been thinking about him more. She's convinced he's dead and we're hiding it from her."
Damiano nods. "We'll tread carefully."
"What you should do is storm that fortress Gabriele's locked himself away in and drag his sorry ass out here." Marco holds his hands up to pacify my husband, whose expression has become deadly. "You know I mean no disrespect, Damiano, but I love that woman like my own Mamma and he's breaking her heart."
"I know. I'll see what I can do."
We walk through the front door into an entrance hall with a marble floor, gold mirrors on the wall and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It's the last thing I expected to find in here. Damiano leads me along a corridor and into a large sitting room with thick carpeting and sofas covered with a floral fabric. This room is more in keeping with the rustic exterior of the house. The French windows are open onto a large terrace. That's where we find his mother.
Pale and thin, Beatrice Volante has delicate cheekbones and big blue eyes. She must have been a great beauty in her day.
“Damiano!” She throws her arms wide when she sees him.
He rushes over to hug her. They embrace for so long, murmuring words of affection to each other, that I start to feel like an intruder. Then Beatrice playfully bats him away and holds a hand out to me. I go to her and take it.
"Violetta." She offers me a warm smile. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. When Damiano said he was bringing his wife, I was so happy."
"I'm pleased to meet you."
"Well, sit down, sit down." Beatrice indicates the seat next to her. "I want to get a proper look at you."
I do as instructed and take the chair next to her.
"Well, Mamma, what do you think of my bride?" Damiano asks as he sprawls on the seat opposite us.
