“Shh. Hush now, my angel. Everything is all right.”
I lift my head and gaze at my father, his face swimming because of my tears. I whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
Smiling dreamily, he strokes my hair. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
I cry, “But I haven’t seen you in so long! I haven’t been here for you—”
“You were living your life, angel,” he interrupts. “Just as you should.” His eyes drift shut, and he releases a soft, ragged breath, as if the conversation has exhausted him.
“I’ll get the doctor!”
I start to move, but my father grips my wrist with surprising strength. His eyes fly open, and the look in them is sharper, more focused. For some reason that strikes a chord of terror deep in my heart.
“No. It’s too late for doctors. Listen to me now, angel. I have something important to tell you.” He pulls me closer, his breath leaving his chest in a wheeze.
“Papa, please, don’t talk! Let me get the doctor—”
“Your mother was the love of my life.”
I break down and start to sob, resting my forehead on my father’s frail chest and clutching the cold bedsheets. I can’t bear to listen, because I know deep in my bones that whatever he’s about to tell me will be the last words he’ll ever speak.
“From the day we met, I never looked at another woman. No one could compare. When she died, my heart became a wasteland where nothing could grow. You were the only thing that brought me joy, angel. The only thing that kept me going.”
I cry and cry, unable to stop the flow of tears.
“But life is strange.” His chuckle is faint, so faint I barely hear it. “Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, it throws you a curveball to make sure you know you’re not the one making the decisions.”
He strokes my hair off my face and smiles at my wet cheeks. “I found love again, angel. In the winter of life, this old man found love.”
I lift my head and blink, tears streaming down my face and dripping from my chin. “I’m happy for you, Papa.”
He nods, his eyes gaining that faraway look again. “I knew you would be. And I know you’ll love her as I do.” He draws a breath for strength, then focuses all his energy on his next words. “Just remember: nothing worthwhile is easy. That goes for everything. The easier it comes, the easier it goes. The truly valuable things and people will always test your mettle, but every bit of pain will be worth it in the end. Don’t give up when something is difficult. Dig in your heels.”
A delicate tremor runs through his chest. He closes his eyes, and he seems to sink down farther into the mattress, as if all his muscles have lost their fight against gravity. He gives my wrist one final, weak squeeze. A sigh slips past his lips. His mouth goes slack, as do his fingers on my arm.
Terror devours me. I whisper, “Papa?”
The heart monitor emits a long, flat electronic tone.
I scream, “Papa?”
Dominic and the doctor run into the room, but my father is already gone.
SIX
Hours later, after they’ve taken away my father’s body and I’ve completed all the necessary paperwork, Dominic helps me out to his car and drives me to my father’s house as I weep against the window, looking out into the starry night.
I’m an orphan now. No father, no mother, no other family except two stepsisters who are complete strangers and a stepmother who couldn’t be bothered to be there for Papa in his final moments.
When Dominic tells me she never came to the hospital at all, I want to curl my hands around her throat and choke the life right out of the uncaring witch. She should’ve married Brad. They’d have been a far better match than she and my loving, sweet-tempered father.
Il Sogno, our family’s ancestral villa, was built in the fifteenth century by an intrepid DiSanto who’d made a small fortune in textiles, then promptly lost it once construction was completed. Every other DiSanto who’s inherited the place has suffered from the same bad financial luck, my father included. If you knew nothing about my family, you’d assume we were wealthy based on the majesty of our property alone.
But, as with so many things, appearances can be deceiving.
Boasting classical Italian gardens, a reflecting pool, and spectacular views of Florence, Il Sogno lies on a hill above the city while going about the business of quietly crumbling into ruins. When we round the bend of the long gravel drive and I catch a glimpse of the stately old building, I’m breathless with the realization that my father won’t be running out from the front door to greet me like he always did when I arrived on my summer breaks from school.
For a moment the pain is so huge I can’t breathe.
Then Dominic parks the car, shuts off the engine, and turns to me with a somber face.
“I’ll come in with you,” he says darkly, as if he’s carrying a concealed firearm we might find ourselves in need of.
This stepmother of mine must be something else.
Gravel crunching underfoot, we trudge past the row of cypress trees that lines the driveway until we’re standing in front of the tall wooden doors of the main house. I apply my knuckles to the wood, then we wait in silence unbroken except for the singing of crickets and a breeze whispering through the trees.
Finally, footsteps echo from inside the house. Unhurried, they grow closer. Then the door swings open to reveal a man I’ve never seen before.
He’s tall, salt and pepper haired, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie. He appears wide awake, though it’s after midnight. We obviously didn’t wake him.
He bows slightly, says, “Buonasera, Signor Dominic,” then turns his gaze to me. His eyes are an unusual shade of gray, like an overcast sky. With one swift up-and-down look, he takes me in. Then, in perfect English, he says, “And you must be the beautiful daughter your father so loves.”
I burst into tears.
Sighing, Dominic settles his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Si, Lorenzo. This is Luca’s daughter, Kimber. We’ve just come from the hospital.”
Even through my tears I see the look that passes between the two men. When Lorenzo’s face turns ashen, I decide not to dislike him as much as I already dislike my stepmother.
He crosses himself, murmuring, “Mio Dio.” Then he waves us inside, stepping back quickly to open the door wider so we can pass. “Come in, come in. Let me help you with your luggage.”
As Lorenzo takes my handbag and coat, he and Dominic have a quick, quiet discussion in Italian that must have something to do with the sleeping arrangements because at the end of it, Lorenzo says, “I’ll make up the spare bedroom.”
“Spare bedroom” is a running joke in the family. Il Sogno has ten bedrooms originally made to house the founder’s large family, only three of which remain in use—a master suite and two smaller adjacent bedrooms on the main floor. All the other sleeping quarters are on the second floor, which was closed off years ago to save on cleaning and heating costs. Aside from overstuffed sofas and many uncomfortable, stiff-backed chairs, the only other place to sleep in the house is in the small, stuffy, windowless “spare bedroom,” on a cot.
In the attic.
“What?” I say, dazed with grief. “No—I’ll sleep in my old bedroom.”
When Dominic and Lorenzo both freeze, I know before anyone says a word what’s happened.
Lorenzo delicately clears his throat. “Ahem. Unfortunately, that’s not possible, signorina, as that room is now occupied by Cornelia.”
I’m stunned. My father gave my bedroom away.
My bedroom.
My face flushes so hot I feel it all the way to the roots of my hair. “Well, I’m not sleeping in the attic. Give me some blankets, and I’ll be fine on the drawing room sofa for the night. I’ll check into a hotel tomorrow.”
Lorenzo makes another polite bow, murmuring apologies. When he leaves with my luggage, headed toward the drawing room at the back of the house, Dominic says, “It’s no
t your father’s fault.” He sends me a pointed look. “He didn’t have a choice.”
I grind my back teeth together so hard they’re in danger of shattering. The wicked stepmother strikes again. “So this Lorenzo is what—the house man?”
“Majordomo,” replies Dominic. “At least that’s what the marchesa calls him.”
“Who’s the marchesa?”
“Your father’s new wife.”
I’m dumbfounded. “She’s aristocracy?”
“From what I understand, she comes from a titled but impoverished background.” He waves a hand dismissively. “You know how it is in Europe, tesoro. There are as many destitute barons and counts as there are churches. Many of the old aristocratic families lost their fortunes, but no matter how poor you become, you get to keep the title.” He adds sourly, “It impresses people who don’t know any better.”
“I know you want to add like Americans, but I’ll have you know I met an aristocrat in New York and wasn’t impressed.”
Dominic pats my hand. “That’s because you have a good head on your shoulders. Now let’s get you settled so you can get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
With those ominous words ringing in my ears, I follow, exhausted and heartbroken, as he leads me deeper into the house.
I awaken hot and disoriented with a crick in my neck and a massive headache throbbing between my ears. I roll to my other side, open my eyes, and come nose to nose with an enormous black dog sitting on the floor next to the sofa.
Unmoving, unblinking, it stares down at me with a hungry look, as if it’s about to crack open its massive jaws and gobble me up.
I scream.
Startled, the dog jumps, then scrambles backward clownishly, its big paws fumbling and flapping against the floor. Then it turns around and streaks from the room, ears flattened, tail tucked, whining.
Apparently, I scared it as much as it scared me.
My heart pounding, I throw off the blanket and sit up. It’s still early. Sunlight streams through the windows and illuminates the polished wood floor to a blinding glow. Rising, I scrub my hands over my face and walk through the quiet house until I reach the kitchen, where I find Lorenzo sitting at the big wood table, sipping espresso and reading the papers. He’s in another impeccable suit, this one charcoal gray. I wonder if he ever sleeps or if he just changes clothes and keeps working.
“Good morning.” I yawn, taking a seat across from him at the table.
“Ah, good morning, signorina.” He folds the paper and sets it beside his cup of espresso, then looks me up and down in that swift assessing way he has that suggests he never misses a thing. “What can I get you? Espresso? Eggs? Some toast and jam, perhaps?”
“You don’t have to wait on me, Lorenzo.”
He rises, smiling. “But it’s my pleasure.” He chuckles. “Also it’s my job.”
“In that case, I’ll take an espresso.”
I watch him walk across the kitchen to the sleek black coffee machine on the opposite counter. There’s an economy in the way he moves, as if no energy is wasted, no step taken that isn’t planned. He exudes efficiency. He must’ve been a godsend for my messy, scatterbrained father.
Papa.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t break down into tears, then struggle to compose myself as Lorenzo brews the espresso. By the time he sets the little white porcelain cup in front of me, I’ve regained most of my control, but my voice still comes out shaky.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He takes his seat across from me again, folds his hands, then simply gazes at me in silence.
“What?”
“Forgive me for staring, signorina. It’s just that I feel as if I already know you. Your father spoke of you so often, I feel as if we’re old friends.”
Shit. I start to get choked up again and have to look away and blink hard to clear the water from my eyes. I gulp the espresso, wincing as it scalds my tongue. “How long did you work for my father, Lorenzo?”
“Since the marchesa and he were married, in June.”
It’s August. My father kept his marriage a secret from me for two months. I know it isn’t the espresso that causes that bitter taste in my mouth.
Lorenzo says, “But I’ve been with the marchesa for more than thirty years.”
That surprises me so much I almost drop the cup. “Thirty years?”
He inclines his head. “Since before her first husband died. It has been my honor to serve in her household for so long.”
So this mysterious marchesa was a widow for thirty years before marrying my father. Almost exactly as long as my father was a widower. That bit of information seems important somehow, but I don’t know why. Then something else strikes me as important. “You say it’s been your honor to serve in her household?”
Lorenzo answers with quiet pride, “I’ve never known any other person as fine.”
I inspect his face, but find no trace of sarcasm there. His opinion of the marchesa is certainly not in line with Dominic’s. I don’t know how to reconcile two such opposing viewpoints, especially since I’m inclined to hate her for not getting her fine ass to the hospital.
“Has she been told my father died?”
Lorenzo doesn’t blink at my tone, which is just this side of hostile. “Yes, of course.”
“And?”
Lorenzo draws his brows together in a quizzical frown. “I’m sorry, signorina?”
“Well . . . was she upset? What did she say? How did she react?”
A flicker of emotion rises in his gray eyes—there, then instantly gone. In a steady, quiet voice, he says, “The marchesa does not share her feelings with her servants. And—forgive me—even if she did, I wouldn’t share them with anyone else.”
He’s in love with her.
It seems obvious that that’s the reason he’s been with her so long, the reason he speaks so highly of her, the reason for that momentary flash of emotion he had to smother so I wouldn’t see it. Lorenzo is in love with my father’s widow, and has been for—
Oh shit. Are they having an affair?
That would explain why the marchesa didn’t show at the hospital. She was busy getting busy with someone else. Maybe she never loved my father at all. Maybe she only married him because she thought he had money.
Money that would support her and her lover, Lorenzo.
I’m abruptly so angry my cheeks start to burn.
Watching me, Lorenzo says, “I apologize if what I said angered you, signorina. It wasn’t my intention to be disrespectful, only honest.”
I set my cup on the table and take a breath, trying to control myself because there’s no evidence what I’ve thought is true. My father’s dead and I’m emotional, and I’ll only make things worse by creating a scene or throwing around accusations based on nothing more than a hunch.
But there’s a tiny voice in my head reminding me that I ignored all the blinking red signs of Brad’s secrets, and I shouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“I appreciate your honesty,” I say stiffly, looking at my fingers clenched around the delicate handle of the cup. “And I’m sure you can appreciate how I might not be myself today.” I look up and meet his eyes, and let him see all the emotion burning there. My voice comes out a raw scrape of pain. “The person I loved the most in the world is dead, and I’m not above letting anyone know how I feel about it.”
A look of compassion comes into Lorenzo’s eyes, but before he can say anything, a rustle of skirts makes us glance at the doorway. And there she stands with her chin held high and her back ramrod straight, regal as an empress.
The marchesa.
Lorenzo rises and bows, but I can’t look away from my stepmother. It’s not because she’s so beautiful, exactly—she is, stunningly so—and it’s not because of the finery of her clothing, or the way her mere presence makes the air crackle.
It’s because I’ve never seen another person so chillingly cold.
; She’s brilliant icy perfection, from the top of her blonde head to the hem of her silvery Dupioni gown. Though she’s obviously not young, her skin is dewy and unwrinkled. Her eyes are an inhuman shade of blue, as electric blue as a cyborg’s.
She radiates a fierce, freezing intensity. She’s an iceberg with eyeballs, draped in custom-cut silk.
“Lady Moretti,” murmurs Lorenzo to the floor. “May I present signorina DiSanto.” He lifts a hand in my direction.
The marchesa and I gaze at each other. Neither of us makes a move.
Lorenzo straightens and looks at me. “Kimber, this is Lady Moretti.”
That’s it? I’m supposed to address this woman like that? I don’t even qualify to use her first name? And why does she go by Lady Moretti and not Mrs. DiSanto? She didn’t take my father’s last name?
Oh hell no.
I say flatly, “Hi.”
“Hello, Kimber.”
Her voice is like the rest of her: frigid. Since I addressed her in English, she replied in English. I get the sense the language feels dirty in her mouth, something reserved for the peasants that she wouldn’t otherwise use.
As if someone is pointing a gun at her head and forcing her to speak, she says frostily, “Finally, I meet Luca’s beloved daughter. Your father spoke of nothing else.”
The verdict is in: I can’t stand this bitch.
I send her my most acid smile. “Funny, he never mentioned you.”
Her frozen perfection remains untouched by that. She simply stares at me with unnerving intensity, no trace of emotion in her arctic cyborg eyes.
Lorenzo clears his throat. “Ah, perhaps signorina DiSanto would like to meet Cornelia and Beans?”
The question is directed at the iceberg, but I’m not used to having other people make my decisions for me, so I answer before she can get anything past her frozen lips. “Yes, I’d like to meet my stepsisters.”
A glimmer of surprise surfaces in the marchesa’s eyes. She lifts a pale hand to her throat. Some distant relative to a smile touches her lips, but dies before it can find a home on such inhospitable ground. “Stepsisters,” she murmurs. “That’s very sweet.”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 5