Chapter Thirteen
Caresa
“I think you’re convincing them. Brava,” Zeno whispered as he spun me around the ballroom, all of the guests looking on with smiles on their faces. My cheeks ached from the smile I wore as we waltzed around the room.
I wanted to step back and tell them all that this whole thing was a joke. I wanted Achille to walk through the main doors. Wearing a suit and tie with a mask adorning his face. I wanted to dance with him as if he were my prince. The prince I loved and adored and wanted to be betrothed to.
When the song came to an end, I bowed at Zeno as the crowd clapped and flooded the floor to dance again. As the people rushed between us, all twirling in one direction, I turned and walked in the other. Zeno didn’t even try and stop me as I fled for the main doors.
Pia took hold of my hand as I passed her, bringing me to a stop. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I just need to go to my rooms for a moment. If anyone asks, tell them I have gone for fresh air.”
“Caresa,” she went to say, about to tell me again that I didn’t have to do this. But I shook my head, silently begging her to not start. She released my arm.
I ducked out of the large doors and went straight up to my rooms. As soon as I was safely inside, I pressed my hand over my corset and tried to breathe. I walked into the living room, feeling a breeze coming from my bedroom. I moved into my bedroom to see my balcony doors open. My heart raced. “Achille?” I whispered, searching my bathroom and closet. They were empty. But he had been here, I was sure.
Then I caught a familiar sight on my pillow. A single white rose lay where I slept. But as I looked around the room again, something didn’t feel right within me. Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t he wait for me?
I rushed across the bedroom and saw the light in his cottage was on. I struggled with what to do. The ball was nowhere near over. I was dressed in a gown and mask. But I ripped off the mask, and despite the snow and the fact that my arms were bare, I ran off the balcony and toward Achille.
My breath was bursts of white as I ran as fast as I could, slipping on the icy ground in my vintage Renaissance-inspired heels. It felt like it took forever to get there, and with each step I took, I felt an ominous feeling settling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right with Achille. I could sense it. He was easy to predict. Ordinarily, he would have waited for me in my bedroom. But he hadn’t stayed, which made me think something was most definitely wrong.
I pushed past his gate and through his front door, my chest raw from breathing in the winter air. His fire was unlit, making the small room feel cold and dark. “Achille?” I called out as I dashed through to his bedroom.
I froze in the doorway. He sat on the edge of his bed, holding a letter in his hand. My stomach dropped when I saw that he was deathly still but for the torrent of tears that was flooding down his cheeks. His face was so pale I was sure he was ill. I lurched forward and dropped to my knees before him. “Achille? Amore? What’s wrong?”
I reached out and placed my palms on either side of his face. He was stone cold. My hands became drenched from his tears. Tears of sympathy built in my eyes too as I waited with bated breath for him to speak. He slowly lifted his head and worked his mouth . . . but nothing came out.
I watched him struggling to find something to say, when instead, he just handed me the letter. I took it from his trembling hands. “You want me to read it?” Achille nodded his head. His eyes locked on mine, as if he were searching for some kind of relief, some respite from whatever was haunting him.
“Okay, amore,” I soothed. I sat back on the floor and began to read. And with every new line my emotions became a kaleidoscope—sorrow, happiness, intense shock and sadness . . . and then . . . then . . .
“No,” I whispered as his father’s secret was revealed. “Achille . . .” I read of King Santo and Zeno, of Achille being pulled out of school and why, and with every word scanned, my heart shattered apart, fleeing my chest piece by piece and leaving a darkness in its wake.
When I had finished the last line, I dropped the letter to my side. Achille was still a statue on the bed. But his eyes were on mine—desperate and hurt and soul-shatteringly destroyed. “Amore,” I said as I wrapped him in my arms and held him close. His response was delayed, shock still clearly setting in. Then with a pained sob, he launched into me, his arms around my waist and his head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. And he fell apart as he purged the pain and hurt from his body. The knowledge that he was King Santo’s son.
Achille was a prince.
My Achille . . . was born a prince.
“Shh.” I brushed my hand over his hair. I was so wrapped up in comforting my Achille, that I didn’t hear the footsteps enter the house. I didn’t hear someone move into the doorway of Achille’s room until a voice spoke.
“Well, it’s nice to know that my suspicions were correct.”
Achille and I froze to the spot at the sound of Zeno’s deep voice.
Achille sniffed and moved his head so he could sit back. I gathered my composure and got to my feet. I turned to face Zeno, who was crowding the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. “Not now,” I said tersely, wiping the tears from my eyes.
Zeno raised a single eyebrow. “You leave the masked ball not even halfway through the party to come and screw your bit on the side, and you think that’s okay?”
“Stop it,” I snapped and watched a smirk form on Zeno’s lips.
“Despite you thinking you can do whatever you wish, Caresa, our guests were questioning where the future queen was. It didn’t take me long to work it out when your balcony doors were open . . . again.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “You think I didn’t know you were sleeping with Achille? I have surveillance cameras, Caresa, and not to mention you’re not exactly discreet when you run over to his cottage at midnight, or he to your rooms.” Zeno flicked his chin. “But this ends now. We are to be married in a matter of weeks, and this has to end. You’ve had your fun and I’ve had mine. We have the aristocrats of Italy waiting for you to come back. It is your duty.”
The blood that was rushing through my veins like rapids turned red hot. “I am not coming back. You can tell them what you want. Tell them I’m ill, or whatever you like, but I’m not coming back. Achille needs me.”
Zeno opened his mouth to argue, and I felt Achille get to his feet behind me and take the letter from my hand. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it. Zeno stood straighter and gave Achille a questioning look. I looked back at Achille. His eyes were red raw and swollen from crying.
“Read it,” Achille said, offering the letter to Zeno. Zeno’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at me, then Achille. And for the first time, I saw it. I saw it as clear as day.
Their resemblance, it was there. Their hair color was the same. Their eye color was exactly the same. Even the way the way Zeno’s forehead creased with confusion was the same as Achille’s.
“Read what?” Zeno asked suspiciously. I thought of what he was about to discover. About his father, about why he was taken away, and the fact that Achille was his brother. It wasn’t just Achille who was going to be torn apart tonight. Zeno’s world was about to be blown to pieces too.
“Read it,” I found myself saying, after Zeno hadn’t moved and the silence became too loud. I took the letter from Achille and gave it to Zeno. “You need to read it.”
Zeno viewed me skeptically, but then edged toward the light and began to read. I moved to stand next to Achille, who was frozen beside me. But he never took his eyes off Zeno. I slipped my hand through Achille’s and squeezed it tightly. I heard his breath catch, but I stayed focused on Zeno. And I saw the moment his face turned ash-white. His hands shook, then he tensed, every muscle in him strained.
Then he read it again. He read the whole letter twice through before lifting his head. “No,” he said, his voice low and laced with venom. “What is this?” he snapped and held up the letter. “This isn’t true.” Zeno shook his head, and I felt Achille begin to shake. But it wasn’t in fear or sorrow; it was in anger. I could feel the heat of rage radiating from him.
“This is false!” Zeno spat.
“My father doesn’t lie,” Achille said through tightly clenched teeth. “He would never lie.”
Zeno held the letter in the air as his face reddened further. “Well, according to this, he isn’t your father!”
“Zeno!” I shouted, moving to stand in front of Achille, who was breathing far too fast. Zeno was still glaring at Achille, and Achille at him. I looked between them. I was a fool to have never seen the resemblance before now. Because they were most certainly brothers. So similar in certain ways, so alike in looks. “Zeno. Look at him. You have the same eyes, the same height, build . . . God, Zeno, he’s your brother. You have to see it! His father didn’t lie. Why would he lie?”
“To get money? Status for his only, slow son after he’d died? Because he hated my father? Any of those things!”
“He would not,” Achille said. I flinched at how low and menacing his voice sounded. He was my quiet, shy and timid man. He never spoke in such a way.
Zeno took a step forward. “You are not my goddamned brother! Your father was a malicious liar, and you’re both nothing!” He screwed the letter up in his hands and threw it to the floor.
That was all it took to make Achille snap. As the balled-up paper hit the other side of the room, Achille ran around me and tackled Zeno to the ground. They hit the floor with a thud, and Achille plowed his fist into Zeno’s face. But they were evenly matched in strength and height, and before long Zeno returned the blow.
Blood spattered on the floor as they grappled and punched. “Stop! Stop!” I yelled, rushing forward to try and pull them apart. But Achille and Zeno were men possessed, raining blows on one another. “STOP!” I yelled as loudly as I could, catching Achille’s arm enough to pull him slightly back, breaking them apart.
Zeno scrambled to his feet and wiped the blood from his cut lip and nose. His hair was disheveled, and his suit was ripped beyond repair. His eyes were wild as he pointed at Achille and snapped, “Get your things and get the hell off my land. You are not my brother and will get no money from me! You’re lucky your father is dead, or I would sue him for defamation. Now, get the hell out!”
Zeno fled through the door, and I had to brace myself in front of Achille to stop him from running after him. He wriggled from my hold, rushed to the corner of the room and picked up his father’s letter. He placed it on the bed and tried to straighten the pages.
And that’s what broke me most of all. A bloodied and bruised confused man trying desperately to hold on to the only father he had ever known, the one who had just told him he wasn’t his father after all. Smears of blood began staining the pages. I rushed over and gently guided his hands from the letter. He looked at me, eyes glassy and wild. His lip was cut, and a bruise was already beginning to form on his swelling eye. “My letter,” he rasped, so softly it destroyed me. “I need to save the letter.”
“I know,” I said gently. “But you’re staining it with blood.” Achille drew back his hands as if the letter was suddenly a burning page. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around, completely lost. He struggled for breath as his tears continued to fall.
Leaving the letter, I stood before him and cupped his cheeks. He couldn’t look at me first, but then drew a breath and met my eyes. “We’ll leave,” I said. He gave me a blank look. “My family have a villa on the outskirts of Parma. We’ll take your father’s old car and leave tonight. We need to give it some time and work out what to do. We’ll get away. Just you and me. We’ll get Sebastian and Eliza to watch the horses. Okay?”
Achille was breathing hard, but he nodded, curling his cheek into my palm. I melted, tears streaming down my cheeks as he sought out my comfort. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to his. “I need to go change and grab some things. You pack a bag. I will return soon, then we’ll go. Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispered. He drew back his head and searched my face. The sorrow in his blue gaze was heartbreaking. “We’ll get through this, amore,” I said. I kissed him on the non-cut side of his lips and whispered, “I love you.”
He kissed me back. “I love you forever.”
Ti amo per sempre.
I forced myself to back away and ran back toward the house. I wondered what excuse Zeno had given the guests, if he had even returned at all. But I didn’t care; I just kept running. Once in my room, I threw on some jeans and a sweater and packed as much as I could in a bag. I put on my coat and boots and headed back to the cottage. Thoughts of Zeno so angry, and Achille so hurt, swirled in my head with every step. The two of them fighting, hitting each other, spurred on by mutual pain.
It was a mess.
It was all such a mess.
When I entered Achille’s house, it was silent. “Achille?” I called out, rushing to check every room. I ran out to the barn, then the stables, searching for where he could be.
And then I noticed his father’s old car was missing from the garage behind the barn. I shook my head, backing toward the house. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have left me. He wouldn’t have gone without me.
I burst back through his house, my heart cracking as the truth began to set in. And then I saw a piece of paper on a pillow on his bed, the pillow I slept on . . . beside a single white rose. My feet were leaden as I walked toward it, my personal green mile.
With trembling hands, I reached down and turned it over, and I dropped to the floor in a confused swirl of devastation and pride. Achille had written—he had never written before—but the untidily formed words cut me in two.
My love,
I’m sorry.
I love you forever.
Achille.
A sob ripped from my throat as I was ravaged by a sadness so consuming I wasn’t sure I’d survive. He had left, the other half of my soul had left, and he had taken my heart with him too. All I could think of was how much pain he must have been in as he went. And where had he gone? Who else did he have? He was so alone.
I cried and I cried until my throat was raw and my chest ached. Eventually I lifted off the ground and walked back to the mansion. As I arrived at my balcony, Zeno was leaning against the balustrade. He took one look at me, at my crying face, and a strange expression flashed across his face. I almost believed it was one of shared sadness, and maybe regret too, but when he schooled his features back to his usual cold expression, I knew I must have been mistaken.
As I walked past him, I said, “He left.”
I was just about through my doors when Zeno said, “Good. Maybe now you’ll actually start doing your duty and forget him. We are getting married whether either of us likes it or not. It is what we must do. And it is about time you stopped fooling yourself into thinking you could run away into the sunset with a poor winemaker. It will never happen, Duchessa, not for the likes of us.”
With that he left.
Achille had left too.
And as I curled up on my bed, clutching the rose that Achille had brought me, I reread the letter he had written me. I read it until sleep took me, giving me a temporary reprieve from the unbearable pain in my heart.