Chapter Fifteen
Sicily, Italy
Achille
“Are those hands still giving you trouble, Achille?”
I froze, holding the wine bottle clumsily in my hands. My zia Noelia stopped beside me and put her hands on her hips.
I shrugged but continued bottling, using the techniques I had adopted over the years to cope with how sometimes my hands just would not work they way they were supposed to.
Zia Noelia’s hand landed on my shoulder, and then she joined me in bottling her Nero d’Avola wine. When the first bottle was full, I raised it up to the light. This red wine was so much darker than my merlot, the tannins richer and the taste bolder. It was rare, and her vineyard was small. I couldn’t help thinking that this could achieve so much more.
Zia Noelia was my father’s sister. She too had grown up on the Bella Collina estate. She had met her husband, my zio Alberto, when he came to work on one of the other vineyards on the property, but before long he had found employment in his home town in western Sicily. Zio Alberto was an expert on Nero d’Avola grapes. They made a rare wine, unique to this region. He had followed his heart, and my aunt had followed him.
As I lowered the bottle, my first thought was that Caresa would have loved to have seen this place. My aunt’s vineyard overlooked Lake Arancio. It was beautiful, peaceful. The only place I had in the world to come to outside of Bella Collina. Zia Noelia and Zio Alberto were the only family I had left.
At least on the Marchesi side. There was now Zeno on the Savona side, but I was trying not to think of that too much right now. I had been here for eight days. When I had shown up, my aunt had taken one look at my face and knew why I was there. She didn’t say anything but “So now you know.” But that was mainly because of me. I refused to talk about fleeing my home that night. I hadn’t told her about Zeno, our fight, or my . . . . or my Caresa.
Even at the thought of her name, a large rip would slice through my chest. Because I had left her. She was choosing me, but I couldn’t go to Parma with her. I couldn’t let her run from her life, not for me. When she was with me, she made everything better. She made me feel safe and whole.
But I didn’t want to feel comfort or safety right now. I wanted to feel every emotion my father’s secret ignited within me. I wanted to feel the pain and hurt. I needed time away from everything I loved—my vineyard, my wine, my Caresa—to think clearly. To work out what I was meant to do now.
So I worked beside my aunt and uncle on their vineyard, throwing myself into a new kind of wine production, a new taste, a new process . . . just something different.
I needed change.
As night drew in and the sun began to bow over the distant green hills, every muscle in my body ached. I took my bottle of water and a glass of two-year-old Nero d’Avola to the patio table on my aunt’s stone deck and sat down. I breathed in the fresh air as the sun’s reflection glistened off the crystal-blue water of the lake. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not a sound to be heard. There was only me with my thoughts, my sadness and this wine.
I had sat out here every night for eight days, and nothing was better. And I knew why. Being without Caresa, thinking of how hurt she must have been when she found me gone, ensured I felt no peace. Thinking of Zeno, how he pushed me away, how he denied me as his blood, only served to sink the dagger of sadness in further.
And there was no reprieve from this hollow cave in my stomach. The pain just kept rolling and rolling, wave after wave, as if I were caught up and drowning in a wild, stormy sea.
An arm came over my shoulder. My aunt placed my dinner of pasta ragù on the table. I waited for her to leave me alone, as she had done every night, only tonight she did not. She moved beside me, placing her own plate down on the table.
She gazed over the calming scenic view and, without looking at me, said, “I remember those days like it was yesterday, Achille.” My back tensed; she had finally had enough of my silence. She sighed deeply. “I remember the day my brother saw Abrielle singing Christmas hymns in Orvieto. I teased him for his infatuation at first, but after a while we could all see how much he loved her. And it wasn’t long before she loved him in return.”
My heart was a drum, beating loudly in my ears as she turned to me with glistening brown eyes. “Not being able to conceive a child hurt your mother so deeply. Abrielle was so sweet, so kind and had such a big heart. And it truly broke her when they discovered your father was infertile. It wounded him too, but not as much as when he discovered his wife was pregnant with the king’s child.”
I shifted uncomfortably on my seat. Zia Noelia covered my hand that lay tensely on the tabletop. “But you see, Achille? Sometimes what we think is the worst thing in the world can really be a blessing in disguise. You became your father’s very reason for living. And as much as he cherished Abrielle, I believe he really only came to life when you were born. It no longer mattered how you came to be, only that you fit so perfectly in his arms. And the king loved you too, of that I am sure. We were not raised in that world, Achille. It is hard for us, I think, to put ourselves in their shoes. They have rules and ways that seem bizarre to us. But I saw how the king adored you, and so did his son.” She squeezed my hand. “Zeno loved you, Achille. You were both so alike as you played the day away. It made my heart swell with joy to see you both laughing, brother and brother.”
“He sent me from the estate,” I cut in, and watched my aunt’s face fill with sympathy.
“Your black eye and split lip,” she said knowingly.
I nodded my head. “He read the letter and said my father told lies. I . . . I hit him when he tried to destroy the letter. If . . . if it hadn’t been for Caresa, I don’t know if I would have stopped.” Guilt flooded my veins. “I . . . I have never been so angry in my life, so hurt, as when he denounced me on the spot.” I winced. “He called me slow. He shamed me in front of her. I . . . I have never felt so unworthy of her as I did in that moment.”
“Her?” my aunt asked. “This girl, Caresa?”
My chest ached. “Yes.”
“Achille?” Zia Noelia said. “Are you talking of Caresa Acardi, the Duchessa di Parma? King Zeno’s fiancée?”
I felt my throat thicken. “She found me in my vineyard one day. Then she came back the next. She kept coming back, and before we knew it, we had fallen for one another. It wasn’t meant to happen, but . . .” I trailed off, and then, meeting my aunt’s eyes, I patted my chest and whispered, “She made me whole. I found her, Zia . . . my split-apart. I was struck with love, and there was no going back.”
“Oh, Achille,” Zia Noelia said sadly. “And where is she now?”
“At the estate. I . . . she wanted to run away with me, to get away, but I left her, Zia. I left her and came here alone. I left her with just a simple note. A note I would never have been able to write if it wasn’t for her.”
“She’s the one who has been helping you read and write?”
I nodded, and my aunt sat back in her seat, shocked. “Is she still marrying Zeno?”
Her question made my stomach drop to the ground. “I don’t know. We . . . we had planned to tell her family about us when I had finished this year’s vintage. But now . . . now I don’t know.” I inhaled deeply. “I don’t know anything anymore. But I know that each day I am not with her, it becomes harder and harder for me to breathe.”
“You love her,” Zia Noelia stated.
“More than life,” I replied with an unhappy smile. My aunt reached over and took my glass of wine. She took a long drink and placed the now almost-empty glass back on the table. I couldn’t help but smile, a real smile this time, as she shook her head, and said, “I needed that, carino.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked after a minute.
“I have no idea.”
My aunt pulled her chair beside me and placed her hand on my arm. This close, I saw my father in her eyes. And as I studied her face, it was obvious I was not from their bloodline. But I had never seen it before.
“Achille Marchesi,” Zia Noelia said sternly. “I am going to say something, and I want you to listen, okay?”
I nodded.
“I loved my brother, I did. He was a great man and cared for me his whole life. It devastated me that I was not there when he passed. That is something I will never forgive myself for. But one thing I always believed was that he did not fight hard enough for Abrielle. He saw her despair and watched her sink into a depression, but, out of love, he let her go away with the king’s dressage team. Yes, he had the harvest, but she was gone a while, and he never followed. He wanted to give her time, but I believed he should have tracked her down and made sure she knew she was loved. Promised her that they would find a way to have children. It was the same with you. When your schooling became challenging, he trusted the king would help. When he didn’t, my brother, out of love, let it go. Neither situation was helped by his passive nature. And Achille, I am telling you now, if you love the duchessa, if she is your split-apart, you must fight for her. You have fought all of your life, carino. And you have been the victor in every battle that came your way. Do not give up now when you face the war. If you want the duchessa, you must go back for her. You must tell her how you feel.”
My heart pumped the blood around my veins like a red rapid. “But she is a duchessa,” I said. “Her father will not allow our marriage. He will not accept us. She is a blue blood. She is different from me in every way.”
Zia Noelia’s face tightened. “Last time I checked, you were a prince of Italy. You are a Savona just as much as Zeno. Your blood runs blue too.”
I stared at my aunt, and she stared back, never breaking my gaze. “Zeno won’t . . . he didn’t want to know or accept—”
“Forget Zeno!” she argued. “If he doesn’t want to believe the truth about you, who cares? The king wanted to acknowledge you as his own, Achille. He wanted you as his son, but he let others rob you of your rightful title. Do not rob yourself of your birthright. Not if it means you get to keep your duchessa. Forget those who hate, forget those who do not think you belong. If your Caresa is worth fighting for, then fight.”
“I do not know the first thing about being a . . . a prince.”
“Carino.” My aunt put her hand on my face. “The very fact that you believe you will not be a good prince will be the very thing that ensures you are. You sell yourself short, Achille. You are meant for more than what life has awarded you. So take it. Grab it with both hands and never let go.”
My body shook with the adrenaline rushing through me and igniting my every cell. “Okay,” I finally said and jumped to my feet. I ran my hands through my hair as I tried to calm myself down.
I needed to go home.
I needed my Caresa.
I leaned down and pressed a kiss to my aunt’s cheek. “Thank you,” I said and rushed toward the house.
“He loved you, you know.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. “The late king,” Zia Noelia said softly. “He didn’t do the right thing by hiding you away, but he loved you. He adored your mother, and in the end, he had a healthy respect for your father. Benito, Santo and Abrielle’s tragic love story was complex and intense. It was filled with love—a messy kind of love—but love nonetheless. I just want you to know that whether you see yourself as a Marchesi or a Savona, you were born from such a deep love. Three hearts from very different backgrounds were broken along the way, some beyond repair. But the light in all of their suffering was you. Never forget that, carino. Remember that as you take your rightful place as a royal of our country. You were a blessing to them all.” She smiled a watery smile. “And you will be just as much a blessing to her.” She shrugged. “It’s funny how history repeats itself. A Marchesi, a Savona and a girl. Curious, no? Just make sure you are the one to win this time, whatever that victory looks like.”
“I love you,” I whispered, her words dissolving any anger I had left within me. Zia Noelia picked up the wineglass and brought it to her lips. She turned away to stare out across the lake at the last rays of sun.
I ran to my room and grabbed my things. Five minutes later, with the stars appearing in the night sky to guide me home, I was in my papa’s car, rushing home to win back my split-apart.
She was the prize.
I would make sure I was the victor.
*****
It took me a day to get home. I had only stopped once to catch some sleep. I slept in the car. It was cold and uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to waste time finding a hotel and checking in, only to leave after a few hours. I drove all through the night, and now, as I made my way toward a familiar back road, night was falling again. I passed though the back gate of the Bella Collina estate. As soon as I entered, a sense of peace settled over me.
I was home.
As I passed by the mansion in the distance, this time I truly looked at it. I remembered the golds and the reds and the expensive furnishings. But I refused to let it intimidate me. I was done with feeling inferior. Like my aunt had said, part of me lived in that house, part of who I truly was. The cottage would always be my home—just like my father would always be Benito Marchesi. But I had to accept that there were others who had made me who I was too. Santo Savona’s blood ran in my veins. I was a product of two very different worlds.
And I simply had to get used to the fact.
Five minutes later I arrived at my cottage. As I drove the car into the garage and killed the engine, I took a deep breath. You can do this, I said to myself. You must do this for her.
I got out of the car and grabbed my bag. I walked around to my cottage and opened the front door. For a moment, I expected Caresa to walk out of my bedroom, smiling and throwing herself into my arms. But the house was still and cold.
There was no warmth without her anymore.
I dropped my bag on the hard floor and moved into my bedroom. My heart melted when I saw that it had been cleaned. There was no evidence that a fight had ever broken out.
I sat on the bed and reached into my coat pocket. My fingers immediately found my father’s letter. I pulled it out and opened the drawer of the nightstand. I slipped the letter inside, the pages still rumpled from Zeno’s savage touch and stained with my blood. And then I shut the drawer, sealing it inside. I would always treasure the final words from my father, but I didn’t need to read that letter anymore. I had the information he so wanted to give.
It was done.
I had to move on.
I stayed in that spot, just gathering my composure, for several minutes. Eventually, I got to my feet, left my house and walked toward the barn. The sound of Nico and Rosa in their stables greeted me. I went in to them, both of them immediately coming to see me. I patted them both, seeing that they had been cared for in my absence. I’d hoped Sebastian would have stopped by—it looked as if he had. I had no idea how I would explain my absence to him.
After staying with the horses for a while, I made my way to the barn. I had bottling to do. I was a week overdue. I threw the doors back and flicked on the light . . .
. . . and then I froze. Completely froze.
I cast my eyes along all of the freshly sanitized barrels, stacked and ready for the next harvest. To the right were shelves and shelves of bottled wine, this year’s vintage. I moved closer; the labels had been placed perfectly on each bottle. They were corked and they were done.
I stood back, wondering who had done this.
“She has been here every day since you left.”
My back tensed as Zeno’s rough timbre met my ears. I tried to control my breathing, readying for another fight. And then I spun around to see my . . . my . . . brother, resting against the doorframe. He was wrapped up in a long, thick coat, a scarf around his neck and gloves on his hands. The snow fell in small flakes behind him.
He looked tired. His hair was in disarray, and he was pale.
Yet as I studied his expression, he didn’t seem angry or upset that I had returned. In fact, if I had judged his features correctly, he appeared . . . relieved.
“Where is she?” I asked, my voice just as rough as his.
Zeno stepped closer and ran a hand down his face. “She is in Parma. Her parents arrived early for the wedding, and her mother took her home to try and make things better. They know everything. When it all came out, Caresa fell apart. She’s . . .” He paused, making my heart slam in my chest. “Not doing so well.” Zeno stopped in front of me. I allowed myself to truly look at him. Look at his eyes, his nose, his height. And it was there. Our fraternal truth that had been hiding in plain sight.
I could see he was doing the same. When our eyes met again, he broke from my gaze and gestured to the seats in front of the unlit fire. “Do you mind if we sit?”
“You’re not throwing me off the land?” I asked, waiting for this too-timid reunion to fall apart.
He shook his head and laughed a humorless laugh. “No. Now, shall we?”
He walked to the seats and sat down. I cautiously made my way over and took my seat beside him. I wondered if I should start the fire, but I was too worked up. I didn’t know what he wanted, or . . . “How did you know I was here?”
“I had security on alert for your return. I knew you’d come through the rear private entrance,” he said.
“How did you know I would return?”
Zeno looked me square in the eye. “Because she is here.”
“Yet now I find she’s in Parma,” I said.
“She is only there for a few days with her mother. Her father is here, at the mansion.” His face betrayed the stress he was feeling. “He is here to try and help with Savona Wines too. To see how we can gain back what buyers and business we have lost.”
“It is bad?”
Zeno laughed, but it was forced. “I don’t know wine. It is my own fault, I know, but I find myself lost. I . . . it is incredibly hard doing this alone.”
I glanced up at Zeno and saw him already watching me. His expression made a strange feeling burst in my chest. Something akin to fondness. Something I imagined siblings shared, something reminiscent of the closeness he and I had once had, many moons ago.
“It is not easy doing anything alone,” I said, averting my gaze to stare into the unlit fire. “I didn’t realize how alone I was until Caresa came bursting into my life.” I smiled, remembering the day she appeared in my vineyard, all flustered and fresh from her run. “She made me want more from my life.” I sighed. “She made me want her. And only her, forever.” I risked a glance at Zeno. His eyes were wide. “I don’t imagine you know what that feels like. I have heard you don’t want for female attention.” Something flashed across his face, something I couldn’t recognize.
“Just because one is always surrounded, it doesn’t mean one is not alone.”
“You’re rich, and always have people at your beck and call. What would you know of being lonely?”
Zeno turned to me this time and truly looked into my eyes. “Wealth is no protection from loneliness. It is very easy to be surrounded by many people yet feel like you are caught alone in the rain. I—” He stopped himself from whatever he was about to say and sat back in his chair. When he had composed himself, he said, “I think the only time I never felt alone in this world was when we were friends.” He smiled, and this time it was genuine. “Do you remember when you fell into the fishing lake? I ended up jumping in after you when I thought you had drowned.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory.
“Your father was so mad at you for snapping his fishing rod when you ended up having to help me out. Do you remember?” Zeno asked.
“I do,” I said. “He banned me from that lake for a month.”
Zeno wiped his eyes and then shook his head. The levity drifted away, replaced by a heavy silence once again. I had a million questions floating around my head, but I struggled to speak even one. Then Zeno spoke for me, and answered about a dozen.
“I spoke to my Zio Roberto this week. I went to Florence. I kept to myself for a week, and thought of nothing else but your father’s letter and our fight. I . . .” He took in a deep breath. “I kept replaying that night in my head. I was so angry. I was hurt, but then” —he leaned forward and rubbed his forehead— “Zio Roberto confirmed everything. He tried to lie to me at first, but I saw through his deception.” His eyes met mine. They looked sad. “It was him, Achille. Zio Roberto. He was the one who persuaded my father not to publicly acknowledge you. My father wanted you. Even when my mother left because she found out, he wanted you. But it was Roberto who told him what was at stake. Your mother was not of noble birth. He . . . he thought you a bastard and claimed you would sully the Savona name.”
Pain hit me with the force of a thunderbolt. He thought you a bastard . . . sully the Savona name.
“I hit him too,” Zeno said, and my face whipped to his. He shrugged. “I have never fought in my life, yet I hit two people in the space of a week.” He smirked, but it quickly fell. “My father wanted you, Achille. Roberto confessed to me that my father never forgave him for persuading him otherwise, but as you grew older, he thought it was too late.
“He confirmed that the king would come and see you when you were a child, just so he could know you in some way. He asked your father not to tell you the truth so the risk of gossip was squashed.” Zeno sagged in his seat. “But you see, it’s not even about my father’s pain. He was a grown man who should have fought harder for you. It . . . it was that they kept the fact you were my brother from me. They kept it secret, that my best friend shared my blood. And when they sent me away and I protested, they told me that you were not good enough to be in my life any longer. They took you away, my . . . brother . . . to protect their reputations.”
I listened to every word he said, quietly breaking further and further apart. But the only word my head picked out was “brother”. Brother, brother, brother . . .
He had called me his brother.
He would have wanted me as his brother.
“I . . .” My whisper was barely audible. “I would have . . . liked you as a brother too.”
I kept my eyes facing the ground, but I knew Zeno was staring at me. I could feel his eyes burning through me. Eventually, I lifted my head and saw the glint of happiness in his expression. He coughed to clear his throat. When neither of us rushed to speak, he eventually said, “I have never seen anyone in my life pine for someone like I saw Caresa pine for you this week.”
At the mention of Caresa, all the pain I had momentarily staved off came back with vengeance. I fought to breathe as my lungs constricted. “I . . . I missed her too. More than I can explain.”
Zeno sighed. “You love her too?”
This time there was no hesitation in my reply. “More than you could know.” I squared my shoulders. “I won’t be without her. I came back for her. Even if you renounce me and take away my land, I won’t be leaving without her. Never again.”
I braced for an argument, for Zeno to tell me their marriage was set and there was nothing he could do. But instead he nodded his head. “I know. And don’t worry, Caresa and I won’t be walking down the aisle. Her father only had to watch her fall apart and witness my personal hurt to see that this marriage would never work. So I told him everything.”
“You told him about me?” I felt fear, real fear at the thought of Caresa’s father disliking me. I knew how much she cherished their relationship.
“And so did Caresa. He never knew. He was one of my father’s closest friends, yet he never knew about you. He was angry.”
I felt my face blanch. “He doesn’t want his daughter with me?”
“No,” Zeno said vehemently. “He was angry that you were never acknowledged. He was livid with Roberto. And then, when he thought back to those days, he blamed himself for being a bad friend. He said he knew that something was wrong with my” —Zeno cast me a wary glance— “our father. He never knew why my mother left. And he never pushed him for answers.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. Caresa’s father thought I should have been acknowledged as Santo’s son. Did that mean . . . would he mind if . . . ?
“Society expects a marriage between the Savonas and Acardis on New Year’s Eve.” I stilled. “That can still happen. Only the Savona groom would be different.” My pulse raced and my eyes widened.
Zeno shrugged. “I would have to publicly announce you as a Savona, of course. And I would have to do that soon.” Zeno lifted his hand and, after some hesitation, laid it on my shoulder. “I would acknowledge you as a prince of Italy. I would acknowledge you as my brother. Achille, I would announce you as part of House Savona.”
My heart was racing out of control as I stared at Zeno. I wasn’t prepared for this. I knew nothing of being a prince. All I knew was wine. All I knew was . . . “Then you must also announce me as the maker of the Bella Collina merlot.”
Zeno’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.
“I know wine, Zeno. I may not know the business side yet, but . . .” I felt full with pride, confident that what I was about to say was the truth. “But I can learn. I have been working on my reading and writing. And I am . . . I am getting better. You said the buyers and shareholders wanted the Savona-Acardi marriage to happen to secure the business. Well, we can also tell them that I am the winemaker of your most sought-after merlot. Tell them that the houses will still unite, and I am going to help with the business too.”
“You would do that?” Zeno asked, his voice thick with emotion. “You would help me with the wines? The business? You would partner with me?”
“Yes.” I inhaled deeply. “I have hidden away for too long. But . . .” I pulled a stern expression onto my face. “I want to continue making the wine. I want to stay at this estate. To keep Caresa I will do what is required of me, but I will have this. The wine is my life. I need to keep it.”
“Done,” Zeno said and blinked as though he were in shock.
His hand slipped from my shoulder. He got to his feet. He appeared nervous, an emotion I had not seen from him before. Then he cautiously held out his hand. I stared at his outstretched fingers, knowing that if I got to my feet, my old life would be in the past. But then I thought of Caresa, thought of taking her hand in mine in a church, before God, and it was easy. I held out my hand and allowed Zeno to pull me to my feet.
He hesitated for a second, then awkwardly brought me in to his chest. He embraced me for but a moment, then inched back. He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Who would have thought we would be here one day? Brothers. And you, a winemaker turned prince.”
Prince . . . the word circled my head, but it was too big for me to even fathom. “Not me.”
“But you’re ready to take it on, yes?” Zeno asked.
I stilled, looking around the barn that was once my entire life. I sighed in relief. After tonight I would no longer be alone.
I would no longer be alone . . . I had to hold onto that with both hands.
“Achille?” Zeno pressed. “You are ready, aren’t you?”
“I will be,” I said on a steady, fortifying breath. “For her, I will be.”
Zeno smiled widely, every inch an Italian prince. “Good. Because you’re coming with me. There’s a man in the mansion that you need to meet. And you’ll need to ask his permission to marry his daughter.” He slapped my back. “No pressure, brother.”
Brother, I thought again, and this time allowed its sound to fill my heart. Brother, brother, brother . . .
“I feel no pressure,” I said confidently. “I love his daughter with all my heart.” I nudged him like I would do when we were kids. “And I have you by my side pleading my case . . . don’t I?” I asked hesitantly.
“That you do,” Zeno said softly, and we walked in companionable silence from the barn.
As we stepped onto the path that led to the mansion, I tipped my head back and stared at the stars above, knowing they were finally, after all these years, aligning in my favor. “Thank you,” I whispered aloud to them and whoever was watching from above. Then, heart slamming, and without turning to Zeno, I added, “Thank you too . . . brother.”
Zeno held his breath, then let out a long, soul-freeing exhale. And we followed our footsteps to our new life, en route to ask the Duca di Parma for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
And my heart felt full . . .
. . . because I was no longer doing it alone.