Chapter Seventeen
Florence, Italy
New Years Eve
Caresa
“Et voilà!” Julietta announced flamboyantly in French as she threw the sheet from the floor-length mirror. I blinked as I took in my reflection. I had seen the dress many times before this day. But today it was different. Because today I was marrying Achille, a newly announced prince of Italy. The love of my life who had recently taken his place in the history books of House Savona’s legacy.
I let my eyes sweep down my perfectly fitted long-sleeved white lace dress and to the simple ring I wore on my left hand. My hair was pulled back in an intricate bun. My makeup was flawless—my eyes enhanced with shades of brown, my lips and cheeks rosy. I wore large diamond studs in my ears, but the one item that stole the show was my veil.
My perfectly designed veil of vines.
“You look beautiful, Caresa,” my mother said from beside me. She lifted my hand and pressed a kiss on the back.
“Thank you, Mamma,” I said, trying my hardest not to cry.
Marietta came to stand beside me and wrapped her arm around mine. “My Caresa!” she said dramatically. “You look stunning.” I smiled at my best friend. Her blond hair was tied back in a low bun, and she looked radiant in her lavender silk maid-of-honor dress.
“Are you ready, Caresa?” Pia asked. She too was a bridesmaid, looking beautiful in lavender. “The cars have arrived.”
I took a deep breath and, smiling at my reflection, announced, “I’m ready.”
The staff stopped in their preparations for the wedding breakfast to watch me as I walked down the hallway. I smiled at them as I passed, nodding in acknowledgment of their support.
The past couple of weeks had been insane. A few days after our engagement, just before Christmas, Zeno had gathered the most important families in Italy at the Bella Collina estate. It was there that he declared Achille his brother. It was there that he informed the shell-shocked crowd that Achille was a Savona. And that he was also the maker of the Bella Collina merlot.
And Achille had stood beside his brother, dressed impeccably in a Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the prince that Zeno was claiming him to be.
Zeno explained that the marriage would still happen, but that I was now betrothed to Achille. I knew the gossips would be in full flight, purporting this to be the scandal of the decade—King Santo’s illicit affair with Achille’s mother, Achille being acknowledged as a Savona, and our sudden engagement. But I didn’t care.
Let them all talk.
As I rounded the hallway to the top of the stairs, my eyes fell on a portrait of the old king, painted when he was twenty-five. And there he was, my Achille staring back at me from the canvas. Zeno had always resembled the king. But as I stared at a young King Santo, looking proud in a traditional regal pose, I only saw Achille. It was clear why he had kept Achille hidden. Anyone who knew the king as a young man would have seen the resemblance in a heartbeat.
Movement from the bottom of the stairs caught my attention. I smiled when I saw my father, my bouquet of Bella Collina’s white roses in his hand. The flowers were as beautiful as every rose Achille had ever given me. Yet the best part of the bouquet was the vines threading between the roses—vines from Achille’s land.
They matched my veil perfectly.
I descended the stairs, my bridesmaids and mother walking behind me. When I reached the bottom, I had to quickly turn away when I saw tears building in my father’s eyes.
“Papa.” I whispered. “Don’t cry. You’ll make me cry too.”
I heard him sniff and clear his throat. When I faced him again, his eyes were still glistening, but he had composed himself. He reached out for my hand and brought it through his arm. “You look so beautiful, Caresa,” he said and pressed a kiss to the side of my head. “Like a vision.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
As my father handed me my bouquet, and the familiar, comforting scent of the roses filled my senses, I felt a calmness wash over me.
You are marrying Achille. In just over an hour, you will have soldered your soul to his in every way possible.
Vintage cars were waiting outside. The photographer snapped away as I slid into one. My father slipped in beside me and held my hand tightly.
It was a short trip to the Duomo from the palazzo. We parked behind the Piazza del Duomo and got out of the car. Paparazzi flashes blinded me as my father took my hand and guided me out onto the street. My mother and bridesmaids joined me, and we slowly made our way to the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, the vast duomo that dominated the center of Florence. The air was crisp from the biting winter chill, delicate white snowflakes falling around us like confetti. The sounds of early New Year’s Eve celebrations sailed on the wind to our ears, and the sun shone brightly in the sky above the Duomo, God’s blinding spotlight blessing our special day. As we approached the main entrance, tourists and locals out for dinner and drinks stopped to watch us pass by. Many shouted their well-wishes, only attracting more attention to us.
By the time we made it to the entrance, quite a crowd had gathered, taking pictures and videos on their phones. My heart was beating at a million miles an hour as my mother kissed me on my cheek and went into the main body of the church to take her seat.
I could hear the mass of people inside. But my thoughts only went to one person—Achille. All I could picture was Achille in his suit, standing in front of the hundreds of people gathered here today to witness our union.
We waited behind the closed doors. My father kept his head straight forward, but just as the music began to play—Andrea Bocelli’s “Sogno”—he squeezed my hand and whispered, “I am so very proud of you, carina. So very very proud.”
My throat thickened as he moved before me and pulled my veil over my face. The doors slowly opened, and just like we rehearsed, my bridesmaids began their journey down the long aisle.
Then it was my turn to make that leap forward. My legs shook and my heart hammered a symphony as we began our slow walk down the aisle. I kept my eyes forward, trying to focus on breathing, as we passed the first row of guests. Through the thin veil I could see a sea of faces, all blurring into one. I heard their gasps of awe, their whispered well-wishes that echoed off the huge cathedral walls. It was all a swirling whirlwind, until my father squeezed my hand and said, “Look up, carina.”
I hadn’t even realized my eyes had cast down. Inhaling deeply, hearing Bocelli’s perfect voice building to a crescendo, I did as my father said. And the minute I did, my body filled with uncensored joy and light and life.
Because before me, waiting for me with a small, adoring smile on his face, was Achille. And everyone else fell away. My feet felt lighter, my heart calmed in its erratic beating and air filled my lungs.
Because this was my Achille.
My heart, my conscience and my soul.
We reached the end of the aisle. My father placed my hand onto Achille’s waiting one . . . and I was home.
I closed my eyes and sent a silent prayer to his two fathers and his mother for gifting me this beautiful man. All their pain, all their sufferings, would now be turned into nothing but happiness and love. I promised them I would look after their boy.
He would be safe in my arms.
I felt him move beside me. When I opened my eyes, Achille was lifting my veil . . . my veil of vines, the vines I knew had always represented the other half of my soul. My sweet winemaker of the Bella Collina merlot.
He pushed the veil back from my face, and I sucked in a sharp breath. My eyes grazed down Achille’s tall, broad frame. He was dressed in a designer tux, and his usually messy black hair was combed back from his face, showing the beauty of his turquoise, Mediterranean-sea eyes.
And when our gazes locked, I played the story of us in my mind. From the first day in the vineyard, to him brushing his hand past mine, our kiss, making love, and finally being back in his arms after we were split apart. I played it all—the memories a fingerprint on my soul.
Because sometimes, just sometimes, the sun and the moon align, bringing two people to the same place at the same time. Sometimes destiny guides them to exactly where they are meant to be. And their hearts fall in a tandem beat and their souls merge as one.
Split-aparts.
Soul mates.
Two halves, now one whole . . .
. . . Achille and Caresa.
Per sempre.