A Veil of Vines
Tillie Cole
Copyright© Tillie Cole 2016 All rights reserved
Copyediting by Kia Thomas Editing
Cover Design by Hang Le Designs
Formatting by Stephen Jones
Italian Translation by Flavio Tripodi
ebook Edition
No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
Dedication
For those who have been struck from their senses by love.
Contents Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
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Author’s Note
For many, many years the great nation of Italy was defined by its regal elegance. Kings, queens, princes and princesses ruled from their castles. People bowed at their feet.
Until they didn’t . . .
In 1946, a republic was born. The royals and their extended families were formally stripped of their power. It was widely believed that Italy had finally been freed from the rule of the blue bloods. The aristocracy no longer had their titles, their heritage publicly shorn.
But in private, matters remained largely unchanged.
For ancestry and tradition were not forgotten, no matter how much the people of Italy may have wished it so. Centuries of upper-class ceremony and influence cannot be so easily erased.
Those Italian families who had once ruled supreme, who were once the beating heart of the sacred country they honored, steadfastly held on to their elevated statuses. In their elite social circles, nothing much changed. To the people who mattered most in their world, no titles disappeared. No wealth was lost.
Everything was as it had always been.
Time moved on. Many moons passed. Tradition and duty endured; royal blood continued to run through the veins of their heirs.
In modern Italy no titles exist, yet this centuries-rich ancestry has not been lost. There are still princes and princesses; there are still dukes and duchesses. Just as it has always been, they look to their own.
Marriages are brokered and arranged to ensure the fortunes of the elite families remain intact and prestige is added to their reputations. Their world is exclusive, tight-knit; to those born to this life such matters are the most important of all.
This is a story about what happens when this network of power and wealth is challenged.
This is a story about what happens when the heart trumps tradition.
This is a story about what happens when two souls merge—two souls that should never have even met.
Prologue
Upper East Side, New York
Fifteen Years Ago . . .
Caresa
“For me?” I asked.
He gave a small nod. “Why, thank you so much,” I said. His smile was so big. My prince was tall and handsome, with dark hair and tanned skin. He had the brightest blue eyes. He was Italian, just like my papa. Just like me.
I rushed across my playroom to the dress-up trunk and opened the lid. I threw all of my dresses over my shoulder, looking for the one I wanted. “Ah-ha!” I shouted, pulling the dress from the bottom of the trunk, along with the matching veil. My nonna gave these to me last Christmas. The dress was my favorite dress ever.
I pulled on the dress, slid the comb of the veil into my hair, then turned back to look at the mirror. I stared at my reflection and laughed. I loved this dress so much! I twirled around and around, feeling the bottom of the long lace dress swirl around my legs.
I grew dizzy, so I stopped and looked over to the stuffed bears and dolls sitting on either side of my pretend aisle. They were waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Straightening my shoulders, I moved to the top of the aisle and clutched my invisible flowers to my chest. I waited ten seconds, then began humming the Wedding March. My feet moved forward slowly, one after the other, in time with the beat.
Then I saw him. My prince stood at the end of the aisle, dressed in a tuxedo. His back was toward me, but when he heard our guests get to their feet, he turned. I held my breath as his blue eyes met mine. My heart beat so fast I almost couldn’t breathe. I was marrying him. I was about to become his wife.
He smiled. His eyes filled with tears as he saw me in my pretty dress . . . because he loved me.
My prince loved me so, so much.
My legs wobbled as I walked forward. I almost tripped over. But my prince held out his hand as I approached. He wouldn’t let me fall. He would never let me fall.
I squeezed his hand in mine, and my heart felt so full. The congregation stilled, and the priest stepped forward. I held my breath, waiting for the vows to begin . . .
“Caresa. I’m here.” I blinked and blinked again, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My papa suddenly appeared behind me.
“Papa!” I ran to where he stood. Papa kneeled down, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You’re back!” I exclaimed as he kissed me on my cheek and squeezed me so, so hard.
“Si, carina,” he replied and gently pushed me back so he could look at my face. His dark eyes swept over what I was wearing. “I’m back from Italia, and find you are getting married?”
“Yes!” I stepped back, picking up the hem of my dress. “You’re just in time to watch me marry my prince!”
Papa’s head tilted to the side. “Your prince?”
“Yes,” I said proudly. “He is tall and handsome with dark, dark hair and the bluest of blue eyes.” I put my hand over my heart. “He is the most handsome man in all of Italy.” I stepped forward and put my hand on my papa’s shoulder. “You will like him, Papa. He is so kind to me. He smiles so big, and he loves me so, so much.” I leaned in and whispered, “I think he maybe even loves me more than you.”
Papa raised a dark eyebrow. “Does he now?” He screwed up his face and shook his head. “No, impossible! No one will ever love you as much as me.”
I thought about what he said, then nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m your little duchessa, right, Papa?”
He winked playfully. “Right, carina. No one will ever be good enough for my duchessa.”
We both sat down on the floor. I rested my head on my papa’s shoulder. My papa gazed at the wall, lost in thought. Then he said, “So, you dream of marrying a prince?”
“An Italian prince,” I corrected. “Who loves me and I love him. And you will walk me down the aisle of a huge duomo. My dress will be beautiful and white, a
nd I will have a super-long veil decorated with pretty silk vines, just like Mamma had at your wedding. Everyone in Italy will watch and cry and be happy.”
“Good,” my papa said quietly.
He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. He smelled of sky and sun and fresh air.
I closed my eyes, and I pictured the wedding dress I would one day wear. I pictured the cathedral, the flowers, the veil of vines . . .
. . . and my dark-haired, handsome prince by my side.
The one I loved with my whole heart. The one who loved me with his whole heart in return.
My happily ever after.
Chapter One
Manhattan, New York
Present Day
Caresa
I closed my eyes as the music pounded through my body. The air was sticky from the mass of bodies on the dance floor. My body swayed to the beat, my feet ached from the five-inch Louboutin heels I was wearing, and my skin was flushed from the copious amounts of 1990 Dom Pérignon I had consumed.
“Caresa!” My name split through the harsh sound of drums and synthesized piano notes. I rolled my eyes open and looked across our cornered-off section of the club at my best friend.
Marietta was sitting on an oversized plush couch, waving a new bottle of champagne in my direction. Laughing, I followed my throbbing feet to where she sat and slumped down beside her. In seconds, a champagne flute was in my hand and the bubbly was flowing once more.
Marietta sat forward, swishing her long blond hair over her shoulder. She raised her glass as though she was going to make a toast. But instead, her bottom lip jutted out into a pathetic pout.
I tipped my head to one side, silently asking her what was wrong.
“I was going to make a toast to the Duchessa di Parma, my very best friend,” she shouted over a new but similar-to-the-last song. “To my best friend leaving me here in dull old New York to go marry a real-life godforsaken prince in Italy.” Marietta sighed and her shoulders slumped. “But I don’t want to. Because that would mean this night is almost over, and tomorrow I lose my partner-in-crime.” A sudden sadness bloomed in my chest at her words. Then, when her eyes filled with tears, those words became a punch in the gut.
Placing my glass on the table before us, I moved forward and put my hand on her arm. “Marietta, don’t get upset.”
She put down her own drink and grabbed my hand. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
My stomach rolled. “I know,” I said. Then I didn’t say anything else, but I could see Marietta register my unspoken words. I don’t want to go either.
Keeping my hand in hers, I slumped back against the couch and let my eyes drift over the busy dance floor below. I watched the throng of Upper East Siders losing themselves in the music. A pang of fear swept through me.
This really would be my last night in New York. In the morning, I would fly to Italy, where I would live from that day on.
Marietta shuffled closer to me and cast me a watery smile. “How are you doing?” she asked as she squeezed my hand.
“I’m okay. Just nervous, I guess.”
Marietta nodded her head. “And your papa?”
I sighed. “Ecstatic. Overjoyed that his precious daughter will be marrying the prince he chose for me as a child.” I felt a pang of guilt for speaking about him so negatively. “That was uncalled for,” I said. “You know as well as I do, Baroness von Todesco” —Marietta scowled playfully at my use of her title— “that we don’t really get a choice in whom we marry.” I leaned forward and picked up my champagne. I took a long swig, enjoying the feel of the bubbles traveling down my throat. I handed Marietta her glass and raised mine in the air. “To arranged marriages and duty over love!”
Marietta laughed and clinked her glass with mine. “But seriously,” Marietta said, “are you okay? Truly okay?”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that, Etta. Am I okay with the arranged marriage? I suppose so. Am I okay with moving to Italy permanently? Not really. I love Italy—it’s my home, I was born there—but it’s not New York. Everyone I know is here in America.” Marietta’s eyes softened with sympathy. “And am I okay with marrying Zeno Savona? The infamous Playboy Prince of Toscana?” I took a deep breath. “I have no idea. I guess that will become apparent in the next three months.”
“In your ‘courting period,’” Marietta said using air quotes, and snorted with laughter. “What a joke. What twenty-three-year-old woman and twenty-six-year-old man need a courting period?”
I laughed at her sassy tone, but then soberly replied, “Ones who don’t know each other at all? Ones who have to see if they can stand each other’s company before sealing their marital fates forever?”
Marietta shuffled closer. “You know as well as I do that you could hate this so-called prince, detest everything he is—and he you—and I’d still be your maid of honor at your wedding on New Year’s Eve.” She sputtered a laugh. “The very fact that the date has been set says it all. This marriage is happening.” Marietta held up her glass, got to her feet and, with arms spread wide, shouted, “Welcome to the life of the European blue bloods of the Upper East Side! Drowning in Prada and Gucci, dripping in diamonds, but having no free will to call our own!”
I laughed, pulling her back down. She broke into hysterics as her ass hit the couch, spilling champagne all over the expensive upholstery. But our laughter waned as the house lights came on one by one. The last of the dance music drifted into silence, and the rich patrons of Manhattan’s most exclusive nightclub began making their way to their limos and town cars. It was three o’clock in the morning, and I had six hours left in the city I loved beyond measure.
We stayed silent as the club emptied. Eventually Marietta rolled her head on the back of the couch to face me. “I am going to miss you so much, Caresa. You have no idea.”
My heart broke as Marietta’s tears fell hard and fast. Lunging forward, I hugged my best friend. In fact, I gripped onto her for dear life. When I pulled back, I said, “Don’t worry, Etta. I’m sure your suitor will be coming soon.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said through a thick throat. “My father already has a list of potential husbands for me. It makes me sick. Expect a call very soon, telling you of the pot-bellied, snobby, pompous lord or duke I’ve been betrothed to.”
I tilted my head. “Well, you’re kind of snobby and pompous yourself, you know,” I said playfully.
Marietta’s mouth dropped open in outrage, before she nodded in defeat and admitted, “Yeah, I kinda am.” I huffed out a laugh, but the humor drained from me immediately, lost to my thoughts of Italy.
Marietta’s head landed on my shoulder. “I know you’re worried, Caresa. But you needn’t be. I’ve seen your prince. As much of an arrogant, slutty tool as he is rumored to be, he’s totally gorgeous to look at.” Marietta tapped my leg. “And he’s getting you. Not only are you the sweetest, kindest person I know, but you’re equally as beautiful. That dark hair, those huge dark eyes and tanned Italian skin. He’s going to be smitten the minute he sees you.”
“Yeah?” I doubted that was true. I knew the rumors. Prince Zeno didn’t strike me as a man who could get smitten with anyone that wasn’t his own reflection.
“Definitely.”
Silence stretched until I said, “I’m going to miss you, Etta.”
Marietta sighed in agreement. “You never know, maybe I’ll be married off to a fellow Austrian baron and sent there. That wouldn’t be so bad, because you’d be near.”
“No, that wouldn’t be bad at all.”
“Come on, Princess,” Marietta said, getting to her feet. “Let’s get you home so you can fly away bright and early to your prince’s palace.”
I stood and linked my arm through Marietta’s. Just as I was about to head outside to my waiting limo, Marietta ran back and grabbed the barely touched bottle of bubbly. She shrugged. “Or we can continue getting trashed in the back of your limo as we take one last far
ewell tour of Manhattan?”
I smiled, a sense of relief settling in my veins. “That sounds perfect.”
An hour later, with my head through my limo’s sunroof, Marietta and I drinking in the bright lights of New York, real fear began to set in.
I hadn’t lived in Italy since I was six years old. I had no idea what to expect. So I carried on sipping champagne and laughing at Marietta, and I let myself forget about the prince, about duty and tradition.
At least until the sun rose again. When the next chapter of my story would begin.
Chapter Two
Caresa
As my papa’s G5 began its descent, I looked out of the window beside me and waited for the plane to break through the clouds. I held my breath, body tense, then suddenly the burnt-orange remnants of daylight flooded the plane, bathing the interior with a soft, golden glow. I inhaled deeply. Italia.
Fields and fields of green and yellow created a patchwork quilt below, rolling hills and crystal-blue lakes stretching as far the eye could see. I smiled as a sense of warmth ran through me.
It was the most beautiful place on earth.
Sitting back in my wide cream leather chair, I closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for what was coming. I was flying to Florence airport, from where I would be swiftly taken to the Palazzo Savona estate just outside of the city.
I would meet Prince Zeno.
I had met him twice before—once when I was four, of which I had no memory, and again when I was ten. The interaction we’d had as children had been brief. If I was being honest, I had found Zeno to be arrogant and rude. He had been thirteen at the time and not at all interested in meeting a ten-year-old girl from America.
Neither of us had known at the time that that our betrothal had been agreed upon two years prior. It turned out that the trip my papa had taken to Umbria when I was eight was to secure a forever-bond between the Savonas and the Acardis. King Santo and my father had planned for their only children to marry. They were already joined in business; Zeno’s arranged marriage to me would also strengthen both families’ place in society.