A Veil of Vines

  I laughed a humorless laugh and fought not to crumble. “Yes . . . he is my split-apart.”

  Zeno looked confused, but then said, “I will be gone for a couple of days. I’m going to see my Uncle Roberto in Florence.” He paused. “I have to know the truth. I . . . I have thought of nothing else for the past week. How we used to be so close as children.” Zeno laughed, but it was pained and short. “I think . . . I think he was the best friend I ever had.” He cleared his throat. “Turns out there might have been a reason for that. He may be my brother. My best friend, who I was told by my father and mother I could never see again, could have been the very thing I had always wished for—a brother to laugh with and share my life.”

  “His father would not have lied about this.”

  “I know that,” he said sadly. “I knew Signor Marchesi. He was a good man. As is Achille.”

  “And yet you sent him away,” I said softly.

  Zeno stilled. “I know that too.”

  He pushed off the counter’s edge and walked to the doors. Just as he left, I said. “None of this is real, you know?” Zeno stopped and, with tense shoulders, turned my way. I pushed off the counter too. “All this, the world we live in. It’s all a mirage. We live like the aristocrats of old, talking of pride and ancestral honor, but it’s all pretend. The country doesn’t recognize us as anyone special anymore, just the relatives of people who used to be someone once. Our titles are by name only, the official lineage papers that we add to with each new birth are practically forged.

  “We all pretend that we live in castles made of stone, but in reality they are made of sand, one bluster of wind away from crumbling into the sea of the long-forgotten past. We talk of the lowly classes beneath us as though they are no better than dirt on the bottom of our shoes. But like the gods of old to the mortals of Earth, in truth we envy them, because at least they are free. Tell me, Zeno, who lives the better life? Us, sitting on our fake thrones alone, or them, who spend every second with their soul mates beside them, raising families and loving hard? We are fools because we see ourselves as better, when really we are all just miserable pawns in the great chess game that is our heritage.”

  Zeno inhaled deeply. “Yet you and I are still betrothed. We still do as our parents wish.”

  The same numbness I had felt all day wrapped over me like a protective blanket, staving off the grief of Achille’s absence. “And isn’t that just the most curious thing?” I said tiredly. “The most curious thing of all. That we know all this, yet do absolutely nothing about it?”

  “It was never my intention to make you unhappy, Caresa,” Zeno said softly, and I knew he meant every word.

  “I know,” I whispered back. “But it was never in your power to make me happy either. That honor belonged to someone else. It was written in the stars, way before we were born.”

  Zeno bowed his head and turned to leave. As I turned my back too, I said, “He would make a better prince than we would ever make a king or queen. Achille is the kind of man you would want at the helm of your family’s legacy. He is the special one here, not you or me.”

  I assumed Zeno had left when no answer immediately came. But then just as I took the siphon to bottle the first wine, I heard a whisper. “I know that, Duchessa. Believe me, I’m beginning to see that too.”

  Zeno’s whispered words sailed on the wind and struck my heart. And in that moment I wished that the wind were stronger, because then it could drift to wherever Achille was and reach his ears. Because that was the kind of sentiment he should hear.

  From his brother.

  His onetime best friend.

  Someone who should have loved him all his life.

  And the brother that maybe now realized he wanted Achille to return . . . nearly as much as I did.

  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.