3. The Wedding
Chapter 3
The Wedding
O ur engagement moved quickly. We were engaged in January, ready to wed by June.
It seemed the Caffi famiglia , confident that I would choose Rosaria for a matrimonio arrangement, had already secured the wedding venues. The ink had been dried with our names on them before I’d even stepped foot inside of Teatro di San Carlo, the first time my ears had the great pleasure of hearing my uccello canoro serenade me. It seemed the Caffi family had been keeping Rosaria away from me on purpose—her parents had envisioned the night I would set eyes on her, when she was giving the most spectacular performance of her career.
More impactful to see her in the light she would always be shown in, her father had told me.
Our wedding had become the event of the year.
The daughter of a Caffi, who was on her way to becoming a legend herself in that world, marrying into the Fausti famiglia was cause for a stir in our social circles. My father was pleased with my choice. My grandfather was pleased with the match. I was the heir to the Fausti throne, and choosing my queen was just as important as rising to accept my birthright. No expense would be spared on our wedding .
We would be married in Rome, at San Giovanni e Paolo al Celio, a basilica that was important to the Caffi family. Both of Rosaria’s parents would sing during our ceremony, which made my heart long for my father. His voice could rival any acclaimed tenor’s. I had always imagined his rich and boisterous voice filling the walls where I’d repeat sacred vows on sacred ground.
Our reception would be held at Villa Medici, a venue only a handful of people had used for the same purpose. The land held links to my own lineage.
It was not going to be a small affair. Between the Caffi family and the Fausti family, we had narrowed down our guest list to fifteen hundred. That was keeping it intimate for us.
Before the mirror in my dressing room, I fixed my hair and straightened my custom-made tuxedo once more. My brothers came to stand behind me, looking me in the eye.
Dario nodded at me, fixing his tuxedo. “I will see that grandfather is all taken care of, brother,” he spoke to me in Italian.
I nodded to him. “He will arrive at the church not long before me, or so Uncle Tito confirmed.”
Uncle Tito was my grandfather’s right-hand man in our life. He was a confidant. A brother not through blood but marriage. Tito Sala was married to my great-aunt, Lola Fausti. Uncle Tito also took care of our immediate family’s needs, as far as doctoring. He was one of the best. As was per the usual with the Faustis, we surrounded ourselves by nothing but the greats.
Dario checked his reflection in the mirror once more, then left to make sure Nonno was taken care of. He would appreciate the gesture.
Romeo stared at himself through the mirror, fixing his hair, perhaps for the hundredth time that day. His eyes were not as bright as when he usually did this. Something bothered him.
“Tell me,” I said in Italian, “what is on your mind.”
He fixed his hair once more, then met my eyes again. “Bonfilia,” he said, speaking the name of my father’s wife.
Bonfilia was not my mamma. I did not know who my true mamma was. We were never told. My brothers and I did not share the same one. My father had children with three different women to secure his place in the family. He was to lead someday, as was I, but Bonfilia could not produce heirs for him. She could not have children. My father and Bonfilia’s marriage was an arrangement my grandfather had made. Since Bonfilia could not have children of her own, my father had them with three different women who had been chosen to carry on our line.
The only positive thought that came to mind when I thought of Bonfilia was that I was thankful she was not my mamma, and I was not related to her. None of my brothers were. She was not a woman who was maternal. She had a wicked temper and would not hesitate to bruise if she felt we had done something wrong. I oversaw my brothers, and we were Faustis, which meant we were men before we even turned a legal age. We did not step out of bounds and trip over our laws.
Bonfilia just had a mean streak and did not always care for the situation she had found herself in with my father. He was indifferent to her, and since he was in jail in America, she was all but forgotten. Except for his sons. The blood he left behind for her to look after.
I fixed my suit. “She will be at the church,” I said.
“ Sì. ” Romeo seemed to stand even taller. “I know this.”
“If you know this, tell me, why are we discussing it, brother.”
He steeled the features of his face, Fausti blood never so apparent in him. He fixed his suit, then faced me. “Permission to speak freely on this day of your wedding.”
I nodded. “Permission granted.”
“Your intended, Rosaria Caffi, she reminds me of Bonfilia, but with a better set of pipes.” He fixed his suit again. “She sings beautifully, almost hypnotically, but underneath the surface of her, there is something I do not care for, brother. Something that will not make you happy for the rest of your life.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Is marriage all happiness then?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe it is, but I also believe there should be mutual adoration. Rosaria Caffi only adores our last name.”
“It is one to adore, as is hers.”
“It is,” he agreed. “However, what about you, brother? Shouldn’t she love and adore you, even without a last name?”
My brothers had a better chance at claiming the love I had always craved then I did. I would rule our world one day, if time was not as ruthless as the blood in my veins, and my brothers were mostly free to find women and love on their own terms, even if it would suit our branch of the famiglia better to find matches such as the Caffi family.
“I have seen the way Rosaria looks you,” he continued. “There is lust there. Want. But beyond that, I am not sure if what I am seeing—her smile when she does not think you are watching, the way she stares at you in the darkness, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes—is on the surface or not. The only thing I know for certain is that she is in love with the Fausti name. I do not care to see you with a problem our father has had to endure. This problem being named Bonfilia, but in a different time and place—renamed Rosaria and Rocco, instead of Bonfilia and Luca. She has been a vipera in Papà’s bed. I would prefer a witch. At least a witch is semi human.”
“Tell me, do you suggest I walk away.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “ Sì.”
A rumble of laughter echoed from the hollows of my chest to my mouth. Romeo blinked at me as I squeezed his shoulder even harder and walked him to the door. “Rosaria Caffi is my wife, Romeo Piero, and you will treat her as the sister you never had.”
I could have sworn he said under his breath, just as we treated Bonfilia as the mamma we never had , but the sound of his voice was drowned out by the roaring applause that began as we stepped outside of the villa.
A Fausti was getting married, and our entire beloved Italia, and beyond , was celebrating the union.
Camilla Amoroso serenaded her daughter, who was being walked by her father, down the aisle.
Rosaria Caffi took slow steps toward me, drawing the moment out, her face covered by a sheer veil. Her gown was white with warm yellow undertones. The ivory shimmered with the divine attention of the candlelight, and so did all the crystals. As she grew closer to me, she smiled, reveling perfect teeth and lips that were a ravishing rosso . Her dark green eyes shimmered as her father set her hand in mine.
Rosaria was not a purely traditional women, but the entirety of the moment was.
Her father giving me her hand in holy matrimony was symbolic.
Eduardo Caffi was entrusting me with his daughter’s life. It was a vow I would take to my grave. Rosaria Caffi might have been a strong woman, but I was promising to protect her for all my days, and it was a promise I took to heart.
I squeezed her hand as we walked to the waiting padre together. “You are a vision,” I said to her in Italian.
“I know,” she whispered, her hand in mine as steady as the floor beneath our feet. Solid.
We repeated our nontraditional vows in Italian. Our promises were centered around the famiglia and our loyalty toward their laws.
I waited for the moment—the rush that would flow in my chest like hot lava, waking my sleeping lion and the mighty roar that would follow. However, the beats of my heart were as steady as her hand in mine. Neither of us seemed to tremble for the other, but she could still that insistent quivering that the sword of two sides—romantic and ruthless—had caused after it had impaled my heart made of steel.
I had always envisioned a love that could bring me to my knees .
Rosaria Caffi did not bring me to my knees, but she steadied them.
In front of God and our guests, the padre pronounced us husband and wife. I lifted her veil and set a chaste kiss against her lips.
Again, her eyes closed, and it was only the second time I received a reaction from the uccello canoro. Her breath slowly slipped past her lips and the warmth of it washed over mine.
We parted at the sound of thundering applause, and her face transformed in an instant. It was the same face she wore after one of her life-changing performances. Cameras surrounded us, capturing every second of our first movements as husband and wife. I kept her hand in mine as we walked out of the basilica together.
Rosaria instructed me when to stop so the cameras could catch the most picturesque photos. A horse and carriage waited for us. We took it to the reception. It was the first time we’d been alone since the night of her performance at Teatro di San Carlo. She turned to me with a wide smile on her face. “I am a Fausti,” she said.
“You are, officially.”
Our eyes searched—green against green—but perhaps the only truth we both found was her fascination with my family, and my fascination with her voice. Perhaps she sensed this. She cleared her throat and began to serenade me through the ancient streets of Rome. Crowds gathered around to catch a glimpse of the magical bird that was giving them a free taste of Italian culture.
Some of the patrons clapped as we moved past them, screaming, “ Bravo! ”
Rosaria ate it up.
Instead of a bird, I was wondering if she was more like a ham.
The thought made me grin, wishing it would have endeared her to me some, but for whatever reason, it did not. I would have told her that, but a woman would never find it amusing to be compared to a pig, in cuteness or not. Her face was already pinched at the grin on my face. I could tell she wanted me to clap and throw myself at her feet, like one of her fans would have done.
I gave her a soft “ bravo ,” because the performance was stellar, but it did not go beyond that. In this setting, she had produced a beautiful sound, but something was missing from it.
The truth that had pulled me closer to her on that stage—the truth that had sealed both of our fates.
As the horses stopped galloping in front of Villa Medici, we were thrust forward some before settling, and I fixed my tux as I stepped out of the carriage first. I gave Rosaria my hand and she took it, but we separated right after, only standing close to each other for the cameras and our guests.
Nonno was the first to greet us. Rosaria all but bowed to him, telling him how proud she was to be a part of the Fausti famiglia . He nodded to her, and after nodding to me, disappeared into the night to find food, drink, and men he was known to find deep conversation with. One of them being Mac Macchiavello’s grandfather, Pasquale Ranieri. Mac was not his real name, but a moniker. Mac had a lot going on in New York, and only my family knew the truth. Mac and I went back a long time, and he was one of the smartest men I knew.
My grandfather said Mac inherited his smarts—both book and street—from Pasquale. Pasquale had been a world-renowned poet and novelist. He’d won the Nobel Prize in Literature in the 1970s. My grandfather found the contrast between the two of them to be fascinating. The two men argued a lot, but it was all in the name of the two sides they stood for. My grandfather with a sword. Pasquale with a pen.
Mac and I both stood with a sword, even though he was a genius when it came to technology. I could handle my own in that regard, but I had a feeling that, if a Nobel Prize was available for computer literacy, Mac would have won it.
After I introduced my wife to Mac, and she stared openly at the scar around his throat, she broke from me and went to a cluster of women, who surrounded her. She was showing off her sparkling new wedding rings.
Mac took a drink of his whiskey. “The wife sick of you already?” He spoke fluent Italian and Sicilian, but Mac had lived in New York most of his life, and he had a slight accent, not to mention a raspy voice. A war in New York had almost left him for dead, hence the scar around his neck.
“Basking in the new Fausti glow,” I said, nodding to my personal wait staff. The man had a drink in my hand before I could blink again.
Mac looked between us, and his brow furrowed. “The Fausti glow, ah?”
“You know the one.”
He said nothing as he drank his whiskey straight. And when a woman I had the pleasure of spending a couple of nights with, Angela, walked up with tears in her eyes, Mac mumbled, “the one she has no chance to bask in now,” and left us alone.
The woman was not wearing a glow, but a cloud of blue.
“Ro-cc-oo,” she screeched, then started to wail. “I can-not b-b-believe you are m-m-married to that she-d-d-devil!”
Everyone in close proximity turned to stare. Rosaria stopped talking and narrowed her eyes, but she did not move to my side. She watched the scene unfold, and when Dario took Angela by the shoulders and steered her away from me, Rosaria turned away, waved her hand, like the scene was nothing, and went back to her conversation. A few minutes later, Rosaria moved to Mac’s side and was attempting to talk to him. Mac was the least verbose man I knew. It was not long before he walked away from my new wife, taking a seat next to his grandfather, keeping his wary eyes on the party.
It looked as if Rosaria did not know what to do with herself once she found herself alone. I watched her back as she watched what was our wedding reception. All the guests dressed in their best gowns and tuxedos. The fine livery. The expensive China and crystal. The ornate gold and cream chairs in Baroque style. The long tables filled with food, drink, flowers, and candlelight. The architecturally stunning facade of Villa Medici from its lavish gardens. Lion statues were placed throughout. The view beyond of Rome Eternal burning with the lights of the night.
It was then that I saw Rosaria Caffi for the woman she truly was.
The world was her stage, and if she did not feel she had a part, the curtain would come down. As stunning as her voice was—that true place inside of her—she was an equally brilliant actress: she gave the world whatever face fit into the scene in that moment in time. The woman used her voice to sing her truth, and her face to hide her lies.
Her entire life would be a play on the tragedy of life.
How all beginnings undoubtedly come to an end.
In this, we were the same.
My grandfather stepped next to her, and she turned to him, a blazing smile on her face. She nodded after he said something, and taking her hand, led her to the dance floor. He twirled her around it like an old-fashioned knight in a storybook.
The dance over, my grandfather took her hand and bowed to her. She nodded at something he said.
Nonno’s eyes met mine from across the lawn as he navigated back to the spot with the old men smoking cigars and savoring the taste of expensive drinks. Even though I knew my grandfather well, he could keep his face void of any emotion when he wanted to keep his opinion to himself. He had enjoyed the dance, but there was something troubled about his eyes. Perhaps he did not find Signora Rosaria Caffi as enchanting when she wasn’t singing. I understood this feeling.
Dario danced with her next. Followed by Romeo.
I danced with her sister, Abree, who went on and on about how much she was enjoying spending time with my brother.
“You will be my brother-in-law twice over!” She seemed to relish the idea. “Can you imagine? Both Caffi daughters married to Fausti brothers!”
She did not give me a chance to agree or not before she started to speak again. I gave her hand to Dario as I went for another drink, my eyes still on my new wife. She had broken away from a throng of men asking her to dance to speak to a beautiful woman who she seemed to know well. They leaned in close and, looking at me, turned back to each other and laughed. It was not as if they were laughing at me, but about a secret.
My eyes narrowed as I downed a strong drink. I sighed as I downed another.
This was the beginning of our life together.
Our first moments as husband and wife.
Our first steps into the world as a united front.
A million miles seemed to come between us, and I wondered, downing another drink, if this entire day stood for a sign of times to come.