3. Eternal Winter
Chapter 3
Eternal Winter
T he meeting with my father had ended. Rosaria stormed through the villa in Maranello after, though she did not break anything. She kept her fists balled and her feet in a straight line, the tempest around her causing her hair to flow behind her as if it had a mind of its own.
She had tested me. She had tested my father.
The tests were answered.
Even though Rosaria had been caged by my father’s order, it would not stop her from taking her revenge. As they say, if there is a will, there is a way.
Perhaps, if Rosaria would have her way, Chloe would find herself in the same situation again with the hazelnuts, or even worse. That was the end goal. If Chloe could not be frightened away, Rosaria would resort to murder.
If this was an acceptable practice between the men, why not the women?
Especially if it was a sacrifice for the greater good of the famiglia . I did not enjoy being inside of Rosaria Caffi’s mind, but regardless of my preferences, I knew how her mind worked, since it mirrored the mind of any man in the Fausti famiglia .
Rosaria accepted death as part of the life—a means to an end .
If a man disobeyed, he would be punished. If he continued to mock our rules, he would be killed. If the offense was personal, his heart would be stolen.
This had become personal to Rosaria.
She was disappointed in Massimo for choosing Chloe De Bourbon as his bride over the family. Disappointed in me for allowing the marriage and not forcing Massimo to challenge Matteo. Disappointed in my father for allowing me to allow the marriage. Disappointed in Brando Fausti for showing up, casting a glow on our entire family with the tender light his wife held inside of her. It was not the red hue she would prefer. It was much too soft and not fit for our ruthless famiglia.
Sì , Rosaria Caffi could stand against a man in our family with her unfeeling coldness, but she could never truly call herself a Fausti. Balance. She did not have it. She was entirely ruthless, not able to find the romance in life. Perhaps before she had. She had found some situations growing close to her heart. The romance inside of her died when she allowed the ruthlessness that she craved to consume her, therefore, consuming me. However, I could still think clearly enough to make acceptable decisions. She had lost the ability to see anything past her desires, even to a small degree.
Rosaria had been consumed by Rosaria.
Sighing, I took my glass of whiskey to the balcony, looking out at the frozen world behind my villa. The cars were quiet today. Usually, the racing team the Angeli family owned could be heard. The track was not far.
The same track I had raced my older brother on years ago.
As they usually did, a barrage of memories seemed to attack me.
What I had held.
What I did not still hold.
What satisfied me.
What I still craved .
What I knew.
What I still did not.
The did not were empty dreams that had never came to fruition. As Rosaria had made slashes across my skin over the years, these dead ghosts made them across my soul. The heart in my chest was nothing but a weary lion retreating into the shadows and licking his wounds—the only sustenance he had, his own blood.
The arrangement between Rosaria and I seemed to grow from my spent lion’s thoughts.
We never had a true love, but at one time, perhaps we had something more powerful than that between us.
Understanding.
I had come to understand her. She had come to understand me. Somewhere in the middle, we met and created acceptance. Acceptance that was able to grow what resembled love between us.
At this time, we had retreated to who we were from the start, but with barbs and claims that we could not free ourselves from. If she went left and I went right, we would tear each other apart.
My father had given me permission to make my own choice when it came to our marriage. Perhaps he had felt I was too much of a rule-keeper when it came to the laws of my famiglia to free myself by my own heart’s decree. However, my father perhaps did not understand my loyalty to Rosaria because his relationship with his first wife was overshadowed by the true love of his life, Margherita Granchio. His story was separated into two parts that acted out at once, a split screen to enhance the contrast between the two acts.
I also had two acts, but one was filled with characters and places, sights and smells, and one was empty save for myself and the lion in my chest. That side had forever searched. It would be eternally starved in a frigid winter.
From the balcony next to the one connected to the master suite, Rosaria stepped out in the cold air, hair billowing behind her, her fingers trailing along the frigid stone, and did not spare me a glance. Her face was turned up at the world defiantly, but when she sang, it was a haunting melody that saturated the barbs inside of me with water while the cold weather froze them over to ice.
I shivered from the sharpness of it against warm bone.
She finished what was left of my heart—froze it to ice.
And it seemed as if the ruthless truth in her song carried us into late spring, but the cold did not recede. We were frozen in a time and place neither of us could break free from.
Rosaria used Maranello as her cage, unless my father requested her presence somewhere else. This was a tremulous time for the famiglia. My father would retire soon, and my name had been given as the next ruler. If it seemed as if my wife and I were on shaky ground, a challenge might spring up from the cracks and cause a war. I welcomed a challenge, but with Margherita’s health scare, I did not want her to worry. Over the years, she had become a warm maternal figure in my life, even if did not seem to come naturally to her.
There was also my nephew, Matteo, who would assume my role in the family once the event in Venice, planned for November, was complete. Matteo had recently rescued his heart from the Nemours, and they were learning how to live together. Since Matteo was my spare, my challenge would become his.
A great deal to consider.
In Rosaria’s opinion, considering was weak. We did not consider Margherita’s health or Matteo’s newfound love. We considered the famiglia only, even though the family believed in giving a man an entire year to grow close to his wife.
Rosaria considered the famiglia, first and foremost , as she created war between my nephew’s heart, Stella, and herself. As she continued to sabotage our son’s happiness with Chloe. Plans would be made for the wedding, and she or her sister would call and cancel them, claiming the couple had split and would not be getting married. Other times, she would call and correct the names that should be printed .
Massimo & Ornella
instead of
Massimo & Chloe
At Brando and Scarlett’s farmhouse, Rosaria had invited Ornella, the actress who my son had been considering marrying before he met Chloe, into his bed while Chloe painted in the Tuscan fields. Chloe found them and did not take it well. She believed Massimo’s word when he said he did not touch the woman, but it was Rosaria who Chloe had had enough of.
Her wicked tongue. Her wicked scheming.
My son’s heart had had enough.
His heart was failing because of it.
Rosaria had killed it in the name of his last name.
In the span of less than a month, Rosaria had overshadowed the true love between my oldest son and his intended, causing her to run home and hide from him. She had also sent our third son, Marzio, after my nephew’s new wife, Stella, and he had pulled a snake on her. These were dishonorable actions in the eyes of my father, of our family. Since Marzio was named after my grandfather, that name was wiped from his record. He would be called after his middle name. Tiziano.
It was not only a dishonorable act to my son, but to me .
The family kept their distance, but they came sniffing around when my son, Massimo, followed Chloe home. Whether she was attempting to get away from him or to hurt him back, Chloe decided to marry someone from the small town Brando and Scarlett were from. My son killed the man and stole his heart. His judge and jury became my father. Since my father had once been where my son was, he decided to not intervene and to allow a justice system outside of ours to put him on trial and sentence him.
This only fed Rosaria’s quest for power. She was satisfied. She had done all this scheming from a gilded prison of my father’s making.
My father’s making? It was by her own making .
However.
Chloe was out of the picture.
Our son was serving a sentence for stealing a man’s heart in his heart’s honor—this was the only type of romance Rosaria could stand. The kind with raw pieces tinged with blood in the center of it.
Rosaria did not even consider Tiziano’s fate when she sent him after Stella to cause harm. Rosaria claimed it was in retribution to Stella holding a knife to her throat, but the strife was between two women. It should have kept between them. If Rosaria would have assaulted Stella in retribution, the offense would have been forgiven—if we give, we must remember we will take in return. Stella claimed Rosaria called her mamma a whore. Rosaria had taken the first strike then. To call someone’s mamma such a derogatory term was the equivalent of a knife swipe.
After Massimo was jailed, the family started to wake up and sniff around. They had started to smell blood behind our gates. Of course, Rosaria knew this, and perhaps sent the scent in the air on purpose as a show of defiance.
Time moved forward regardless, and the scent was only going to increase after my father “requested” a meeting with me at my villa in Maranello, which Matteo and Stella were to attend. It was an odd request. Most business meetings were held at my father’s place in Lucca. Even odder, Rosaria was requested to be present as well.
Scarlett and Brando’s youngest son, Maestro, arrived with my father. Rosaria stood at the top of the staircase and stared down at us. After Maestro waved to her, she turned and left. After I greeted my father, I squeezed Maestro’s shoulder, and he went in search of the piano while we prepared for business. Maestro was a gifted musician and composer. He would make a name for himself in that world someday. He was even interested in becoming a conductor.
My father’s eyes hadn’t moved from the staircase. The spot where Rosaria had been empty and dark .
“ Gelido ,” he almost whispered to the spot his eyes were frozen on. I had missed the first part of his comment, but I believe he had said the area where Rosaria had been standing had grown cold. He turned to me directly after, ripping his eyes away. “We will have two additional guests at this meeting.”
I did not narrow my eyes at his statement or question it, a deeply embedded instinct to follow the leader stopping me, but I felt the oddness of this all.
A few minutes later, my nephew and his wife arrived with their son, Luca, named after my father. He smiled at me, his stormy blue eyes taking in my face. I touched his chin, and his smile seemed to widen.
My nephew and his wife parted, revealing the two new guests behind them: a woman around my age with a leather purse across her body and a child sitting on her hip. The child was around the same age as Luca. He was a smaller version of my son. Of me. The woman stepped inside, attempting to be brave. Her unsure eyes and the too-firm set of her lip gave her unease away.
The woman nodded at me. “ Signore Fausti,” she said in a prim and proper voice.
“Clairee De Bourbon,” my father said, giving me the woman’s name. “My son, Rocco Fausti.”
“I am charmed,” I said.
“Nice to meet you,” Clairee said with a cut and dry tone.
“This is not business,” my father said. “This is personal. We will discuss this at the dining table.”
Stella did not usually bother herself with our business, and since this was not, she was including herself in this personal issue. Fixing my suit, I followed behind my father, Matteo and his family followed behind me, and the woman and the child followed last.
My father reached the dining room first, and as if on cue, Rosaria stepped out of the shadows and stepped next me. Her face was void of any expression, though I knew she and the woman’s eyes had met. I had caught the slight grin on the woman’s face. It was not a grin of pleasure, but one a person would wear while handing out retribution.
Matteo held the chair for his wife, and I held the chair for Clairee. No one held out Rosaria’s chair. She wanted a man’s position. As she wished. She did not outwardly show or speak her displeasure, but her hands balled into fists.
Papà tapped his finger against the table, leaving us in suspense, until he cleared his throat. He nodded toward the child in Clairee’s arms. “He is Massimo’s son. Rocco’s grandson. My great-grandson. Michelangelo Rembrandt Fausti.”
Rosaria sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes on Michelangelo. Michelangelo stared at me, his eyes wide, but not afraid. More curious.
“Chloe’s mamma would like to explain the rest.” Papà nodded at Clairee.
She sat up straighter and reached into her purse, removing a folded piece of paper. She read from it a message from Chloe. It explained that before her wedding, and after Massimo had killed the man she was to marry, she and Massimo had been together. Her heart’s decision to separate was made of stone, but her flesh had been weak. She could not control her hands, as Michelangelo could not when he created one of his masterpieces. Michelangelo Rembrandt Fausti was she and my son’s masterpiece come to life.
“Give him to me,” Rosaria interrupted, about to stand. “He belongs here. He will be raised in this life. It is his birthright.”
“Not so fast, Rosari o, ” Clairee said purposely mispronouncing—or not—Rosaria’s name. “Let me finish the letter my daughter wrote. That’s the least you can do, seeing as you are the ruination of her life.” The woman started reading before Rosaria could speak another word.
“Rosaria Caffi will never touch my son. She will never dim his light as she dimmed the light between Massimo and me. That’s why I’m writing this letter. I may not be sound of heart, but I am of sound mind when I express these wishes.
“Michelangelo Rembrandt Fausti will live with Luca and Maggie Beautiful, and maybe Matteo and Stella Fausti can help whenever they can. Our son will be raised in the Fausti way, since I am not a part of this family and never wish to be. But it is his birthright, and I don’t want to take from him what has already been stolen. My mom and I could raise him together, but I don’t think we’ll be enough in time. If he stumbles on his family in Italy at some point in his life, I refuse to allow it to be Rosaria Caffi who causes his fall.”
“I am sorry, Signore Fausti ,” Clairee repeated the last lines of the letter, looking directly at me as she did. She had purposefully enunciated Signore Fausti , as if in speaking for Chloe, she did not even want to make a mistake through her heartfelt letter. Rosaria had made her daughter feel as if she was not worthy when she had called me “Mr.” during the engagement party.
Rosaria shot up from her chair. “Give him to me!” she ordered Clairee.
“Sit down, Rosaria,” my father ordered. He did not scream, but the threat underneath his command was there.
Rosaria slowly got to her seat, her fists balling underneath the table this time. She turned her eyes on me. I kept mine on my grandson. Suddenly, my arms felt empty. When he started to cry, his eyes overflowing with tears, but not screaming out, Clairee attempted to console him by bouncing him on her knee. When that did not work, she asked me if I would like to take him.
“ Sì ,” I said, going to him. He came right into my arms as if he had been a part of my chest all along. After the remaining tears fell, he was content, splaying his hands on the table and looking around it. When his eyes met Luca’s, his cugino , Luca assumed the same position and started to make an ah, ah, ah noise, which Michelangelo started to mimic.
Rosaria seemed satisfied. As if I would defy Chloe’s wishes in return for hers. She sat up taller, as if she had a bargaining chip in her arms. She looked at my father. “What does this mean for Michelangelo’s future? If he lives with you? Matteo? Does that mean he becomes a son of their blood? Will he be second in line to lead?”
This question made Stella’s eyes narrow. She was going to speak up, but before she could, her husband seemed to give her hand a light squeeze. I could not help but look at them and feel awe at the way fate played her hand. Rosaria had attempted to arrange Massimo’s marriage to Ornella. He met Chloe, and his one heart had found a home. My nephew found his star, his Stella, in the underground darkness of the Nemours’ dance scene. She rose above it, finding her place in my nephew’s darkness instead, and then she became the star my wife had wished for our son to marry. Stella had become an actress, performing in Italian-based pictures.
Perhaps life was unfolding as it was because Rosaria had attempted to control it as well.
My father studied Rosaria as he tapped his fingers against the table. “What this means, Rosaria Caffi, is that you are no longer a part of this meeting. Your part in this scene of the story has come to an end.” He nodded toward the door, dismissing her.
It was not that my father disliked Rosaria. He had respect for her drive. Her fierce nature. Even her passion when it came to our family. However, my father had seen men become possessed with control. He was seeing it in Rosaria. The need for control controlled her.
She stood slowly from her spot, setting her hands on the table as our grandson had, before she took her leave. It seemed as if all the tension in the room left with her. The two women sitting at the table relaxed. Even the men. If it was a man standing against us, it would not matter, but a woman was a different creature altogether.
As Michelangelo kept quiet in my arms, content, we discussed the situation. Clairee explained that her daughter was of sound mind when she wrote the letter, but she was not sound emotionally.
“I can’t tell you how hard this is.” Clairee took a deep breath. “ My daughter cries tears of blood, and her son cries, and no one can console him. This is the first time I’ve seen him content since we brought him home.”
I nodded. “We will take care of him.” I fixed his dark hair.
Michelangelo looked up at me and smiled.
I grinned at him, touching his chin.
Handing him to Matteo, I felt as anguished as if I had lost my second heart to a wasteful situation. However, this was what made a king a king, separating him from the rest of the monarchy. The famiglia came first, as those we love came first. We do what we must for their best interests.
Michelangelo narrowed his eyes at me when he was settled into Matteo’s arms. But he did not cry. He stared at me, and I nodded to him, a silent vow between the two of us. I would be around. He was not alone.
Luca, the namesake of my father’s, made a noise at him, and Michelangelo turned away from me, getting to know the cugino that he would one day consider his fratello .
Clairee had stood from her seat, and she set her hand on my arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Chloe knew she could trust you with her baby.”
Matteo and his wife stood after my father did. Stella set her arm on mine before she left. “If anything changes…he’s their son,” she whispered. “We’ll always remember that, but we’re honored Chloe included us to care for Michelangelo.”
My father squeezed my shoulder before he left.
I stared at the empty seat where my first-born son had once sat, where my first-born grandson had just sat, until the light dimmed, and darkness cast itself upon me.