Prologue #2
Marco exhaled deeply, relief flooding him despite his certainty that the reprieve was only temporary.
When Mr. Long finally departed, Marco remained in the drawing room with his mother and Angelo. He had expected it … dreaded it, even … and sure enough, Mamma wasted no time broaching the topic he most wished to avoid.
She cleared her throat softly, switching to English, a family tradition, one she insisted upon to honor the memory of Marco’s late father. “It is because of her, is it not? The girl who … died?”
Marco swallowed hard and rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand by the window overlooking the courtyard.
The scene beyond was tranquil. Potted plants were neatly arranged around a graceful fountain featuring Eros as a boy poised with an outstretched bow and arrow.
Yet Marco’s gaze fixed upon nothing before him, his thoughts drawn instead to a distant memory weighted with innocence lost.
It had been years ago when he first met the Dashwoods.
Their visit to Florence had a dual purpose, to introduce their young son to the wonders of the city’s art and architecture and to seek a warmer climate with renowned therapies for their ailing daughter, Catherine Dashwood.
A fragile English rose, Catherine had frozen Marco in place the moment he saw her.
She was so delicate, so achingly beautiful, so unlike the spirited Italian girls who surrounded him.
She seemed otherworldly, an intrusion of quiet grace into his familiar world.
Englishmen often visited Florence during their Grand Tour, but unwed Englishwomen were rare indeed, and Catherine’s arrival had changed everything for Marco.
The Dashwoods had sought treatment at his family’s business, the renowned Antica Spezieria di San Lorenzo.
After exhausting every option in London, they turned to the pharmacy’s traditional remedies, prescribed by Catherine’s Florentine doctor.
Marco’s grandfather, learning that the Dashwood boy required a tutor, had offered Marco’s services.
It had been his first work outside the pharmacy, a thrilling new responsibility.
Catherine, despite her frailty, had often accompanied their outings.
Together, they visited the Uffizi Gallery and Pitti Palace, where Marco had introduced them to the masterpieces housed within those hallowed halls.
Marco had always been captivated by all things English, a fascination born of the father he never had the chance to know, who had died shortly after Marco’s birth.
But no curiosity about his heritage had ever matched his intrigue with Catherine Dashwood.
With her flaxen hair, delicately sculpted features, and striking blue eyes, Catherine embodied what he imagined a British lady to be—graceful, demure, and heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Yet beneath that fragility lay a quiet strength, a composure that soothed his exuberant Latin spirit and drew his thoughts, unbidden, toward the land of his father’s birth.
It had not taken long for Marco to fall hopelessly in love.
Young and na?ve, he had been slow to recognize the truth …
the shadow of death that clung to Catherine, draining her vitality with each passing day.
In time, it became undeniable. Week by week, she faded before his eyes, her presence at the galleries growing infrequent until she could no longer join their outings at all.
Her parents, perhaps sensing how short her time was, allowed Marco to visit her at their villa.
Those moments were both a privilege and an exquisite torment.
Catherine had never complained of her condition, never revealed a hint of bitterness, meeting his attentions instead with quiet gratitude.
Yet the changes in her were impossible to ignore.
Her slender frame grew gaunter, and her luminous eyes appeared ever larger as her features hollowed.
And then, one quiet night, death came for her, a dark veil descending to claim the fragile life that had so enchanted him.
Marco received the news the next morning, the Dashwood household cloaked in mourning.
Though he had known it was inevitable, the loss struck him like a thunderbolt, shattering his young heart into a thousand pieces.
Foreknowledge had offered no protection against the blow.
Even now, the memory of Catherine’s death squeezed at the seat of his emotions beating within his left breast, the ache as sharp and fresh as it had been that first day.
“I have no interest in England.”
His mother’s expression softened when he looked at her, her tone brimming with sympathy. “I understand your … sentimenti?”
“Feelings,” he corrected reflexively, the word slipping out before he had time to think.
“Yes, feelings.” She nodded, her dark eyes growing distant. “I wish you had not endured such pain at so young an age.”
“You were not much older when our father died,” Marco countered gently. It was true. He had been a babe in her arms, and Angelo had been little more than a curve beneath their mother’s heart.
Her lips pressed into a wistful line. “Your father loved his home. Leaving it broke his heart, but he chose me. We came back to Florence to build a life together.” She paused, her gaze turning inward.
“Sometimes I wonder … ought I have set him free? Would he still be alive if he had not returned to Tuscany?”
Marco spun on his heel, crossing the room with swift purpose. Dropping to a crouch beside her chair, he placed a hand over hers. “You cannot think like that, Mamma. If he had stayed in England, I would not be here. Nor Angelo. Nor Elena!”
At the mention of his younger sister, a spirited girl born of Bianca’s second marriage, his mother’s lips curved, but it was not the smile Marco expected. Instead, she quirked her head, raising her brows in quiet amusement.
Marco frowned, trying to decipher the meaning behind her expression. His emotions were raw, his thoughts scattered, and he could not immediately discern what he had said to provoke such a look.
Angelo stirred from his languid sprawl, the light of realization sparking in his eyes as he sat up straight. “Ah, I see it now! Marco cannot regret the past because it has shaped who we are today. What has happened has happened. It cannot be undone, nor should it be!”
Marco gritted his teeth. “Per l’amor di Dio!”
“Marco!” His mother’s brow puckered, her tone sharp with reproach.
He exhaled deeply, softening his tone. “My apologies, Mamma.”
She regarded him for a moment, her expression softening once more. “I think this is important. You should see where your father was born and … scoprire?”
“Discover,” Marco supplied.
She nodded. “Yes, discover your roots.”
Angelo leaned forward, his enthusiasm apparent. “I shall accompany you, brother! I wish to find my roots as well. Who knows? Perhaps London stands in need of a Florentine pharmacy.”
Angelo’s fascination with herbal remedies and the family pharmacy was well known.
Yet, with so many uncles and cousins involved in the Romano business, his role had been limited to preparing medicines, a vital task but one that offered little room for advancement.
For months, Angelo had spoken of leaving Florence to establish a new endeavor, a place where Tuscan medicine could flourish.
But he had not taken that leap. Florence was not easily left behind.
The crowded family business had prompted Marco to seek independence, turning to tutoring Englishmen on their Grand Tour.
He had become a sought-after … what did they call it?
Capo dell’orso? Head of the bear. No … bear leader.
The title amused him, but it also brought a quiet sense of pride.
His work allowed him to live on his own terms, with rooms of his own and the ability to pay his way without relying on his grandfather’s generosity.
Federico Romano rarely spoke of such things, but Marco could sense his quiet approval. His grandfather was proud that Marco had forged his own path as a trusted tutor to the English.
Marco’s hand slipped into his pocket, his fingers brushing the engraved surface of his father’s gold pocket watch. The familiar weight was comforting, steadying him as he turned over the dilemma in his mind.
“I shall think on it,” he finally said, though it was more a means of delaying the inevitable than a true decision.
He needed to take a brisk walk.
Making a quick escape, Marco promised to return for dinner to continue the discussion. For now, the crisp winter air was a welcome reprieve. His boots struck a steady rhythm on the cobblestones as he strolled past elegant homes and entered one of Florence’s bustling main roads.
As he walked, his gaze instinctively lifted to Brunelleschi’s magnificent octagonal dome.
The soaring structure of the great cathedral never failed to inspire reverence in him.
The marble cladding gleamed in the afternoon light, its vibrant patterns presenting a feast for the eyes.
Marco paused, allowing himself a moment to savor the view, before resuming his pace toward a favorite caffè.
Marco claimed a table overlooking the bustling street and sipped his coffee as he waited for his friends to arrive, grateful for the prearranged meeting to provide distraction from the morning’s revelations.
Sebastian and Lorenzo appeared together, locked in a heated argument, entirely oblivious to Marco’s presence.
“We need to get the painting back. It is time to leave Florence, Sebastian! It is the only way forward,” Lorenzo declared, his voice fraught with frustration.
“I shall not. We shall find another way,” Sebastian replied, his tone implacable.
“We have tried! Porca miseria!” Lorenzo exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. His agitation was unmistakable as he paused to order his coffee at the counter. Turning back to Sebastian, he added sharply, “Are you a coward, to hide from a woman in this manner?”