Chapter One #2
She ducks her head back to her paper, evidently needing the safety of legalese to deliver this next part. “The will states that you get to be permanent owner of Amorina under one stipulation—you get married by your thirty-second birthday.” She offers no explanation, just a weak, sad smile.
At present, Dario is as far from married as one could be. He is out of the dating pool, shut off from the world on this hilltop. But he is quite close to turning thirty-two. Less than a year away from it.
“I’m confused,” he says, letting go of his mother’s hand and standing. Emilio snort-laughs. Dario shoots him a fiery glare that he hopes shuts him up. Though he knows not even a knife to the throat would shut Emilio up.
When they were younger, people often mistook them for twins.
They had the same modest height, the same hush puppy hazel eyes, and the same rosy, round cheeks.
If you found one running mud-stained through the garden, the other was always close behind, roaring like a monster in a game of make-believe only the two of them understood.
But as Emilio put on weight, grew a full beard and spoke with a lower register, Dario stayed the same.
His voice remained high and bright like his mother’s.
His cheeks got patchy at best. His body never became a trunk to boast a family tree on, instead remaining twiglike and shaky to any sudden breezes.
People treated Emilio like a man, including their venturesome father, and Dario like the second-born late bloomer.
Time and difference and eventually distance put an end to their playful, brotherly bond.
These days, they regard one another more as side effects of their parentage rather than true siblings.
“You have one year to marry, or you forfeit your inheritance,” Violetta says.
“That old bat!” Dario shouts, pacing across the floor.
He stops long enough for Violetta to produce a crisp envelope from the outer pocket of her fine leather attaché case. “He told me to give you this.”
His grandfather’s inscription in practiced cursive on the front of the envelope says: In case he calls me an old bat.
The card inside the envelope simply reads in Italian: Chocolate tastes sweeter with a little love.
Dario, seconds away from ripping out his hair, says, “This must be a joke.”
Violetta whips out another envelope. The outside reads: In case he says this must be a joke.
Dario’s eyes jump to the words on the card. Love is no joke.
“He can’t do this!” Dario shouts.
A third envelope. A third card. Cosimo Sr.’s written: I can, and I did.
Dario holds the three cards—a losing hand in whatever game his grandfather is playing—and flaps them about. “What am I supposed to do with these?” he asks. Exasperation echoes through the study.
He did not need to look at the outside of the next envelope to deduce what his grandfather wrote there. The envelope, unlike the others, is thick and weighty. Inside is not a card but a letter. A letter that unfolds dozens of times like a king’s scroll, sweeping across Dario’s newly shined shoes.
Tesorino,
As you know, my dearest nonna began Amorina Chocolates from her two biggest loves: sweets and her sweet, your great-great-grandfather.
Since then, love has been the main ingredient of both our recipe and our business model.
It is my belief that love is the reason Amorina Chocolates has had such success and staying power in the candy industry.
Since this is so…
There’s a plan, already in action. A harebrained plan.
A plan that is so outrageous that Dario steps away from his mother and brother who have been reading over his shoulders.
As he moves to the window, he nearly tears the scripture like a roll of toilet paper when he steps on its outlandish length.
Bathed in fresh sunlight, he tries and fails to make sense of this testimony.
But wasn’t that always the way? He understood that his grandfather could not be understood. Even in death, there are no exceptions, no differences. Cosimo Sr.’s powerful specter hangs there, suspended in the room. Dario half hears his booming laugh right in his ear.
Dario does not have the energy to read on. His eyes keep glazing over, and his mind keeps running seven words ahead. He cannot absorb any of this, too stuck in the aftershock, mired in the barbed wires of grief. “What happens if I say no to this? All of this?”
“It says it in—”
“Please tell me,” Dario says, hands clasping the pages so tightly he crumples them a little.
“I’ll go back and read it. Read it all. I promise.
” He means this, he does. Because this is the last correspondence his grandfather has written him.
He would cherish it for all eternity if it weren’t so set on catapulting him straight out of his comfort zone and into a thicket of never-ending panic attacks. “But right now, please just tell me.”
Violetta nods before putting her glasses on again. “Should Dario Cotogna not accept the terms of this will, the line of succession will skip to Emilio Cotogna immediately.”
Dario’s hand flies to his mouth, dropping the scroll. He is going to be sick.
“Fuck yeah,” Emilio says, fist-pumping the air.
“Em, not now,” says April, crossing to Dario. She wraps him in a hug that should be comforting but is not. Not even her familiar floral fragrance, underpinned by the dark chocolate they were all snacking on moments ago, calms his nerves.
“I’ll contest it,” Dario says, stepping out of his mother’s embrace. The heir apparent of Amorina Chocolates needs to be strong. He can do this alone, just as he’s done everything. Alone is how he is best. Minimizing the probability of betrayal and hurt and mistakes is the name of the game.
“Do you really want to take this to court?” Violetta asks.
The time, the money, the headache! Dario refuses to drag his family through that, but why. Why, from beyond the grave, must his grandfather punish him like this?
“No,” Dario confesses.
“Good boy,” says April.
“Yeah, good boy,” Emilio mocks, rosy cheeks jiggling with laughter. April smacks him on the arm. “Ow.”
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes fabulously. She does everything fabulously. Why could Dario not have inherited that from her? He would be fabulously married by now and this would be a total nonissue.
Dario swallows the fight hardening in his throat. “What do I have to do to make this happen?”
Agoraphobia drew strict boundaries around his world. Cosimo Sr. was aware of them before he passed. He might have been quirky, but he was never cruel.
“Nothing. You say the word and the whole plan, overseen by me, gets set into motion today.”
Dario stares out the study window. The in-ground pool sparkles in the sunshine.
Beyond it, Lake Trasimeno swans with life.
Boats speckle the wavy surface along with its famed islands, most of which are crawling with over-tanned tourists in funny hats saying grazie mille in unpracticed accents because they’re on vacation, seeing the world. Because why not.
Why not? That’s the new question that sails through the break of Dario’s thoughts.
He’s never been able to outwit his grandfather. This time, he should not even try. Instead, he must choose to accept.
“Va bene,” he says, without any true idea of what he’s agreeing to, “I’ll get married.”