Chapter Seventeen #2
Without touching the rest of his plate, Charlie says, “Then I guess I’ll make an early start of it.” He stands, casting a long shadow over their table.
“Allow me to call my driver for you,” Dario says.
“I’d rather bike to the train station if it’s all the same to you.”
There is no malice in the words, but Dario’s stomach sinks regardless. Sending Charlie off alone is not sitting right with him. “If you are sure,” Dario says.
“I am,” Charlie says with the weakest smile imaginable. “Stay cool today!”
Somewhere during hour three of watching The Luxurious Ladies of Provence, the front door to the villa flies open. Emilio’s voice penetrates the otherwise calm house. Michelle perks up, while Dario groans to himself.
At least it provides a break from what might well be the inanest show he has ever had the displeasure of watching.
Not that he gets that many hours to watch TV anyway with his busy work life, but still, if he and Michelle were to wed, on their Venn diagram of shared interests, this show would not sit in the middle oval.
In the entryway, Emilio stands in front of a man in baggy pants and a backwards hat who holds a large camera. Emilio talks a mile a minute about how he grew up in Villa Meraviglia and runs through all the great times he had there.
“What’s going on right now?” Dario asks, forgoing a greeting.
The cameraman swings the lens toward Dario. He shields his eyes from the searing spotlight strapped to the front. Without being able to see her, Dario senses Michelle straighten and hears her step forward to join him, peacocking once she does.
Emilio continues talking as if Dario hadn’t spoken. “This is my brother—mio fratello—Dario. He is the loner, homebody type. And who is this lovely lady?”
Michelle fawns as Emilio leans in to kiss her on both cheeks. “Michelle Trottier from France.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Michelle Trottier from France. You’re one of Dario’s little contest winners?” he asks. The snideness causes Dario’s skin to crawl.
“I guess so,” Michelle says.
“Didn’t think you’d catch any cuties, Dar,” Emilio says, jutting an elbow into Dario’s stomach.
He grunts both from the impact and the annoyance of having to deal with his brother in his space.
Emilio skipped university, married young, and moved out right away.
Dario couldn’t have been happier about it all.
“Can you point that away from me?” Dario asks. When the guy in the hat makes no move to comply, Dario shoves the camera out of his face. His patience runs thin when Emilio is around.
Emilio rolls his eyes. “Craig, fine, stop rolling.”
From behind Craig and the bulbous piece of recording equipment, Dario’s mom appears. April Cotogna seems as flabbergasted by her youngest son as Dario is. Dario rushes in to hug her.
“What are you doing here?” Dario asks, relieved to see her.
“I have a few nights off from the tour, so I flew in to see how you were doing with the contest. I told your brother it would be nice if he came along for support. I found Craig with him when I picked him up at his place,” April explains.
“Craig goes where I go,” Emilio says, leaning up against a wall with one arm. He talks to Michelle with a closeness that is unbecoming of a married man.
“Who is Craig?” Dario asks, needing to find a foothold in this conversation.
Craig speaks for himself, “I’m an American filmmaker and producer dipping my toe into the reality TV space.
I reached out a year ago about doing a documentary on how Amorina is one of the leading chocolate manufacturers in sustainability and global initiatives, but schedules never aligned with Cosimo Sr. and documentary funding is slim.
Right after your grandfather’s passing, Emilio messaged saying he had a great idea for a reality show. ”
Michelle interjects, “Did you say reality show?”
“He did, bella,” Emilio says while clapping Craig on the back.
“We are pitching this package as Succession meets The Real Housewives. My producing partners back in the US loved the idea, so I hopped on the first flight I could to get out here and start shooting for a fiery pilot episode,” he says.
Dario shakes his head. “Did you know about this?” he asks his mother.
“Only as much as they told me in the car ride over,” she says, holding up her hands in presumed innocence.
A headache builds slowly at the base of his neck and grows stronger as he speaks. “I do not consent to having any part in this.”
“We’ll just blur out your face then,” Emilio says, unfazed and with oodles of little-brother defiance.
“Everyone will obviously know it’s me,” Dario contests.
“Fine, then consent and it won’t matter.” Emilio smirks beneath his patchy mustache.
“You’re not even inheriting Amorina. You know I have until my thirty-second birthday to marry before it passes on to you. My birthday is still three months away,” Dario says.
Craig hoists the camera back up into position and starts rolling again. Dario refuses to look like a yowling monster in whatever nonsense this footage inevitably becomes, so he refrains from making any bigger scene.
Emilio looks about the villa. “I’m not seeing many suitors left, Dario, and as far as I can tell Mademoiselle Trottier isn’t wearing an engagement ring.” He hooks her hand in his, and she leans into the forward gesture.
“I still have time,” says Dario feebly.
“Tick, tock. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste any of it before snatching up this beautiful woman,” Emilio says in a near sickening singsong.
“You’re forgetting you have a wife,” says Dario pointedly. “Where is she, by the way?”
“She is in Greece visiting her family. Must you be such a buzzkill?” Emilio asks.
“Must you be such a nuisance?” Dario retorts.
“Must you—”
“Boys!” April shouts. “You fought less when you were children. Act like the grown men you are.”
“One of us is not grown,” Dario says under his breath.
“One of us is hardly a man,” Emilio says, then shoulder-checks Dario. Hard enough that he stumbles back into a table displaying a clay vase that has been in the family for centuries.
Unable to stop himself and unwilling to let Emilio waltz in here and do whatever he pleases, Dario shoves back. That shove turns into a push and the push escalates into a frenzied tangle of arms and legs. Before he knows it, Dario is red-faced and reaching for his brother, slapping at empty air.
“You are such a prick,” Dario says, heat making his skin itchy beneath his many layers.
“Boys! Both of you. Take a walk and cool off,” April demands, stepping between her sons with hands outstretched.
Dario lets out a loud, bullish exhale before straightening his suit and tie.
Emilio, seemingly sensing a weak spot, lunges in, but April is too fast for him to outsmart her. “Walk it out. Cool off. Now!”
Mama’s boys through and through, Dario and Emilio splinter off in separate directions. Craig never stops rolling, even for a second.