Chapter 5 Fon
Fon
‘You’re a man now,’ Dante grinned, slapping him hard on the shoulder before tugging on the mooring rope and jumping aboard Allegra. ‘How does it feel?’
Fon didn’t reply as he passed over the ice box. It was heavy, and he felt the strain in his body. He felt wretched. He hadn’t slept a wink, spending the night staring at the ceiling and wondering how the hell it had all come to pass.
One minute he’d been helping Dante with the fireworks his brother had secretly smuggled earlier onto the roof; the next he’d run into Romola in the hall, drunk out of her mind and immediately all over him as she’d dragged him into her room.
How could he have been so dumb? He hadn’t even wanted her – at least, not before she’d done what she’d done.
How did she know how to do all that stuff?
She was his age, and before last night, he’d not got past second base! Was everyone more experienced than him?
He couldn’t erase Rafaella’s expression from his mind, seeing how her eyes had filled with tears, her mouth falling into a silent O before she’d turned and fled. He had ruined everything with her – and for what? To prove something to Dante and show his brother he could be a stud too?
He felt hollow inside, that was the truth of it; as if his entire life had been undone in an instant.
All those months of groundwork with Rafaella, trying to get her to see him as honourable, to show her he was worthy of her, meant nothing now.
She would never trust him again, and he didn’t blame her.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said, pulling bottles of Coca-Cola from the plastic crate and handing them to his brother one by one.
But Dante, sticking them into the ice, didn’t listen.
He never did. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, little brother.
I didn’t think you had it in you, bagging a Franchetti like that.
And your first time, too!’ He laughed, the sound morphing into a whistle.
‘I’d do the mother, for sure. She plays it cool, but I bet once she gets warmed up—’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Fon snapped, looking around to check no one on the other boats had heard.
If word was to get around … Besides, he had an uneasy feeling Cosimo was looking for a reason to go off on him.
They’d never been friends, but yesterday, as they’d brought the flowers in, Cosimo had looked at him with something close to contempt.
‘I just want to forget about it, OK?’ he hissed, even as the memories played on a loop in his mind.
He kept hearing Gina’s gasp as she burst in, immediately followed by Rafaella’s resounding silence …
If she had only screamed at him or thrown something at his head – as any of the other girls would have done – he might have been able to engage her somehow, but she had detached so completely it was like expecting a marble statue to bleed.
Her quiet dignity was one of the things he had always admired most about her, but now it shuttered her away from him and he had no idea how to reach her.
All around them, the port residents were in varying states of recovery.
The party had continued long into the night, music echoing around the small port until the sun came up.
The nonnas were now treading water at their preferred spot by the steps just past the marina, kept afloat by their strong arms and capacious bosoms. The fishermen had collectively decided to spend the day mending nets in the shade of the high harbour wall.
The women were in the wash-house, but Fon had passed by on his way down here and glimpsed them sitting on the step, laundry baskets by their feet as they talked.
From the snippets he had gleaned, much had happened after his early departure – Donatella and Antonia had gone skinny-dipping in the round pool; Silvana and her fiancé had been caught in an advanced stage of ‘heavy petting’ by Father Tommaso behind the jasmine wall; Gino and Luigi, abandoned by Gina, had got into trouble for letting off some leftover fireworks they’d found on the roof and narrowly missing one of the paparazzi gathered outside the gates in the hope of sighting Valentina Fabiani.
Giulieta Carosa had fallen into a bush, and the youngest Franchettis had stolen a bottle of Aperol and been found passed out in wheelbarrows in the garden store.
So far, Fon hadn’t caught a mention of his own name, nor Romola’s – much less the two connected together – and he was counting on his brother showing a little restraint for once.
Dante might want to shout from the rooftops about his brother’s trophy seduction, but more reputations than their own were at stake in this.
If word was to get out, Romola would be disgraced, Rafaella humiliated.
‘Hey!’ Dante cried jovially, straightening up as he looked past Fon. ‘So you decided to take me up on my offer, then?’
Fon turned to find Valentina Fabiani sashaying towards them as if she was on the red carpet at Cannes, rather than this tiny Puglian harbour.
The fishermen stopped their mending, mouths agape as she passed.
She wore tiny white shorts over a pink bikini, black sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
Fon thought she looked like a trifle – colourful and everything jiggling.
Two paparazzi were running ahead of her and taking photographs, but she ignored them so completely it was as if they weren’t even there.
‘Ah …!’
Fon registered the change in his brother’s tone. He saw how he straightened up, too.
‘Your son couldn’t join you, signore?’ Dante asked as Fon saw Filippo Franchetti bringing up the rear, carrying the towels and trying to stay out of shot.
‘I’m afraid Cosimo is feeling the worse for wear this morning,’ Filippo said drily.
He was wearing navy swimming shorts and a short-sleeved white shirt.
Fon, realizing he had only ever seen the duke in a suit, was surprised by how much younger he appeared.
There was little of the politician about him as he handed over the striped towels.
Dante rushed forward chivalrously to offer Valentina a supporting hand as she jumped aboard.
‘Well, we’re more than happy to assist you with hosting duties, signore,’ he said, but his attention was on the starlet as he gripped her fingers, holding her gaze longer than necessary.
‘I trust you enjoyed our little firework display last night, Signorina Fabiani?’
‘Oh! Those were yours, were they?’ Filippo asked, surprised. ‘We did wonder.’
‘I hope you didn’t mind, signore,’ Dante said. ‘We simply wanted to make the signorina’s trip here extra special. A way for us humble villagers to say welcome.’ He smiled obsequiously.
‘Indeed,’ the older man murmured, looking displeased by the impertinence of hijacking the party with their own celebrations.
But Dante was oblivious, watching as Valentina positioned herself prettily on the leather bench seat, crossing her legs delicately, a coy smile on her lips. She seemed well accustomed to favours, privileges and princess treatment.
Still the paparazzi were snapping away, and Fon, like the duke, tried to stay out of shot. Dante had no such reservations and casually pulled his black shirt over his head to reveal a bronzed torso rippling with muscles.
‘Have you water-skied before, signorina?’ he asked, balling up the shirt and throwing it into a compartment beneath the helm.
Fon saw Valentina’s gaze drag over him interestedly.
His brother knew exactly what he was doing – with Cosimo out of the picture, at least for the next few hours, the stage was set for him to make an impression without any competition.
‘… A few times, yes,’ she purred. ‘Remind me, what is your name again?’
Dante chuckled at the pushback; Fon knew his brother would be enjoying the challenge. She was no submissive local girl, grateful for his brief attention. ‘Dante Giannelli at your service, Signorina Fabiani,’ he said with a small bow. ‘And my brother, Alfonso.’
Fon nodded stiffly, feeling like he was caught in crosshairs as her gaze swept over him briefly, like the swinging, dispassionate beam of a lighthouse, before falling upon Dante again and staying there.
Fon looked down. His invisibility was like a cloak he wore at all times, but right now he was grateful for it.
Beautiful women brought nothing but trouble.
Dante clapped his hands together as Filippo settled himself on the bench seat too. ‘Well then, let’s get to it. The conditions are good today. The surface is like glass,’ he said. ‘Fon, cast off, will you?’
Fon unwound the thick rope and tossed it onto the quay, where it slapped across the leather shoes of one of the photographers as they fell back at last. Dante began expertly, one-handedly manoeuvring the boat from its mooring, a man in his element, as Fon looked around the beach in the vain hope of spotting Rafaella.
But even if he saw her, what would he say? Not the truth. He could never tell her why he’d done it. She deserved better than him, he knew that. She was the perfect woman in his eyes, but no matter what he did, he was always going to be an imperfect man.