Chapter 27 Cosimo
Cosimo
They were dancing. Her hand was in his, her breath against his neck as they moved with the music. He could feel the tiny contractions of her back muscles as they swayed, his fingers brushing over the embroidery on her dress, and it was as if they were completely alone.
He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when things had shifted between them.
It would be like capturing slackwater, identifying that one moment of stillness when the tides switched from one direction to another.
But somehow, amid the carnival of the wedding, the realization had crept upon him as the weight of their stares began to build: she felt the same.
Just the thought of it made him mad with joy.
All he wanted was to tear her from this room and take her somewhere private where he could make her promises, make her his.
But her sister was the bride, her mother was hysterical, her father drunk …
He’d had to wait, counting down the minutes until the obstructions between them began to part.
‘It’s hot in here,’ he murmured.
‘Yes.’ She turned her head just a little and he felt her hair, so soft, against his cheek.
He hesitated. ‘Do you want to go out for some air?’
‘Yes.’
He pulled back to look at her, feeling gravity shift and gather, tipping his world towards one inevitable point. Everything was about to change. He knew it, and so did she. No one took any notice of them, the childhood friends, as they walked past.
Outside, the moon was shining on the sea, but they heard voices from the terrace and, from a single shared look, it was understood they were going back to Villa Agosto – where they could be alone in a shaded garden, where they could hide in nooks, get lost in countless rooms.
They walked, her hand in his, in silence that was somehow deafening.
Chatter and laughter had always been the soundtrack to their friendship, but that wasn’t what this was anymore.
He could scarcely hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, only the staccato clip of her heels on the pavement as he watched her delicate shadow walking beside his. She was beautiful even in silhouette.
It was less than a minute’s walk from the reception to his grand garden gates, but it felt like it had taken them a lifetime to get here, and no sooner were they on the grass than he had clasped her head in his hands and was kissing her.
She didn’t resist; her desperation matched his, small gasps escaping her as he covered her face and neck in hundreds of kisses. She smelled so good – not like the girls in Rome with their Paris perfumes, but like fresh laundry, lavender on the breeze.
They stumbled on, locked together by grasping hands and hungry mouths, the shadows slipping over them as the moon played hide-and-seek through the lemon trees. In the distance, the music from the wedding still played, laughs and shouts of revelry pitching skywards like fireworks into the darkness.
A curved stone bench pressed against his legs and he realized they were near the round pool. Close, too close still, to the street.
He pulled away, leading her into a run towards the next garden, her laughter fluttering like a dove as they headed for the jasmine wall.
They kissed again, their desperation only building, not subsiding.
The first time, last summer, had been different – a sudden awakening, slow realization.
Shock had overtaken them both, lips pausing for eyes to absorb an unexpected truth.
But a year had passed in which that memory had become legend.
It had been held back for all that time but desire, like water, must flow.
He pushed her against the flowers, the scent springing up around them. Somewhere in here was a nook, but he couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t move his feet. He felt her press herself against him and knew he couldn’t hide what she was doing to him. There were no secrets left.
He groaned, surprised, as her hand moved to explore him, her mouth opening wider in reflex to what she found. He had to hold back somehow, he knew that, but he felt himself beginning to tremble with the effort. She was too much for him. All he wanted—
She pushed him back suddenly, and his eyes opened in alarm.
‘Rafa,’ he said weakly as she shimmied the tight dress up her hips.
‘I want to,’ she whispered.
There was no coming back. With one hand, he unbuttoned his flies, freeing himself and pinning her against the flower wall. She lifted herself onto him, her long legs gripping him tightly.
‘Say you’re mine,’ he groaned as he eased himself into her with what little control he had left. ‘For always.’
Her head fell back, her neck exposed, her arms wrapped around him. ‘Yes, yes,’ she whimpered, her breathing ragged in his ear and almost ending him before he’d begun. ‘I’m yours. I’m yours. For always.’
The refrigerator hummed loudly in the silence, its light glaring in the dark kitchen as he peered in at the plates of food left by Signora Cinzia: prosciutto, tomatoes, burrata, peaches, her signature millefoglie …
He was ravenous but completely sated, his body basking in the afterglow of claiming the girl he loved.
Twice. She was upstairs, lying on his bed, shy again now that the first waves of passion, which had consumed them like fire, were falling back to something steadier.
They had crept in like cats, furtive and stealthy as they strained for sounds of life, but they had soon been persuaded that the villa lay empty.
Only the sea breezes were tiptoeing through the arches and shuttered windows.
He had chased her through the rooms, unzipping her dress, slipping off her brassiere until she was wearing nothing more than that sweet smile.
He was dressed in only his boxers now and the chill wafted onto his bare chest as he reached in for a selection of antipasti and a bottle of prosecco. The glasses were kept in a high cupboard and they tinkled as he got them down with his good hand.
In all the passion, he had forgotten his broken thumb – or ignored it at least, his body receiving too many pleasure signals to register the dull pain; he could have lost a leg and still not stopped out there.
But it was throbbing again now, and he stacked the plate of food, the bottle and glasses awkwardly as he made his way back through the kitchen.
He walked through the sitting room towards the front of the villa.
The run of arches of the loggia lay beyond the main corridor and part of him had wanted to sit out there with Rafaella, looking out into the night and watching the stars reflected like diamonds in the sea.
But the bigger part wanted her in his bed.
He had waited too long to pass up that opportunity.
She was his wife. That much he already knew. She loved him for who he was, not what he was; with her, the world finally made sense. She was the lock and he was the key. They would only ever fit one another perfectly.
‘Cosimo!’
The sudden shout caught him off guard and he stopped in his tracks. The voice was fogged with drink, too thick and slurred to identify. He stepped out onto the loggia, silhouetted in the arch at the very centre point of the building as he looked down the long drive.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked into the darkness, peering around the stone urn.
‘… Is she here?’
He turned to see Fon staggering up the right side of the split stone staircase. He was holding on to the balustrade with one hand, swaying as if it was pitching beneath his feet. He looked wretched – pale, with dark moons cradled below his eyes, the inside of his lips ringed with red wine.
Cosimo realized he hadn’t given Fon any thought all night. Not once. He hadn’t seen him in church earlier, and afterwards he’d been too hypnotized by Rafaella to notice anyone else at all. He had entirely forgotten Alfonso Giannelli’s existence.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked quietly. Fon had never struck him as a menacing figure – not like his brother, who seemed to bristle with animalistic caprice – but it was unlike him to be this bold, this aggressive.
‘You heard me,’ Fon growled. ‘I said, is she here? They said they saw her with you!’ His head lolled a little but his eyes came to focus on Cosimo’s state of undress, the food, bottle and two wine glasses in his good hand. It told a story with no words.
In a flash, Fon knew. He caught his breath as the realization whipped through his body like a bullet, tipping him forward and back.
‘Ha!’ he cried, but the bark of laughter fell like a dead bird from the sky. He looked crazed with grief. ‘So then I’m too late … It’s done.’ His voice faded to a whisper.
‘Go home and sleep it off,’ Cosimo said quietly, watching him with concern. Fon wasn’t simply drunk; something bad had happened, he could tell. ‘This isn’t the time.’
‘… But it is the time. If I have to lose something precious, then so do you. It’s only fair,’ Fon said, his body folding forward from the hips as he balanced precariously for several moments before lurching the rest of the way up the steps onto the loggia.
Cosimo stepped back, giving him space, and half turned to set everything down on a coffee table. He prayed that Rafaella wouldn’t come down here, wrapped in a bedsheet and wondering at the noise.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ Fon slurred. ‘Did you know that?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know that,’ Cosimo said calmly.
‘Of course not. You were busy.’ Fon leaned on the word as if it was a ball he was trying to push under water. ‘But this couldn’t wait, you see.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘No, no. It’s important, you know. Time is of the essence … Who knows when they’re going to run the story? It could be tomorrow.’
Cosimo frowned at the abrupt change in direction of the conversation. ‘Look—’