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‘Thank you,’ Mia said, relieved the animosity had been put on hold, and grateful to have someone sitting next to her, for his presence made this just a little less daunting.
As the procession moved off, Dante stared fixedly ahead, rather than witness the tears from the staff.
The car moved slowly and as they made their way towards the stables Dante’s hands tensed into fists when he saw that Massimo had been brought out. The stable manager wore a black suit and held Massimo, who pawed the ground as the hearse passed.
And Dante remembered long ago summer treks with his father and tried not to break down.
They passed the groundskeeper’s cottage. He wore a black hat, which he removed, and bowed his head. Then on to the vines, and Dante thought back to childhood summers, happier times. He closed his eyes and remembered the last conversation he’d had with his father.
Dante had told him about the board meeting the next day, and that he was embroiled in yet another scandal.
‘Hey,’ Pa had said, ‘at least you’re not a Castello.’
The Castellos were from over the valley and had a restaurant chain that had flourished in the UK. The sons used their wealth unwisely and were careless with women.
‘Don’t let the board dictate your life to you,’ Pa had said. ‘You have always had your own compass, Dante, just follow that. I’m proud of you.’
Slowly, ever so slowly, they moved out to the perimeter of the estate, edged with poppy fields that were stripped of colour this cold January day. Roberto, his father’s lawyer, stood outside his cottage, and with a black handkerchief wiped his eyes as they passed, but Dante himself did not cry. He didn’t know how.
Had Pa known? Dante pondered as they made a slow loop around the fields to allow the staff to make their way to the church ahead of the procession.
Dante was sure he had sensed that the end had been imminent and that he might not get home in time.
And they were leaving Rafael’s beloved home now.
As the procession turned out of the private property, the curved roads were lined with tall thin cypress trees, like soldiers standing to attention as they passed. Beyond that, a tapestry of bare vines owned by Romano Holdings—thanks to the divisions in his family—and Dante took in a shuddering breath.
They approached the village but even the red terracotta roofs looked dismal today. Mia turned from staring out of the window and looked over at Dante.
He was locked in his own thoughts, his strong, haughty face pale and tinged grey, and she could see from the tilt of his jaw that he was holding it all inside.
Her heart ached for him now just as it would have for anyone burying a parent, or perhaps it was that she wanted comfort of her own, for her hand instinctively reached out and closed over his bunched fist.
Dante did not as much as glance down.
His hand was cold beneath her fingers and she clutched it tightly to impart warmth, but was startled when she heard the black frost of his voice. ‘Mia—’ her name was delivered in a malevolent tone that caused her to shrivel ‘—getyour hand off me.’
Walking into the church, Mia made her way to the front and could feel way more than a hundred eyes drilling into her back.
She took her place in the front pew and knew that she was not worthy of it. Behind her, Rafael’s family sobbed, none too quietly.
Despite the cool day, there was sweat trickling between her breasts. She dragged in a deep breath. She sat there, her frozen English self, with her head held high, as the service commenced; later she sat, still rigid and upright, as Dante read the eulogy, wondering what he had come up with to say.
‘Rafael Dante Romano was born to Alberto and Carmella, and was the older brother of Luigi...’
Mia could understand most of what was said, but was a step behind, as she had to translate Dante’s words in her head.
‘His life was a busy one, but then he always said there would be time to rest when he was dead.’
She heard that Rafael had married Angela when he had been nineteen and that she had said it was a marriage full of love, laughter and surprises.
Yes, Dante agreed, his father had always liked to surprise everyone.
Mia struggled to translate the next part, but deciphered that Rafael had moved the small family business beyond Luctano to restaurants in Florence, always,always, buying more land with the profits, more vines...
Dante spoke of the time his mother had thought he was building a romantic garden, and of her disappointment when she’d thought it was a bocce ball green, and then her bemusement when she’d realised that it was a helipad.
‘There would be no helicopter landing on it for a year,’ Dante said, ‘but soon he would supply the best restaurants in Florence, Rome, Paris, London...’
