by A. Constanza
Castel Nuovo. The part of town that had been industrialized by the rich and never slept. Their part of the city had all the lights turned on; there were faint cheers in the distance, and the roaring of loud and expensive engines. I didn’t understand the sudden repulsion I had for the town. Something lived there that I wanted to stay far away from, and I was going to listen to my instincts because I was certain that they weren’t going to steer me wrong. I wouldn’t let them.
Not again.
SIX
“Lorenzo”
One would expect the piano room to be my most beloved spot, but that was far from the truth. It had been designed perfectly to compliment the famous Fazioli, and yet, it looked like a haunted room because the piano had been draped by a large, white cloth. I hadn’t played it ever since that night in Paris, or any piano for that matter.
It was the piano that I grew up mastering my musical skill on and where I’d had an unforgettable sexual experience with a woman. Estella. There was no way I could get rid of it even if it tormented me day and night. It carried too much value. I didn’t want it to lose its musical beauty, so the only time it was played was when I hired someone to tune it once a year. The Fazioli had an upcoming appointment, and I wondered if it was its time to do the job.
My hand hovered over the ghostly drape, and before I could pick it up to reveal the object of all my wistful memories, my phone rang loudly.
“Nonno,” I answered. “Is everything okay?”
My nonno, Emile Amatore, was a world-renowned pianist and the man who taught me everything I knew about piano. He was more of a father to me than my own father, and I appreciated everything that he had done for me. Nonno and I were pretty much inseparable until I decided to work at my father’s business about five years ago and deserted the world of music. Nonno claimed that I broke his heart, and although I believed he was exaggerating, things had never been the same for us even after I moved to the neighboring city to be close to him.
“My hands are failing me a little more every day; what is new?” he said with a light chuckle.
Nonno was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome about five years ago—around the same time I decided to end my musical career—and it made his life a little more difficult every day. Most of the time, doing simple day-to-day tasks wouldn’t cause any harm, but if he played the piano for too long, then it would flare up.
“Is there anything you need help with?” I asked. “I don’t mind going into Vecchio to check on you.”
“I’m not that old of a man,” he scolded. “But I do need your help.”
“Anything.”
“I’m teaching a young lady to play the piano, and I’ve enjoyed my sessions with her—”
“You shouldn’t be playing,” I said, clearly upset.
“Non interrompermi,” he warned and continued to scold me in Italian. I’m your grandfather and I demand enough respect to not be interrupted.
He wasn’t upset that I interrupted him; he was upset that I was holding him verbally accountable for not obeying doctor’s orders. Nonno was a stubborn man and unwilling to let go of his passion for piano even if it meant putting his health at risk. As much as I didn’t want him in pain, I also knew that not playing caused more harm than good.
“I’m sorry, I won’t interrupt you,” I apologized.
“My wrist isn’t doing well, and I can’t teach her today. This is the last session for the week, and I’ll let my wrist heal until the next session. I don’t want to cancel on her; she is very passionate and a quick learner. I don’t think she’d give you any issues. You need to be in the music room in an hour.”
I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. “Nonno, I haven’t played in five years.”
“Talent like yours never disappears,” he said.
“It’s not that I’m not capable,” I said.
“What is it? Speak then.”
I can’t bear playing the piano anymore, especially with another woman.
“It’s complicated.”
“I won’t tell your father,” he said. “Is that it? Fear that he will reprimand you as a grown adult?”
I scowled at him. Nonno barely spoke to my father after I stopped playing because he believed my father influenced my decision. He wasn’t completely wrong—my father was offering a large amount of fortune if I joined him in his business, but it was so much more complicated. I had been suffocated with the need to succeed.
“He wouldn’t care because I’m still working for him.”
“Shame,” he whispered.
“I won’t be able to do it,” I answered. “I’m sorry, Nonno, please do not be upset with me.”
He muttered under his breath before hanging up. I’m not upset, I’m disappointed.
Everyone knew that being disappointed in someone was far worse than being upset or angry. Worst of all, he had every right to be disappointed. He constantly gave, and all he wanted was a fraction of his deserved returns.
I gripped onto my phone and stared at the covered piano. How did I let myself part ways with something that I loved so much? The money wasn’t worth it, and it wasn’t like money was ever a concern for me. The Amatore family were millionaires, and by default, I was one, as well. It was my need for validation from my father and to prove myself invaluable that dug me into the miserable position that I was currently in.
It was two weeks into my month-long vacation and nothing had felt easy, breezy, or blissful. People questioned why I would stay in the area when I had the opportunity to visit one of my father’s many villas in an entirely different part of the country. There were so many options, but I decided to stay in Castel Nuovo because it was close to home. That’s all I needed—I needed to feel connected to something…anything.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard on my phone, and it was a mental battle between wanting to let go of my past with the piano and also not wanting to disappoint the only man that I respected.
Me: I’ll be there.
There was an immediate response.
Nonno: I knew you’d make the right choice.
I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about this mystery lady that had impressed my grandfather. He was a judgmental man, and most of the time, he believed that the majority of people weren’t made for the piano. The only time I heard him praise someone was when he spoke about me to a close friend of his who played the violin. They were discussing their best students, and I was the first and only one he mentioned.
Grabbing a cup of coffee with twenty minutes to spare, especially when you didn’t like coffee but needed fuel, and then driving in narrow, broken streets wasn’t the brightest idea. It was my only mode of transportation and one of the slowest ways to get around Vecchio. There wasn’t a proper parking area at the small college, so I had to park it by a pizzeria that was a five-minute walk to the building.
I arrived five minutes late which wasn’t too bad, but if Nonno found out, he would lecture me for hours. He instilled punctuality in all his students because time was critical in the world of music.
The first thing I expected to see from the student was a scowl on her face to show her disapproval for my tardiness. Instead, I stood by the door frame and noticed her playing a song that made my heart beat hard against my chest. A rush of memories surfaced with the help of the composition. I’d only heard it once before, five years ago in Paris.
Every timid step I took toward the piano caused my heart to pound even more intensely. The pressure of it urged me to leave the room, to convince Nonno and myself that I never arrived at the university. The music and the heartbeats were so deafening, I almost lost my balance, but I remained unknown to the girl playing the piano. She was too immersed in the piano to recognize that I was behind her.
I wanted to see her face. I wanted to confirm it was Estella. I also wanted to run out of the room and toward the hill. How, after five years, did our worlds collide in an old part of Italy that peopl
e couldn’t even point to on a map? Was it fate, destiny, an alignment of the universe, a curse, a second chance?
My eyes scanned her straight posture that accentuated the soft curves of her body, the length of her chocolate-brown hair cascading down her back, and her delicacy. All I needed was to see her angelic face, and that would confirm that the woman who’d haunted all my dreams was in Italy, in the same classroom, now a foot away from me.
The song ended, and her gentle arms fell to her side, her body slouching slightly. She didn’t move and neither did I. I couldn’t have been breathing. If it was Estella, what would she say? What would she do? What would I say or do? Apologize profusely, I reminded myself.
Her body slowly moved, and I knew that the time had come where we would meet face to face. I composed myself despite my mind being in a complete frenzy, and I waited for the moment our eyes met. There was no chance of hiding, and I had to accept the consequences of my past actions.
Her innocent face couldn’t have hidden her emotions: shock, anger, shock, uncertainty, and then anger again. The pain was evident from the way her brow creased and the downward curve of her full lips. Betrayal swirled around in the mix of her brown eyes. As I looked into her eyes, I knew that I had made her suffer.
Estella’s eyes turned glossy, and her lip quivered; she wanted to cry, but she wasn’t going to let herself do it. Not in front of me.
“Estella,” I whispered.
Estella sat in place, rubbed her arm, and then pinched herself. No, this wasn’t a dream; it was a nightmare.
When the realization hit her, she shuffled off of the piano and hastily grabbed her bag that had been on the ground. She tried to rush past me, but my hand shot up and wrapped around her arm just enough to not let her escape me so easily.
Her gaze traveled all over my face, and mine all over hers.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could muster.
“Just don’t,” she seethed, trying to pull her arm away.
“Let me explain, Estella,” I begged.
Half of her body was touching mine, our faces inches away from each other, our scents intermingling. She no longer smelled like strawberries and cream; it was something more alluring, more sensual, more mature. I was no longer dealing with the teenage girl I met in Paris; I was dealing with a girl who had been hurt, broken, scared, and unwilling to let that happen again.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she spat.
“That’s not true.”
“Let go, now.”
“Not again,” I responded.
That made her react a little differently, but she grounded herself again.
“Leave me alone.”
And before I could release her, there was a loud knock on the door that took me off guard, and she managed to slip away. I turned around to find a blond-haired boy around her age who held a phone in his hand.
“Estella, you left your phone at the library,” he said, his gaze bouncing between the two of us. His eyes widened. He recognized me either from my father’s company, Emile, or just from rumors. The Italian folk loved to gossip about the rich, especially about those who possessed the last name Amatore.
Estella tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and walked toward him. “Thank you,” she said, grabbing it.
“I thought Emile was your piano instructor, not Ignacio?” he said. “Emile’s grandson, right?” he asked, looking at me.
Everyone knew everyone in this small town.
Fantastic.
She looked back, waiting for me to confirm the young man’s question.
“Yes,” I responded, looking at her.
She tore her pained eyes away from mine and stormed out of the room. Not only had I left her alone in a pretty vacant studio after sleeping with her, but I had also lied about my name. I told her my middle name, which I usually went by when I went out of the country to pretend to be someone other than Ignacio Amatore.
“Did something happen?” he asked, taken aback by Estella’s disappearing act.
“She wasn’t expecting me,” I answered and left.
A part of me wanted to run down the hallway and catch up with Estella, but I knew that she needed that time to process the situation and perhaps, grieve. Not only did I have to tell my grandfather that I didn’t teach his student but also that she hated me. Most of all, I had to come to terms with the fact that Estella lived across town from me. I had to resist the urge to constantly see her.
Though, I knew she never wanted to see me again.
SEVEN
Estella
Almost zero.
That were the odds of bumping into the same stranger you’d once seen and slept with half a decade ago.
I returned to the cottage with every intention of chucking all of my belongings into my suitcase and downing a bottle of wine as I rode back to the airport. I couldn’t be in Castel Vecchio anymore, knowing that he was here.
His name was Ignacio, not Lorenzo like he had told me. For the past five years, I’d harbored so much hate and resentment for a man named Lorenzo, only to find out that his name was not Lorenzo and he was the grandson of my beloved piano teacher. I felt as if I had to go through another phase of grieving.
“Damn it!” I cried, throwing myself onto the bed.
All I wanted from this year-long trip was to find myself, fall in love with my passions, and discover another town other than Brooklyn. Three weeks into the trip, of course, I had to collide with the man that obliterated my foolish, naïve heart. It wasn’t just a one-night stand for me; it was the first time I made love with a man and one that seemed different from the rest.
My mistake. I hardly knew the man and assumed that about him.
Many questions raced through my mind: Did he live here? Was he on vacation? Did he follow me? The last one gave me the creeps.
I still hadn’t forgotten a single etching carved in his deviously handsome face. The man had hardly aged in the past five years, almost like fine wine. His hair was shorter, and he’d upgraded his glasses to silver, retro frames that gave him a hot-professor look which, unfortunately, turned me on.
Every part of me felt on fire, and I couldn’t tell if it was due to hate or lust. They were nearly the same emotion—consumable and full of passion.
It had nearly been over an hour after my encounter, and I still laid in bed contemplating my next move. I desperately wanted to leave, to ensure that I wouldn’t see him again, but there was a lot going for me already in Vecchio. Salem’s café was booming, people loved my art, I adored being taught by a famous pianist, and being out of a busy, loud city allowed me to live in peace for once.
My phone lit up, and I noticed that Emile’s name appeared on the screen. I held my phone tightly in my hand and pressed it against my lip. What did Ignacio say to him, if anything? Do I tell Emile the truth, but that would involve so much history that it almost seemed unnecessary? The phone stopped ringing and went directly to voicemail. I expected him to call again, but he didn’t.
More time passed, and I realized that this wasn’t a subject I could address in one night. I had to take care of my responsibilities at the café first before deciding on what to do, and I had to discuss it with Salem. That meant that I had to tell her the complete truth about that night in Paris five years ago which would involve a lot of lecturing on her part.
From the outside of the café, I noticed that it was busier than usual. I swerved around the corner, noticing a red convertible sports car, and parked the scooter in my usual spot. Even from the outside, I could hear the hustle and bustle of the café. I entered, throwing my baking apron on, as I walked to the front of the café.
“Took you long enough,” Salem whispered. “We have a surprise visitor,” she grunted.
“Who?” I asked, feeling my heart racing.
It couldn’t be him again? I really hated my odds today.
“Camilla.” She gagged.
Before I could respond
, a tall, model-like woman appeared from the restrooms and sashayed toward the cash register. Camilla Russo was the type of girl that everyone envied in high school—in fact, I was one of those girls—with sun-kissed skin, silky, light brown hair, flawless bone structure, an hourglass figure that no woman could compete with, even if they had all the money in the world. She wore an all-black lady’s suit and accessorized with gold earrings and necklaces for a luxurious touch.
“Oh my, Estella, you’ve had better days,” she said, giving my chin a little shake. “I missed you, darling.”
With her condescending words, I was reminded why Salem hated her cousin. The rivalry between them ran so deep, it started with their fathers—two brothers who wanted to excel in the culinary world, but only one of them made it to the top. Massimo Russo, Camilla’s father, ended up being a three-star Michelin chef with numerous restaurants all over the world, TV shows, and an undefeatable culinary empire.
The real rivalry between Salem and Camilla began when they were thirteen, and Camilla had stated that Salem shouldn’t step foot in Italy because she wasn’t actually Italian. It wasn’t a logical statement, but it never left Salem’s head. Salem might’ve been adopted, but she was no different from those who raised her, especially Nonna Norah.
“Your little café is so…cute,” Camilla said, hesitantly. “I’m surprised you decided to come to Castel Vecchio.”
“Oh no, I’m surprised you came to this part of town. Castel Nuovo seems more your speed,” Salem said. “Considering you like everything fake,” she mumbled low enough only for me to hear.
“My fiancé’s villa is in that part of town. Marcelo Moretti—I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s going to be Daddy’s next prodigy,” she prided, flipping her salon-styled hair over her shoulder.
