“Did your boss mention Francesca?”
“Fortunately, he seems to be on my side. He told me he’d handle her, whatever that means.” I shook my head. “Good luck to anyone who attempts that.”
He smiled and winked at me. “She wouldn’t stand a chance against you, I bet.”
“Not sure about that.”
“We’re here,” the taxi’s drivers British accent sounded in my ears, alarming me to the fact that I was about to meet Marco’s family. Holy shit. Was this really going to happen?
“Are you ready?”
I bit my lip, hoping to curtail my desire to respond with the truth. “Yup,” I managed.
Marco, ever the gentleman, came around and opened the door for me. We were in front of a beautiful brownstone building in the heart of downtown London, not far from Piccadilly Square. The traffic buzzed around us even though it was a Sunday, horns honking and pedestrians dodging us as we stood in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Does she speak English? That’s something I should have thought to ask earlier.” I gulped as he gently took my elbow and nudged me to the set of steps that led to a burgundy door.
“She did, but her English isn’t so good these days.”
Oh. “What does she know about me?” I asked as we stepped up to the door. My heart was racing in my chest, and my palms were growing sweaty. I looked down at my fairly modest, flowery silk dress, wondering if it was good enough to meet his family.
“She knows that you’re writing a story about me.” He cleared his throat a second before reaching for the knob. “She doesn’t know I quit,” he said before he opened the door, which had me taking a step back in surprise.
He entered the home and said a few words in Italian. A couple in their sixties came rushing up in greeting.
“So nice to meet you. I’m Matthew,” his uncle introduced himself and kissed both my cheeks.
“Hi. I’m Maggie Lane,” I responded, trying to swallow my nerves.
“I’m Tina. So, so, so nice to meet you.” She took my hand between hers, her eyes glinting.
“You’re Marco’s aunt?”
“Si. Si.” The woman had dark hair, similar to Marco’s, and her emerald green eyes shined against her bronzed skin. She was a little shorter than me, but she reminded me so much of my aunt. I could see the same spirit in her.
“You and Marco share many of the same qualities.”
“Oh. Grazie. He is a good looking man, no?” She winked at me and finally released my hand.
I could have sworn Marco blushed as he swiped a hand over his face and spoke in Italian to his aunt. She quietly mumbled back to him while waving her hand.
She tucked her arm around mine as she guided us down a hall. “Please. Sit. Sit.” She motioned to a sofa in the sunroom, which was off the kitchen. I took a nervous seat as she flitted out of the room.
The sunroom, which was currently grayed by a storm that threatened outside, was surprisingly large and held two loveseats and two chairs. In between the windows were beautiful paintings that I had to assume were Lori’s—they reminded me of her artistic style, in any case.
“You have a beautiful home.” I smiled when Tina returned a moment later, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.
“So, tell me about yourself.” Tina offered me the tea and sat down next to her husband.
Marco was still hovering at the entrance, with his shoulder propped against the doorframe of the room. “I’m going to get mamma from her room. Will you be okay?”
Oh God, his mother. I could almost faint, but fortunately, I was sitting. “Of course.” I shooed him away, then directed my attention back to his aunt and uncle. “Well, I live in New York, and I write for a men’s magazine.”
“Ah. Sì, sì.And your story on Marco is about his retirement, yes?”
Oh. So his aunt knew, but his mom didn’t? I was surprised she was in on the secret. My mom wouldn’t have been capable of hiding something like that from her sisters. “Um. Yes, it looks that way. I guess many hoped he would change his mind.”
Tina shook her head and sipped her tea. “That one is stubborn, but his heart is very, very, big. Too big, maybe. Always thinking of others instead of himself.”
Yeah, I could see that. “Maybe you could change his mind.”
What? What was it with everyone thinking I could work magic on the notoriously stubborn Marco? I tried to maintain my poker face and brought the hot, black tea up to my lips.
“His mamma does not know about his retirement. She would be angry at him, but she will find out when she moves in with him in two weeks.”
“Oh.” That was unexpected. “Where does she live now?”
Tina’s husband patted her on the knee and creased his forehead. “Dear.” The one word served as a warning.
Tina rolled her eyes at her husband and looked back at me. “Her home is in Roma, but Marco will sell it so she can live with him.”
“This information is not for the story,” Matthew said, studying me with guarded eyes.
“I would never put anything in the story that Marco didn’t want me to. And Marco has told me that he’s private in regards to his family.”
Matthew kept his eyes on me a beat longer and nodded.
“Do you have any kids?” I asked, trying to soften the mood.
“No, we were unable to,” Tina responded while standing up. “More tea?” She had rushed from the room before I had a chance to answer.
Matthew smoothed both hands over his bald head and dragged them through his graying beard. “She thinks of Marco as a son, though,” he said after an awkward moment.
I heard the sound of footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. Two sets. My heartbeat climaxed, and I pushed to my feet in anticipation as Marco appeared in the doorway next to a woman who was the spitting image of him. She had his dark hair, his gray eyes, his beautiful skin. But she looked sad. Or maybe angry. There was something wrong . . .
Marco introduced me to his mother in Italian and switched to English for my sake. She studied me beneath dark lashes, as if unsure of what to make of me. My hand remained extended in the air, and when I realized she had no intention to shake it or hug me like his aunt had, I let my arm drop to my side in embarrassment. My face warmed as I bit the inside of my cheek.
Marco’s mother looked at him, and back at me. Her forehead wrinkled, and she began struggling with words as she spoke. She balled her hands into fists and cursed. All I understood from her were the words “merda” and “Sophia.”
Marco raised his hands in front of him and said something low beneath his breath, and his mother turned and walked away. He lowered his head and followed after her.
What just happened?
She didn’t like me, apparently.
“Don’t mind her.” Matthew’s voice had me turning around as I rubbed my arms, trying to rid myself of the cool chill that had crept over my skin. “She’s not herself.” Then he rose to his feet and left me alone in the room.
I heard Marco’s mother shouting in the distance, and something crashed to the floor. I checked my impulse to rush to the noise and make sure everything was okay. She probably wouldn’t want me around. I moved to the screen door and went outside into the back garden area, hoping to give them some family privacy.
The bluish black clouds overhead mimicked my feelings, and the wind blew through the leaves of the solitary tree in the fenced in backyard. My long blonde hair whipped in front of my face, and I swept my messy hair to my back. I meandered over to the bed of roses near the garden and reached out to touch one. A thorn pricked my finger, and I retracted my hand as a dot of blood appeared. I sucked it, and the taste of metal spilled on my tongue as I heard the door opening behind me.
“I’m so sorry.” Marco’s voice was like lead in my ears. Hard and heavy.
I didn’t turn around as his hands came over my shoulders, trying to console me. “I guess this wasn’t a good idea, bringing me here.” I turned around, and his fingers wrapped
around my wrist.
“You need to stop cutting yourself. This is becoming a bad habit.”
His words eased the tension a little, diffusing what could have been a more awkward situation. “I’ll survive.” My hands would, at least. My heart was an entirely different story.
His lips pulled together as he looked up at the sky. “Mamma gets confused and frustrated at times. She forgets things.”
Oh. Oh . . . “I’m sorry,” I said once his eyes were back on me.
He tipped his head to the black iron bench near the garden of fruit and vegetables, and I took a seat. With my hands clasped on my lap, I kept my eyes on the grass beneath my short nude heels.
“She had a heart attack a few weeks before the end of the football season.”
I couldn’t look at him. I wasn’t sure if I could handle more bad news from this man. It wasn’t fair; he’d been through so much.
“My team had won the game, and only after, was I called off the field and told she had a heart attack. I was out of the country, and I hated that it took me so damn long to get to her side.” I could hear the anger wrapped up in his words. “The doctors performed surgery, and they were optimistic about a smooth recovery. But the day she was released from the hospital with a smile to her face, feeling almost more alive because she’d faced death and won . . . her left side drooped.”
Oh God.
His hands gripped the bench on each side of him as his eyes cast down at the ground.
Saying sorry wouldn’t cut it this time. I remained silent and reached for his hand.
It took him a few minutes to regain his composure. He hadn’t cried, but I could tell he was working hard to hold the tears at bay. There was a tremble in his voice when he said, “she had a stroke.”
I squeezed his hand tighter.
“It was hard. Her speech and movement were severely impacted. She didn’t want to live, but the doctors promised with rehabilitation she’d get better. My aunt came in from London to help me out during the last few matches, but I didn’t have my heart in the game. How could I play football when my mother needed me? Then Sophia cheated on me, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mamma. I was worried it would stress her out more. She’s getting better, but she still has trouble speaking and doing things by herself. She caused a kitchen fire last month by turning on the wrong burner.”
I still had no idea what to say. My heart was hurting for this man.
“Although her speech and memory are better, she gets a lot mixed up.” He let go of my hand and held his hands in front of him, talking with them as he explained to me his mother’s condition. “The doctors say that sometimes after a stroke there can be a disconnect between what the brain wants to say, and what words are actually spoken. It can be frustrating for her when she is telling me something as simple as she wants pasta—and when I make her pasta she gets angry and keeps saying pasta when she means steak. She thinks I’m crazy for not understanding her.” He sighed. “It can be trying.”
He rose to his feet, tearing his fingers through his hair. “I cannot leave her. I cannot leave it to some nurse. She is my only family. Football is just a game.”
I couldn’t comprehend how strong he had to be to survive so much, and yet still be standing.
Marco curled his hand into a fist and placed it over his heart. “She is all I have left. Sophia, Sean, my coach . . . they do not understand my reason for quitting. Roma may not even understand. Hell, Mamma, if she knew, would have my head. But there is no other way. I will take care of her and make sure she gets better.” He lowered his hand and captured my eyes with his. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
I immediately stood in front of him. “No, Marco. No, I think you’re amazing.” I lifted my fingers and brushed them across his cheek, not caring if anyone was watching.
He shut his eyes at my touch. “I’m sorry about Mamma’s reaction to you.”
My body chilled at his words.
“Even with her condition, she can see right through me. She looked at you, then me, and she could see I have feelings for you.” He wet his lips. “She accused me of cheating on Sophia.”
Cheating?
“Mamma had one of her fits last week, and she asked to see Sophia since she still doesn’t know the truth. I didn’t know what to say, so I called Sophia and asked if she would come with me to see Mamma.” He peeled his eyes open slowly, as if afraid that I’d be upset. “Sophia should never have shown off the engagement ring to the cameras—now everyone believes we’re back together.” He shook his head. “That was why I asked her to leave the charity event the other night. I was pissed.”
Oh wow. I hated myself for jumping to conclusions and not giving him a chance to explain himself before.
“I made my rules about women because I have no place for another woman in my life right now. Mamma will be living with me. I must take care of her, help her get better. And so, I—”
I held up my hand. “You don’t need to explain.” A rain drop smacked my arm as I bit my lip for a moment, contemplating my words. “The fact that you’re so strong and loving after everything that you have experienced in your life astounds me. I know I can’t share any of what I’ve learned about you in my story, but frankly, I don’t know what to write. Nothing I could ever say could do justice in showing the world the kind of man Marco Valenti truly is.” I swallowed back the lump of emotions that pushed up in my throat.
“I am just a man.”
I bowed my head at his words. “There is no ‘just’ about you . . .”
He tipped my head back up, catching my eyes. I was a fraying piece of thread, and I was about to break. I was grateful for the raindrops, which hit my face, disguising my tears.
“Maggie—”
The door creaked open. “Come in, Marco,” his uncle Matthew called out to us. “You’ll get soaked.”
Marco kept his eyes on my face, his hand cupping my chin. “A little rain never hurt anyone.” Then he covered my mouth with his.
The door shut as the rain picked up, but I couldn’t care less. Marco was delivering a message with his kiss, and I hoped it wasn’t getting lost in translation . . . because to me, it sounded like hope.
Maybe somehow we could try to be together.
When he broke our kiss and took a stumbling step back, his eyes lowered to my mouth for a brief moment before he pushed his wet hair off his forehead and studied my eyes. “Come inside.”
“What about your mom? I don’t want to upset her again.”
He shook his head and licked a drop of water from his lips. “You make me feel good, do you know that? You make me feel like everything will be okay.”
Not sure what to say, my lips quirked at the edges, and I smiled. “That’s quite the change from making you curse.”
***
His aunt and I worked together cooking in the kitchen, where I learned some Italian-style home cuisine from a true master. Marco had been worried about my abilities in the kitchen, given my lack of skill with the knife, but his aunt shooed him away. After a little homemade Limoncello, I became much more at ease and began enjoying myself.
Of course, every time I heard his mother’s voice in the distance, a slice of fear cut through me.
My hands trembled as I carried the food into the dining room. I placed the dishes of pasta and chicken on the white linen tablecloth and began setting the table.
“Sorry we are having such an early dinner, but we need to get back to the airport.” Marco patted his uncle on the shoulder and took a seat next to me. His aunt went to get Marco’s mom, and I wondered if she’d refuse to come, knowing I was still present.
Marco reached beneath the tablecloth and squeezed my hand in an attempt to comfort me, but at the moment, nothing could slow the rapid beating of my heart.
No woman wants to be hated by the mother of the man she’s—wait, I had to stop myself. Nothing had officially changed, even if my heart cried out to be his.
“Mamma.” Marco rose from the t
able in greeting, and I followed suit, not sure what to do or say.
Her eyes were laser-focused on me, and she tipped her head at her sister and said something in Italian.
Tina responded and motioned for her sister to sit down.
“Antony,” his mother said, looking at Marco.
Marco’s shoulders slumped as he sat back down. I could see the hard swallow in this throat when I observed his profile. His eyes flickered shut for a flash of a moment. “Mamma.” He said a few words in Italian, and then I heard him say, “Marco.”
His mother’s face pinched together, and she moved around the table with slow steps. “Antony . . .” Her face was long, and her lower lip quivered. “No. No. Antony.” Her hand rested on Marco’s shoulder.
Marco placed his hand over his mother’s, holding it in place. I could feel the sadness rolling off him in waves.
Her other hand moved to the leather band on his wrist. “An-toe-nee,” she said again, even though the name came out like a struggle. Her body began to shake, and Marco pushed to his feet, turning to her.
“Mamma.” I think he said, “It’s me, Marco,” but I couldn’t be certain—my Italian was still so poor.
I tried to filter through everything I knew about Marco. He hadn’t mentioned his father’s name, but in the dated photo he had shown me of his family, his father had closely resembled Marco. They shared the same thick dark hair, gray eyes, prominent brows, and straight nose. Was his mother confusing Marco for her late husband?
I placed a hand on my stomach, queasiness taking over me.
His aunt and uncle came around to our side of the table, and I rose to my feet, fidgeting with my hands, not sure what to do as I watched the scene unfold.
His mother kneeled to the floor, sweeping her hands over her face, weeping. She kept repeating “Antony” in a shaky voice.
“Maybe you should go,” his uncle said, and Marco scrubbed a hand over his jaw, his eyes liquid gray.
He glanced over at me with apologetic eyes, and I could tell he was fighting to maintain his strength. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him.
Marco was away from me now and crouched next to his mother on the floor. He whispered into her ear, and then she stopped crying. She turned and hugged him.
Forever Rome (Forever #1) Page 21
