What she needed was a purpose. Something or someone to love, to anchor her life and give her a sense of belonging without need to hang on to the past.
Clio hung back, listening and watching, her eyes scanning each corner of the villa like laser beams. She had pulled out her camera at the start, and now held it up like a shield, snapping hundreds of pictures, judging by the sound of the shutter's digital snicking.
When Fitucci led them into the seventeenth century ballroom addition, accompanied by exclamations of Ay yo trip! and Boo-yah! whatever they meant, Guillermo pretty much had all he could take.
That's when Richie began to talk about his cars. He had apparently amassed quite a collection of Italian sports cars, whips, he called them: a Maserati, a Ferrari, and a Lamborghini Veneno on order from the factory.
"Dis here area be jus right for the garage and games room, eh, Slim?" He sidled up to one of the large arched double doorways and began to pace off its width. "Dis be wide enough for a garage door! Dis seal the deal fo me."
Andreas' face was pink with excitement. He at least was thrilled with the possibility of selling the villa to the first buyer to cross the threshold.
"You're getting a bit ahead, Richie," Guillermo spoke up now. "My brother Jacopo is technically the owner, and he hasn't even arrived yet. There may be a number of issues…actually…" He turned to Andreas. "Was there a price on the listing? Has this even been discussed with Jacopo?" He heard his own panicked voice rise in pitch. He rubbed his chest, easing the sharp pain that shot from his shoulder to his gut like an electric shock. What had Jacopo asked for? The thought of applying a specific Euro price on his ancestral home felt like an atrocity.
"Rise up, foo. Tell me what you lookin' for bruvva, and we'll get the deal rollin.'"
Andreas shook his head, no, in response to Guillermo's question. The prospect of this deal had made his eyes glassy with anticipation. He could probably retire on the commission, or take a really, really long holiday at any rate. Guillermo sent him a silent warning to back the hell off.
"Well clearly we have to slow this whole process down. My brother and I need to have a meeting before any offers are considered. We need to know where we stand."
"Mista D, this hasta happen. I'm sold now, we jes gotta find a happy place."
Guillermo shook his head. There would be no happy place for the d' Aldobrandin family. "We'll talk, Richie. Leave it with me."
"Don't leave me hangin'. I mean we gonna figure it out, yo?"
"Are you ready to tour-a the gardens and outbuildings?" Andreas asked.
"That's dope. Maybe later. We gotta roll out."
Andreas hesitated, his mouth poised to speak, but nothing came out. Likely he had no idea what Richie had just said.
Guillermo crossed his arms over his chest, fighting for breath in his tight chest. He nodded. "Signor Fitucci has your contact information, si?"
"Yeah, yeah," QTip answered, busily scrolling and clicking on his smartphone, distracted. "We gotta jet, Richie. Blade's gettin' impatient."
"Yeah, yeah. We're gone." He turned to leave, gathering up his family, who had straggled over to look out a window. "Hey, bruvva. Is dat yo whip outside? The Alpha? She's tight!"
Mar-cel-la," Guillermo peered meaningfully at the old housekeeper, once Richie and his entourage had departed, and they'd all sat down for caffe and a debriefing in the kitchen. He seemed relieved to be speaking his native Italian after the trying morning. His tone was clearly annoyed, and it made her annoyed in turn.
She gritted her teeth. What difference did it make, anyway? It seemed to her he was just going to give in to Mad Richie's outrageous demands in the end. How could he rake Marcella over the coals for a minor breech of communication? If he had no intention of getting involved, he ought to leave the poor woman alone.
"Why did you not mention to me last night that Signor Fitucci was bringing a buyer to the house today?"
Marcella lifted her chin, stubborn defiance in her dark eyes. She set a plate of biscotti on the table and stood, scowling, twisting her tea towel between gnarled hands.
"Oh, sit down, Marcella," Guillermo snapped. "Quit glaring at me like that."
She sat, while Martino continued to hover at her side protectively.
"I am very sorry this whole thing caught you by surprise, Signor d' Aldobrandin. I had no idea–" Fitucci began.
Guillermo waved away his concerns. "No, no, Andreas. You could not have known I was coming. I am only wondering why my devoted housekeeper failed to mention it to me when I arrived, since she knew on Thursday that it was scheduled."
"You know why," Marcella muttered.
"Do I?"
"Si. You would have left. You would have run off."
Clio choked, almost spewing coffee. That was likely true, given Clio's limited experience of Guillermo. He dashed off at the slightest provocation or discomfort. She twisted her mouth ruefully, and was rewarded with a scathing glare. His heavy dark brows were truly formidable when he lowered them like that, threateningly, and he clearly knew it. She wouldn't want to be the child of such a man, and be scolded for some wrongdoing. The thought made her insides twist. What kind of a father would Guillermo make?
"And what if I did? I had no desire to experience that… that circus!"
Andreas cleared his throat, fiddling with his coffee cup.
"I told you." Martino said, clearing away the small plates from which they'd eaten their bread, olives, salami and cheese. "Did I not tell you he would be angry?"
Clio shrank back. It was not her affair.
Marcella squeezed her wrinkled hands together in front of her on the table, the white bones of her knuckles showing through her thin brown skin. She sniffed. "I thought you would want to be here. It's your home, after all."
"It's not mine."
"Then whose is it?" She rebuked, then softened her tone of voice. "When Jacopo called to say he would be late–"
"Jacopo's coming?"
She nodded. "When he called to say he was delayed, I knew it was a sign. A blessing. The Lord had sent you, and prevented him from coming. You were chosen to be here. This was meant to show us."
Guillermo's dark brows shot up. "Show us what, Marcella?" His tone was patient, but the expression on his face brooked no nonsense. It seemed he was accustomed to her thought processes.
"That this is not destined to happen, Memmo, caro." Marcella threw her hands up. "Jacopo is not capable, forgive me…" She crossed herself. "You are the only one who can fix this. You always were the one with sense, the fixer. Only Memmo can prevent this from happening, I said to Martino. God arranged for you to be here when Signor Fitucci brought those people. So you could see the travestire with your own eyes!"
Clio held her breath. What would Guillermo say to that?
Guillermo stroked his eyebrow, his eyes half closed. Then he braced his forehead with his hand and shook his head, sighing. "I can do nothing, Marcella. It is not for me to interfere in Jacopo's business."
That's not true. Clio bit her lip. She had to show him that he could. He could do many things. And if she helped him, maybe together they could pull it off.
But no. They were not a they. Why was she thinking of them as a couple, as friends, even? They hardly knew each other. She didn't care. She couldn't afford to care.
"Jacopo's business. Pah! It is not Jacopo's business. It is d' Aldobrandin business. The whole family. All the ancestors and the children. Jacopo has no right." Marcella's voice quavered, her eyes filling with tears, and Clio's throat burned in sympathy. This was home to Marcella and Martino, too. But more than that, the old couple really seemed like part of the family, which, if they'd been around since before Guillermo was born, they truly were. "Have you been to see your Nonno?"
Guillermo's face fell. "No," he whispered.
"Well I doubt Jacopo has either."
Marcella implied Jacopo wouldn't be visiting or consulting with Guillermo's grandfather anytime soon.
"What is
the point of upsetting him, Marcella? He is better off not knowing." His voice, thick and aqueous, was so permeated with a trenchant sadness, that Clio's head flushed with sympathetic heat, her eyes filling.
Who was she kidding? I do care! How could she not?
Marcella sniffed. "You should go."
Guillermo grunted.
"Am I too late? I thought I heard my name." An overloud Italian tenor from the doorway.
They all flinched at the interruption. Marcella's indrawn breath echoed in the silent room, and she crossed herself again.
"Signor d' Aldobrandin," said Andreas, a hint of relief in his voice.
A tall, thin man in a suit strode into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, his face smiling. How much had he heard? On seeing the somber faces of everyone around the table, his smile slid off. "Who died?"
Guillermo drew a deep breath and straightened. "Speak of the devil." At his tone of barely suppressed rage, Clio's eyes flew to his face.
"Oh, so you were talking about me."
"We were talking about Nonno, actually." Guillermo stood up from the table, his hands hanging at his sides. His manner was intense and brooding, like a boxer.
Jacopo did not reply, his lips thinning.
He was very like Guillermo, and yet completely different. One would easily place them as brothers. But there were some significant differences. Guillermo's brooding dark brow overshadowed his vivid fiery blue eyes. His broad shoulders were squared, as if for a fight, and his hands, at the end of well-formed, muscular arms, clenched into fists.
Jacopo's eyes seemed dark brown, and he was frailer, less athletic, with slightly hunched shoulders, as though he'd spent his life bent over a desk, instead of running in a field. He seemed more the aristocrat, with a narrower face, a slightly more hooked bridge on his nose. His mouth too, was thinner, a little weaker, less defined.
Guillermo crossed his arms over his chest. "Marcella thinks I should visit him. Perhaps ask his opinion about the villa."
Jacopo's face darkened. "Are you trying to provoke me, little brother? Do you think I do this to hurt the family?"
Guillermo sucked his cheeks and looked away.
"What? You can't look at me now?"
Guillermo appeared to be fighting with himself, deliberating, his tongue working his teeth, his eyes darting back and forth. He caught her eye in passing and his face crumpled with pain. Clio held her breath. She wanted to lay a calming hand on his arm, or wrap her arms around him, as though she had the power to sooth him. What is he going to do?
"You told me Fitucci was vetting potential buyers. What kind of criteria did you provide him? How much money are you expecting from this little deal? How damned much did you pull out of the estate already?"
Andreas Fitucci pushed back his chair and stood up, tentatively. "Em. I could explain–"
Guillermo continued, "You should have been here, Jacopo. You should have seen the guy Fitucci brought. It was very enlightening." He laughed without humor. "I thought you had some principles."
She no longer doubted that Guillermo cared. That made it all the worse.
Jacopo's eyes flared. "Come to the study, little brother. It's time we had a talk."
Chapter 16
Guillermo burst into the study, banging the door open as he went. Jacopo was hard on his heels, but turned and calmly shut the door behind him. Turning to face Guillermo, he sighed heavily.
Guillermo paced back and forth from the desk to Jacopo and back again, pausing with his back to Jacopo, trying to calm his racing pulse, and relax his taut muscles. He rubbed his neck, thinking.
"Are you going to tell me who Fitucci brought that got you so riled up?"
Guillermo swung around, planting his legs wide, and swept his arms out. "Are you telling me you don't know?"
"Of course I don't know. I wasn't here. You were."
"And it's a damned good thing I was, or we wouldn't have a clue what these people are like."
Jacopo's brows slid up in question, waiting.
Guillermo's muscles were so tense he was quivering. He clenched his fists, imagined knocking Jacopo across the room. He visualized him crashing backwards into the wall with a satisfying crunch. His blood surged. The muscle in his brow twitched involuntarily and he rubbed it roughly, dismissing his violent fantasy with a huff.
"A distinguished British businessman, of course. A millionaire with a passion for Renaissance art and architecture who can't wait to restore the villa to it's original glory. You should sign the documents without delay."
Jacopo's brows came together. "Really?"
"No! Not really."
"Memmo."
Guillermo pressed his lips together, gathering his thoughts. Jacopo really had no idea. "Some filthy rich American rapper and record producer. Tons of money. Looking for a little vacation place for his family."
Jacopo shrugged. "That works too, doesn't it?"
"Except for the fact that Renaissance to them means old and smelly and inconvenient. He was more than willing to pay for the restoration projects, I think, but he has a list of planned renovations, the cost of which would make the price of the villa seem like chump change."
"Then they won't offer for it. Someone else will come along."
Guillermo drew a deep breath. "I'm sure men that rich are just lined up at the gates waiting to see it." He gave his head a shake. "In any case, he was quite enthusiastic when he left this afternoon." Guillermo swept a hand out. "He was thrilled to discover that the doorways in the ballroom were wide enough to accommodate his new Lamborghini Veneno when it's delivered from the factory."
"Oh, cazzo!"
"Si."
Jacopo seemed to mull that over. "Well, at least he won't ruin the original sixteenth century part of the house. And perhaps it will be alright, if he just parks them there." He flopped down into an armchair next to the cold fireplace, his entire body sagging with defeat.
His head was pounding. "You kid yourself, Jacopo. They have no respect for our tradition. They will mess with every part of the villa and the gardens, modernizing and adding luxuries that don't belong here. They would rip out great-grandfather's swimming pool."
Jacopo's face was strained. "I don't know, Memmo. I don't know. I don't see what choice we have. Where will we get the money to pay the mortgage? Never mind the ongoing costs of repairs. You know what it's been like."
Guillermo paced again, grasping at ideas. "Why did it all have to be so fast? Could your creditors not have waited? You could have paid them back in installments. This is irreversible, Jacopo. Once it's sold, the villa will be lost to us forever!"
Jacopo buried his face in his hands, scrubbing.
"Is that the legacy our generation will leave? Everything gone? Everything in ruins?"
Jacopo's head shot up. "I understand you are angry, Memmo. Of course you are angry."
"It's not just me. Pia is broken up about it. And Bibi…" He threw up his hands. "What about Bibi? She's too young. She has no home, no roots, no place. What will happen to her when you take away her last connection with Mama and Papa?"
"Stop it!" Jacopo's chin quivered. Tears leaked from his eyes and traced down his face.
Guillermo stopped. His hands and feet felt cold. But a roiling heat churned in his belly, and his head continued to throb. His pulse slammed against his temples. Never had he hated Jacopo as much as he hated him in this moment. His weakness, his righteousness, his literalness and lack of imagination, his pedantic rule-following. Always lording it above Guillermo, always being right to Guillermo's wrong. Bending to their father's will and their father's coaching. Making himself into a version of their father, only more-so.
What was the point of continuing to do what had always been done before? How had that saved them? And where did it get him? Where did it get any of them? Generations of failures.
He frowned, flooded with sadness. Even Nonno, lovely sweet-tempered, romantic Nonno, who he loved dearly. Even Nonno who loved the villa and the
family history more than anyone, could not save the family from financial ruin.
"Sometimes I hate this family," Guillermo said. "Certainly I hate the men of this family."
"You don't hate Nonno."
Guillermo shrugged. What did it matter?
Jacopo wiped the tears from his face with the heels of his hands. "Don't hate me, Memmo. We are brothers."
Guillermo glared at him.
"I know I was not the best brother to you." He sighed heavily. "I always felt the pressure, the responsibility. Father made it clear I had to take over. And then he died before I knew… before I was ready."
Guillermo tried to hate him. He tried to hang onto his anger, but it ebbed away.
"And then Valentina…" His voice was ominous.
"Valentina what?"
Jacopo's lip quivered again. "Valentina is leaving me. She's taking the kids to Rome."
"What?"
"She was the one who pushed me to take risks in the first place. Now she says she is humiliated by my mistakes, can't live with the scandal. She won't subject the kids to all the negative press."
Guillermo's chest squeezed. "Oh, Lapo."
His use of the old pet name Mama had used caused Jacopo's face to crumple, and more tears to flow.
"She won't leave you. I'm sure it's just been the stress."
"She will. She will if I don't make everything right again, Memmo. There's more…"
"What more?"
Jacopo swallowed before answering. His head dipped to the side, his eyes downcast. "There was a woman…"
"Stronzo." He hadn't known. No one knew. That was something his proud sister-in-law would not tolerate. "How did she find out?"
Jacopo shook his head, flicking his open hand. "That was before the financial scandal. I thought we were working it out, but now… I don't know what's worse, living without the children, or living without Valentina."
"Is it settled then?"
"No. I hope… Maybe not. Maybe I can persuade her to give me another chance. But not if I'm unemployed and ridiculed. Not if I'm destitute. That's why…"
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 12
