Page 21 of My Dark Ever After
I laughed, shocked that even when she was angry with me, she could still be sweet and funny.
“We have had dogs all my life. Stacci breedssegugio maremmano, a type of Italian scent hound. Her husband, Emiliano, is a hunter, and Aio there is good enough to take on a boar if he needs to.”
“Wow,” she said again, then laughed at herself, pushing a lock of hair out of her face as she turned to face me. “I’m sorry, I forgot, I guess.”
“Forgot?”
She shrugged, chewing on her lower lip for a moment before admitting, “How magical everything is here. How much it feels like a fairy tale.”
When she looked up, our eyes caught, and even though she jerked her chin as if to wrench her gaze away, it did not work. We stared at each other across mere inches, and yet it felt as if the entire Atlantic Ocean still separated us.
“A Grimms’ fairy tale,” she corrected. “The bloody kind.”
I inclined my head in agreement. “Let us hope this one ends happily.”
At least for one of us.
She pursed her lips, but the sound of screaming children drew her attention out the window again.
Maximo, Vitale, Zacheo, and Mattia all waited at the crest of the driveway, the latter two jumping up and down and waving their arms.
“Zio Raffa,” they cried, out of sync with each other.
Aio barked in agreement, racing up to them and dancing between their wriggling bodies.
I laughed despite the tense atmosphere in the car and lowered my window so I could call out in Italian, “Ciao, ragazzi! Sei stato buono con le tue madri?”
Hello, children! Have you been good for your mothers?
“No!” they all cried before dissolving into giggles, running alongside the car as it started to pass them.
I chuckled, grabbing at Maximo’s hand when he pushed it through the window, leaning forward to clutch him under the arms and pull him swiftly into the slow-moving car.
His laugh was a high-pitched squeal as I buried my face in his neck to blow a raspberry after he settled in my lap.
“And how is my favorite nephew today?” I asked in Italian.
He screwed up his face in irritation. “You callallof us your favorites, Uncle!”
“Why, yes, I do. But let me tell you something, I missed you very much.”
Truthfully, Stacci’s and Carlotta’s sons were one of the only reasons I came back to Villa Romano at all. Without them, it was too easy to live in the past. To see my sisters silent and subjugated when my father was present. To see my mother valiantly trying to raise her children when her husband was out sleeping with whomever he pleased, carousing and acting like a bigwig in Firenze.
The boys brought new life to the villa, swept away the ghosts with their laughter and silly games.
Before I had gone to Michigan to save Guinevere, I had only been home once in the two months following her departure. My mother and sisters had noticed my melancholy even though I had done my best to hide it, and I did not want to answer any more questions about “that American girl.”
So it was good to be home.
It was even better, in a bittersweet way, to have Guinevere there at my side.
When I looked over Maximo’s curly head at her, she was staring at me with wide eyes, holding her body so still she seemed almost afraid of me. When she noticed my gaze, she gave a shake of her head as if to rid herself of a bad memory, and then shot me a tight smile before turning toward the window and the house as it loomed ahead of us.
The pale-gold stone structure may have been old, but my family had always been wealthy, so it was in incredibly good repair. Cypress trees lined the last stretch of gravel driveway, and a stone fountain with a female statue pouring water from a basin had been erected centrally in the circular courtyard before the front door.
Angela, my mother, stood outside with Stacci—who was holding her youngest, Nico—and Carlotta, Delfina, Ludo, and Leo.
“They pull out the welcome committee,” Carmine murmured from the front seat.
