Page 44 of Duke for the Summer

“Just trying to help.”

She shook her head. “Go sit down.”

He sighed, sinking into a chair, and pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tipping one into his hand. They were almost gone.

“Jacopo,” his mother said. “Really? At the table?”

“No one’s here.” God, he was awful. A grown man, but right now he sounded like the brattiest child. “And you let Papàsmoke wherever he wants.”

She slammed another plate down onto the stack in front of her, too loud. “I pray every day that you won’t turn out like that man.”

“Don’t worry,” Jacopo said flatly. He tipped ash into an empty wine glass.

He must have lost focus for a moment, because the next thing he knew, his mother was gone, and he was alone at the empty table, watching vague shapes move across the yard, backlit by the bonfire. One of them resolved itself, coming toward him. It was Nate, firelight caught in his hair, an easy smile on his face. Jacopo’s heart soared, and his stomach seemed to shrink in on itself.

“There you are.” Nate pulled up a chair, sitting next to him. “Oh my God, I’m about to explode from all that food. Did you try the duck carpaccio? Nonna Stella brought it. And she gave me a Tarot card, too, the something of cups, I think? I’ll have to ask my mom what it–” he paused, looking at him. “Are you alright?” Nate put a hand on his, where it lay on the table. Jacopo watched Nate’s thumb tracing over his skin, and swallowed.

“I’m fine. What time is it? We should–” he tried to stand, but his limbs were too loose and he lurched forward, catching himself on the table. “Fireworks,” Jacopo said. “There will be fireworks on the beach. I can take you.”

Nate stood, a hand on his back. “I don’t think you should take me anywhere. Too much moonshine, huh?” He smiled, but it faded as he watched Jacopo’s face. Jacopo wondered what expression he was making. He didn’t seem to have a lot of control over his body right now, or his thoughts. “You’re not having a good time. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“No.” Jacopo waved a hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter. This is–it’s your first time, having Ferragosto. So you are whatmatters. And you can’t miss the fireworks.”

“I’ve seen fireworks before, babe.” He brushed Jacopo’s hair out of his face, and Jacopo flinched. From the touch, or the endearment, he wasn’t sure. “And I might be here next year, who knows. I’m not worried about it. Come on.” Nate looped an arm through his. “Come sit by the fire with me. I’ll get you some water.”

He didn’t want to be by the fire, where the remaining members of the party had gathered, but he also didn’t want to be without Nate, so he allowed himself to be led across the grass and into the circle of voices and heat. His heart knocked against his ribs as he heard his father’s voice rising above the rest. Papà was drunk, the loud, insistent type of drunk he only got once or twice a year, his mouth wide open in laughter, his teeth jagged and yellow.

Jacopo’s stomach curdled. He felt Nate squeeze his hand.

“Ah, there he is,” Papà called in Italian, nudging Zio Beppe with his elbow. “Nate, you found my worthless son.”

16.

“What was he up to, sulking? Always thinks he’s better than us, this one. Too good to join his family on the holiday.”

Nate had a hopeful smile on his face, and Jacopo knew he hadn’t understood anything but his name. For a moment, he wished he could trade places with him, to be blissfully ignorant in the glow of the fire. He sat down heavily, running a hand over his face.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Nate asked.

“No.” Jacopo clutched his sleeve, so hard his knuckles hurt. “Don’t leave me here.”

“Nate.” Papà pulled a beer from the six-pack at his feet, holding it out to him. “Come on, sit. How do you like the party?”

“Oh.” Nate took the bottle. “Grazie.” He sat, rolling the beer between his hands, not opening it.

“He wants to know how you like the party,” Jacopo translated. His head was swimming, and his mouth tasted like acid. A log popped in the fire, making him flinch.

“Tell him it’s great.” Nate’s smile seemed pasted-on now, and his face was smearing before Jacopo’s eyes. Across the fire, Jacopo’s father was studying him intently, his pupils glassy and dilated.

“Il Duca di Carmosino,” he said. “I asked God every day for us to find you. And he came through! He came through and he brought us a good one, didn’t he, Beppe? This is a good boy.” He gestured with his beer bottle, drops of liquid splashing onto his shirt. Jacopo hated him, how sloppy he was.

“Certo,” Zio Beppe said. “He’s got to take better care of hisknees, though.”

“I was worried when I found out he was American, but he’s not like what you see on TV. He’s respectful, and a hard worker. And so strong. And he’s already done more for this island than Jacopo ever did. Right?” His gaze shifted to Jacopo, suddenly, and it was like being in the eyeline of a shark. “Right, Jacopo? Wasting time up there in the castle with your books?”

“Giacomo, come on.” Zio Beppe put a hand on his arm. “Your son, he’s–”

“Good for nothing, that’s what he is.”

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