Page 138 of Peasants and Kings
“Is this a welcome home feast?” I asked, a gruesome grin stretching across my face. “What’s the point of this charade?”
“Charade?” Angelo repeated. “It’s no charade. You’re family. And families dine together.”
“We’renotfamily,” I gritted out.
I was on the verge of taking a butter knife and jabbing it into Luca’s thigh, but I thought better than to draw blood at the table. In one swift move, I stood up, knocking my chair over and rushing from the room.
No one stopped me.
I had no idea where I was going, but I passed a maid dusting a priceless antique vase resting on a wooden credenza and asked her how I could get outside. She pointed the way to a set of double doors that led out into the gardens. They were even more magnificent to behold from ground level.
Greedily gulping the fragrant air, I tried to stem the rapid beat of my heart. My blood simmered in my system, but at that moment I chose to nurture it instead of shoving the feelings away. I would gladly give the Moretti my rage, but they would not conquer me nor spill my tears.
I found a stone bench in front of a fountain depicting a bearded god wearing a crown, holding a naked woman. It was so beautiful that it nearly brought my emotion to the surface, but I got control of myself. I took a seat in front of it, not caring that the white dress I wore would be smudged with dust.
“It’s a version of the Rape of Proserpina,” a timid voice said from behind me, making me jump.
I turned to look at the intruder. Gisella had walked on light steps. She reminded me of a doe, watchful, careful, quiet.
She lifted a plate of food in her hands. “I thought you might be hungry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Thank you,” I said. “That was thoughtful of you.”
Gisella came to the bench and took a seat next to me and handed me the plate. It had olives and other antipasti, foods I could eat with my fingers.
Despite my situation, I wasn’t immune to the scent of food. I would need sustenance if I was going to go another round with the Moretti men.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she said.
I nodded absently, feeling a fresh coat of tears breach my eyes. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you back there.”
“I understand why you did. I’m a Moretti.”
“Apparently, so am I,” I joked.
She didn’t laugh. Gisella nibbled on her plump bottom lip. She was pretty, but her beauty was subtle and unripe. She had the flush and slender features of youth, but in a few years, she would be a beautiful woman.
“How old are you?” I asked suddenly.
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” I murmured with a shake of my head.
“Be careful, Sterling,” she said. “Don’t anger him.”
“Angelo? It’s a little late for—”
“Not my father. Raphael Foscari. You don’t know what he’s capable of…”
“What? What do you know about him?” I asked.
She was just about to reply when Luca called, “Gisella?Papàwants you to return to the table.”
Gisella stood up and brushed the wrinkles from the skirt of her dress. With one final look at me, she left, passing Luca as she went.
Her brother reached out to touch her arm, holding her for just a moment as he leaned down to whisper something in her ear.
She smiled up at him with such a look of trust I wanted to scoop her up into my arms and protect her. She was a fawn in a glen of wolves.
