Page 145 of Peasants and Kings
“You’ll see. You won’t get rid of me, so you might as well give in. Don’t bother with outdoor clothes. We’re not leaving the house.”
Reluctantly, I went to the dresser and discreetly pulled out a pair of underwear and a set of blue silk pajamas. I headed back into the bathroom to change, wondering what the hell was so important that Tor—silent, stoic Tor—had to show me.
“I’m ready,” I said when I opened the bathroom door.
Nodding, he headed to the exit of the room, not bothering to look behind him to see if I was following.
The house was quiet. Tor took the ornate staircase to the first floor, and I thought we’d turn in the direction of the salon where the family usually congregated, but he surprised me when he headed the opposite way.
The massive, austere, ancestral home was a labyrinth that I was sure each Moretti knew like the back of their hand. When we arrived at a heavy wooden door, Tor pushed it open and went in first. It was a library—the gargantuan wood-burning fireplace had not been modernized and was at least ten feet tall. Leather bound books lined the shelves, and I wondered if they were all for show, or if people ever actually read them.
“This is the sanctuary,” Tor explained. “This is where the men of the family come to discuss the fate of Italy and the legacy of theCompagnia Bianca del Falco.
I didn’t bother holding in the eye roll. “It looks like any other library on a grand estate. You couldn’t show me this tomorrow?”
When I made a move to leave, he reached for my arm and stopped me.
“There’s a purpose to this room. One you need to understand,” he said, his voice gravelly and low, like he was unaccustomed to speaking for prolonged periods of time.
Tor walked to the far wall and pointed to the painting of a handsome man with tan skin and a short, silver beard. He sat atop a black stallion and he was dressed in chain mail armor. On a flagpole attached to his horse and braced by one of his hands, flew a deep red flag with the image of a white falcon on a coat of arms.
“We can trace our lineage back to this man,” he said, gazing up at the painting, his dark eyes glowing with pride. “Alfonso Moretti.”
I looked at the painting again, studying it. Through the generations, the Moretti men still carried the hearty stamp of Alfonso’s features. Aristocratic brow, patrician nose. Alfonso’s chin was concealed by his beard, but I didn’t doubt that it was as robust as the vitality emanating from him.
“The falcon…I always wondered why the literal translation of theCompagnia Bianca del Falcois The White Falcon Company. How did it become known as The White Company? What happened to the falcon?” I asked.
“We actually don’t know. Our coat of arms shows the white falcon, but through the generations the falcon was dropped from the translation and we became known simply as The White Company.”
Tor moved to the next painting and the next, depicting every first-born son and leader of The White Company. There were sixteen in all.
“Where’s Angelo’s painting?” I asked.
“His will go on the wall after he passes,” Tor explained. He looked up at the most recent painting. “Our grandfather, Antonio.”
My mother’s father.
“You look like our grandmother,” Tor said.
I absently reached up to touch my nose and then let my hand drop.
My curiosity ran rampant, and I wanted to see paintings of the Moretti women. What of them? Were they all pawns like I’d become, or had any of them risen above their own oppression?
Here, in the sanctuary, the legacies of men reigned.
“Why did you bring me here, Tor?” I asked, my voice soft.
“One day, my brother will replace my father as the head of this family. One day, I will stand as his second in command. I will doanythingto protect him and our legacy. Choose wisely, Sterling.”
My heart lurched. “What do you mean?”
“You are a Moretti. It’s your duty to honor and serve your family. It’s been that way since you were born, whether you knew it or not.”
The anger that had been simmering inside me finally ratcheted up to a boil. “It’s an honor toservemy family?”
“Yes. It is.”
“You’re delusional. All of you are,” I spat.
