Page 72 of My Fake Italian Marriage

She let out a slow, stunned breath and Luca glanced back at her, expression nervous. As he should be. What else had he kept from her? Did she even really know him?

Now she understood why he’d been anxious and distracted on the train. But had he been anxious about telling her the truth about his brother, or about lying to Gio? As endearing as it was that he hadn’t been able to lie about their marriage to his brother, it was not so sweet that she wasn’t included on that very short list of people he felt obliged to be honest with.

The town passed in a blur, then they were among vineyards and farmland, and in the distance a lake glinted blue and silver. The SUV turned in at a farm gate and headed up a bumpy dirt track to park before a modern, double-story house painted a pale, creamy yellow, which sat in a square of neat lawn surrounded by box hedges.

“This is your farm?” Cleo asked, finally finding her voice.

Gio laughed. “No, no. I am merely the vintner here. The owners’ house is further up the road.”

The vintner. Luca’s brother made wine for a living.

But of course he did.

The front door of the house burst open, and a teenager, all long legs and loose, flying hair, rushed out. “Zietto!” She hurled herself at Luca before he’d even climbed out the car.

She was followed by an older woman, clearly her mother, as they shared the same tall, rangy build and chestnut hair.

With barely a moment to catch her breath, Cleo found herself swept into a round of introductions and hugs. The older woman was introduced as Stefania, Gio’s wife, and the teenager as their daughter, Chiara.

Stefania threaded her arm through Cleo’s, and led her inside, into a spacious, modern kitchen where she was introduced to yet more family: Gio’s two teenaged sons and Stefania’s mother.

There was so much noise and chatter that no one noticed that Cleo barely managed a word. This was the second time Luca had thrown her unprepared into a room full of his relatives. Now, as then, the only thing that kept her from cheerfully doing him bodily harm was the fact that his family was so welcoming andnice. And she’d hate to get blood all over the clean terracotta floor.

The sons were despatched to carry their bags to the guest room, and Gio cracked open a bottle of chilled rosato. “Take Cleo out on the terrace and I’ll bring the wine,” he said to Luca.

With his hand on her back, Luca guided her out onto a terrace that overlooked a neat garden and swimming pool, and at last they were alone. Cleo rounded on him, hands on her hips.

“Well?” she demanded.

He shifted uncomfortably, looking chastened. “What do you want to know?”

Where should she start? “Do you have any other siblings to spring on me?” she asked, her tone acidic.

He shook his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looked away. “My father forbade me to mention Gio to you. We are not even allowed to say his name at home. He doesn’t know that my mother and I still talk to Gio, and that sometimes we visit here.”

Puzzle pieces slotted into place; comments and undercurrents she hadn’t understood until now. That grudge Giovanni seemed to be holding.

But her most burning question remained unanswered: why had Luca not toldher? After everything they’d shared… She’d believed they were partners, but he hadn’t trusted her enough to be honest with her, the one thing she’d asked of him.

She swallowed the boulder-sized lump in her throat. “And you always do what your father wants.” Her voice sounded hollow. It didn’t take a genius to work out that it wasn’t only Luca she was angry with. He wasn’t the first man who’d put his parents’ wishes before her, but the hurt was no less than the first time.

She blew out a breath, determined to release her anger. It was as much her fault as his that he’d disappointed her. She’d hoped for more, hoped that this time would be different, but Luca was no different to Hannes who also hadn’t had the strength to stand up to his parents. She should have known better, shouldn’t have hoped.

“What could Gio possibly have done that was bad enough to be disinherited?”

“I married without our father’s permission.” Gio stepped out onto the terrace bearing a tray of glasses filled with deep-pink rosato wine.

“That’s all?”

“Stefania’s parents were both farm workers, and he thought I could do better. I disagreed.” He set down the tray and handed her a glass. “If you have met him, you know our father doesn’t take kindly to opposition.”

This revelation certainly explained why Luca went out of his way to keep his parents happy, why he’d never risked opposing his father. Did he fear that he too would be expelled from the family? And would Giovanni, who was such a stickler for family and duty and tradition, really cut off both his sons? Though she didn’t know him well enough to be sure, it was certainly a possibility. He was a proud man who never would admit to being wrong.

Gio waved them to sit at the wicker table and chairs on the shaded terrace. Cleo sipped at the light-coloured wine, which tasted crisp and refreshing, and, though it had a subtle pomegranate flavour, was not as sweet as the rosés she was used to.

---