Page 45 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Camillo smiled at Cleo. “And what did you wear?”

She laughed. “Is it an Italian male thing to care so much about clothes?”

“I can’t speak for all men, but we Fioravantis take our fashion very seriously. Do you have pictures?”

Luca slapped his forehead. “I knew we forgot something! We were so excited about getting married that we forgot to take photographs.”

Camillo winked suggestively. “I imagine you had more important things on your mind at the time.”

Cleo blushed, which his cousin read as an admission.

Beyond the tall French doors, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the party moved outside onto the terrace. Round white Chinese lanterns hung between the trees, and candles flickered on the round tables that dotted the terrace. A buffet table sat to one side, groaning under the weight of a feast. His mother and Pierina had outdone themselves, considering the short time they’d had to put this party together.

Another cousin, Dino, served wine from behind a makeshift bar. Armed with a full glass, Luca guided Cleo to one of the tables. When all the guests were seated, his father welcomed them all with a speech – in English, for Cleo’s benefit – and Luca laid his hand over hers where it rested on the table between them. Let her think he was touching her for the benefit of their audience, rather than because he simply could not resist. He wasn’t much good at resisting temptation, and he’d already done enough of that for one day.

The dinner was a spread of pastas, a creamy chicken stew, baked breads, roast vegetables and salads—even his favourite childhood comfort food, Gnocchi alla Sorrentina, potato gnocchi floating in a rich, bubbling sauce of tomato, mozzarella and basil. He kissed Pierina’s cheek in gratitude, and she patted his shoulder as if he were still that hungry teen who’d come to her kitchen looking for food to fill his growing frame.

“The breads are from Castel Sant’Angelo,” his mother told Cleo, and Cleo’s eyes widened in surprise. Luca was no less surprised. His mother had actually gone to their rival winery to buy bread? Who could have guessed that all it would take to create a détente between their vineyards was a fake marriage?

“Do you cook?” his mother asked Cleo.

Cleo laughed. “Oh no. I usually work such long hours, so I eat a lot of microwave meals.”

His mother shook her head reprovingly. “You are here now. You must learn to cook proper Italian food for your husband.”

Luca rolled his eyes. “You don’t cook for Babbo,” he pointed out. “Pierina does all the cooking.”

His mother pinned him with a glare. “It is tradition. My mother-in-law taught me to make your father’s favourite foods, as she was taught by her mother-in-law. And Pierina will teach Cleo.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Cleo’s suppressed laugh, and they shared a quick, amused glance.

“Cleo doesn’t need to cook. You know I enjoy making food,” he said.

Cleo smiled at his mother. “I would love to learn to cook, Signora Fioravanti.”

His mother beamed and patted Cleo’s hand. “You can call me Letizia. We are family now.”

His father was growing tired, and did not protest when Mamma wheeled him inside to bed, so it was left to Luca to see off the older relatives as they departed. They took their leave of Cleo, kissing her cheeks and wishing her “Congratulazioni” and “Tanta felicità”.

He offered his arm to Birgitta, Great Uncle Luciano’s last—and youngest—wife, and escorted her to her daughter’s car. Though she was nearing sixty, she was still a fine-looking woman, with a devilish glint in her eyes. She took both his hands in hers. “You will take care of your wife and make her happy?”

His response stuck in his throat.

“You don’t have to be like my Luciano, if you don’t want to be. You can be a better man.” She sighed wistfully. “He loved the honeymoon phase of the relationship. It was the small, everyday parts of the relationship that bored him. But he had many good qualities, too. He made me feel like a goddess. I felt loved.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled ruefully. “He simply had too much love to give.”

Luca nodded, unable to reply. He too had loved every woman he’d been with, in his own way. He’d only taken into his bed women he was attracted to, not just physically but emotionally. But, like Luciano, he’d never met one woman he wanted beyond the honeymoon phase.

He watched the last car disappear down the drive to the main road, heart heavy. In a few short weeks he would need to prove himself an untrustworthy spouse, and confirm his family’s belief that he was no better than his namesake. Would the end result be worth the hurt and disappointment he would cause?

He rounded the house and looked out over the valley of moonlit rows of vines, and a familiar warmth surged in him. This land was his home, his family, his heart, and yes, it was worth sacrificing his reputation—or what was left of it—to keep it safe for another generation of Fioravantis.

He had hoped his father’s brush with mortality would bring about a reconciliation with Gio, and though Babbo remained as unbending as ever, that hope hadn’t died. This fake marriage had already achieved one reconciliation, maybe it could achieve another too. Maybe he could use his parents’ new-found charity in the wake of his “marriage” to bring his brother home.

He returned to the terrace, where the candles guttered in their glass jars, and two servants were clearing away the empty dishes and glasses under Pierina’s supervision. Cleo sat at a table with his younger cousins. A couple of over-excited children chased each other among the trees.

Luca paused on the edge of the light to watch Cleo for a moment. She wore a necklace of chunky amber beads that highlighted the sparks in her hazel eyes. Camillo’s young son, the toddler, lay fast asleep in her lap, his mouth half-open against her chest, and she didn’t seem to mind that he was drooling on her cardigan. She’d told him about her nephews and nieces, how much she’d missed them when she’d been stuck in London, away from the family. It had been on the tip of his tongue then to tell her about his own nephews and niece. He’d wanted to be honest, to tell her everything about himself, and the urge was even stronger now.

But not yet. She was sure to agree that Gio would be the best person to take over the vineyard, but she might not want to wait for his father to come round to the idea, and installing the prodigal as the new vintner without preparing the way would not achieve the greater goal: healing their family.

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