Page 71 of My Fake Italian Marriage

La vita è piena di sorprese.

(Life is full of surprises.)

They were late. The platform of the square, modern station below the town of Siena already teemed with people. A vintage steam train sat beside the platform, belching out plumes of sooty, black smoke, but the smell and grit in the air did nothing to dampen the carnival atmosphere.

The conductor sounded the whistle, cutting through the din of voices, the music of a live band on the platform, and the chugging of the engine warming up. As the passengers surged towards the carriages, Cleo paused to take in the sight of the impressive black locomotive with its red-spoked wheels. Behind it followed a coal wagon, then four nondescript, brown, period carriages.

The conductor, dressed in a black uniform complete with vintage pillbox cap, blew his whistle again. “Sbrigatevi! Tutti a bordo!”

Luca steered her along the platform. “Ours is the last carriage.”

“Siamo qui!” Federico leaned out of one of the carriage doors, waving to them. He reached down to take Cleo’s bag, then helped her up into the carriage, which was filled with the football club members, their families and supporters.

Niccolò waved them over to the far end of the carriage. “We kept you a seat,” he yelled over the noise of voices and laughter and kids fighting for the window seats. They shoved their way through the crowd to join Niccolò and Gigi. Luca offered Cleo the remaining window seat, stowed their bags on the overhead rack, then settled beside her on the bench seat.

“We were worried you wouldn’t make it,” said Gigi.

“It took us ages to find parking,” Cleo explained.

“You should have come on the club bus.” Gigi held up a plastic cup with the unmistakable foamy head of beer. “We already started the party!”

Luca sent Cleo a quick, conspiratorial smile. “We needed our own car as we’re only returning tomorrow.”

“Are you taking her to—” Niccolò began, but then the train whistle blew, drowning out the rest of his words. With a lurch, the train started to move. The loud chugging sound picked up speed as the train pulled out of town and into open countryside.

Luca slung an arm along the back of the seat. Despite her previous insistence that she didn’t want any public displays of affection, she snuggled against him and wove her fingers through his, their joined hands resting on his thigh. He looked at her, his gaze heated with desire, and a little amusement, as if he knew how desperate she was to touch him. A few weeks ago she’d have read that look as nothing more than his stock-standard seduction routine, with a dash of arrogance thrown in, and would have bristled at it. But now all she wanted was to lose herself in him. She was going to miss this. Misshim. Would he miss her? Or would she be just another notch on his bedpost when she was gone?

The train rolled through the oddly barren hills of the Crete Senesi, green now with spring growth, then into lusher countryside, through meadows of long grass dotted with poppies and wild mustard flowers, over bridges and through tunnels, offering glimpses of the towns scattered across the Valdichiana plain.

A group of musicians, dressed in scarlet waistcoats and carrying guitars and accordions, wandered into the carriage to serenade them with folk songs. After they moved on, Niccolò gave a running commentary about the places they passed, the towns of Asciano and Sinalunga, where giant cattle grazed in the fields beside the tracks, and Montepulciano, surrounded by its vineyards. Luca didn’t seem to mind that Niccolò had usurped his usual role as tour guide. In fact, as the train trundled closer to their destination, he grew unusually quiet and distracted, almost on edge, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh.

When the train pulled into the station at Chiusi Scalo near the Umbrian border, everyone piled out onto the platform, and Luca and Cleo followed, swept along as the crowd surged out of the station. A bus waited in the street to take the tourists to the Etruscan museum, then on to lunch, but Luca tugged Cleo’s hand, pulling her aside. “We’re not going with them.”

Behind them, Niccolò gave a whoop and plunged through the throng. Cleo turned to see a man with a neat salt-and-pepper beard leaning up against a dark blue SUV, his arms across his chest, grinning widely. The usually reserved Niccolò embraced the man in a bear hug.

Luca squeezed her fingers and led her towards them.

“Luca!” The bearded man swung towards them, arms outstretched, and pulled him in for a hug, too. When they parted, Luca tucked his arm around Cleo. “Gio, this is my…”

It was the first time she’d seen him at a loss for words and hesitant to repeat the lie that they were married. He’d gotten so good at introducing her as his wife, that she’d come to expect it. He turned to her instead. “Cleo, this is my brother, Gio.”

Hisbrother?

It was as if she stood on quicksand, the earth tilting beneath her feet.

He had a brother. He wasn’t an only child.

Mute, she held out her hand for a polite shake. Gio wrapped it in both of his, eyes twinkling the same way that Luca’s did. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, in English as flawless as Luca’s.

She blew out a breath, cast a murderous glance at Luca, then, since they had an audience, managed a smile. “I’m pleased to meet you too.”

Niccolò said farewell and headed off to join the rest of the team on the tour bus, and Cleo allowed herself to be shepherded into the rear of the SUV.

She barely noticed the town passing outside the windows. Up front, Gio and Luca spoke in Italian, and she was still too surprised and disconcerted to make any effort to follow their conversation.

Luca’s brother. Giovanni Junior.

Side by side, there was no doubt they were related. Gio was more stockily built than Luca, lessGQand moreFarmer’s Weekly, but they had the same bushy eyebrows, same eye-crinkling smiles, even matching dimples.

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