Page 84 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Ouch. Cleo had also accused him of the same thing. And they were both right, because he was terrified. Even if Cleo loved him back, what were the chances a relationship between them could succeed without smouldering away to ashes? She had been hurt before. No way could he put her through that again.

He looked to where she stood, licking mascarpone frosting off her fingers and smiling at something Sarah said. Even the thought of causing her pain, of doing to her what her ex had done, caused an ache in his chest.

He had loved every woman he’d ever been with, each in a different way, but with Cleo it felt different. More. As if she somehow fitted with him in a way no other woman ever had. He’d fallen wholly and completely in love with her, as surely as Gio had fallen for Stefania, though perhaps without those first dramatic, gazes-meeting-across-the-crowded-room fireworks. Or maybe the fireworks had been there, and he’d been too stupid to realise.

His throat closed, making it hard to talk, hard to breathe. “I need air.”

He pushed away from Gio, loosening his tie as he hurried across the ballroom. He rushed out through the French doors into the crisp night air, gulping in deep breaths. But he needed more than air. He needed to get away. He needed to think.

He was halfway back to town, the Ferrari cruising along the familiar, moonlit route, before his brain caught up with his heart. He couldn’t sleep in the apartment tonight, in the bed they’d shared, with her scent still on the pillows. He parked, instead, in front of the bank and climbed the stairs to his office. As he paced the familiar, creaking wooden floorboards, in and out of the pool of yellow light from his desk lamp, his life flashed before his eyes; not the one he’d had but the one that was possible if he risked everything; if he risked destroying something beautiful and pure. If he risked turning Cleo’s hope and brightness to dust.

He imagined a life spent working together at the vineyard, of quiet nights, Sunday lunches on the terrace, football matches, and of their own anniversary celebrations. A life filled with laughter and fun and family—and with challenges, too, because she would continue to push him to always try for more, to be more, to aim higher.

But what if that was nothing more than a fantasy? What if they tried to make it work, as Uncle Luciano had tried so often, but slowly the admiration in her eyes turned to resignation, that same look he’d seen in too many other people’s eyes?

To avoid disappointing her, he would have to become the man she thought he could be. He would have to take the package deal, both Cleo and the vineyard. All or nothing. But where would that leave his brother?

If he did nothing, he would lose Cleo for sure. Yes, he would re-unite his family, but at what cost? He would still be living this half-life, treading water, waiting for … for what … Babbo’s approval? Though he was on the downhill run to forty, he was still that kid on the school football field yearning for his father’s approval. It was time to stop building his life around his father’s expectations. What didhewant?

He wanted his family reunited, and tonight that finally seemed possible.

He wanted work that was fulfilling and brought him joy and purpose.

And he wanted to wake beside Cleo every day, to see the spark that lit her eyes when she smiled, to share his quiet moments with her, to fall asleep beside her. Every day for the rest of his life. He wanted more than just the honeymoon phase of a relationship, wanted to experience those small, everyday parts of a relationship he’d never wanted with anyone else. He wanted it so much it burned inside him like fire.

If he had to choose between his family and Cleo, who would he choose?

Cleo. He would happily give up all other women for her, and if he had to choose between his family and his old life, and a new life with Cleo, he would choose her.

If she’d have him.

As Gio had said, at the very least, he had to try. He had to tell her he loved her, and ask her to stay.

He rubbed his face. Sarah had told him if he wanted Cleo to stay, he needed to offer her a commitment. So he would need to put himself back in the game, and prove he could make a commitment, both to her and to the vineyard.

Resolved, he settled behind the big mahogany desk, powered up his laptop, and got to work.

ChapterThirty-Five

Ogni cuore ha il suo dolore.

(Every heart has its own ache.)

Luca didn’t come to bed that night, and the bed in his childhood bedroom felt big and empty without him. Cleo wasn’t surprised, after the way he’d hustled out of the ballroom after the cutting of the cake as if his tail was on fire. She wasn’t surprised, but still it hurt. Had the pretence of being married to her really grown so unbearable? Had the intimacy of the past few weeks been nothing more than an illusion? She tossed and turned, unable to sleep, until at last, as dawn light crept into the room, she gave up the attempt.

Nor was Luca at breakfast when she joined the family in the big formal dining room. She couldn’t face food, and didn’t have the energy to maintain her smile and usual chatter, so she sat quietly at one end of the long table, nursing her cup of tea until it turned too cold to drink, relieved when the last overnight guests took their leave. She followed them outside to the drive which was now almost empty of cars.

“Where is Luca?” Letizia asked agitatedly. “He should be here to say goodbye.”

“He probably has a tremendous headache this morning,” Camillo said, giving her a peck on the cheek, “what with the way he was putting away the champagne last night.” He turned to Cleo. “You don’t look so well either.”

She managed a smile. “Just tired from all the dancing.”

He squeezed her hand and climbed into the waiting car beside Pepe.

“Arrivederci,” she called after them as the car took off.Until we meet again. Except that, in all likelihood, they would never meet again.

“You should rest,” Letizia said to her husband, as they slowly made their way back up the stairs to the front door.

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