slopes. Appreciate how the natural and formal so seamlessly blended together in the landscaped gardens—and, rising above it all, the many spires of Castello Falcone. The setting was more fairy-tale than any movie-set designer could imagine, centuries of scandal and secrets locked up inside those walls. His own included.
His phone pinged again, this time telling him he had a call, and he pulled it from his pocket, frowning. He’d promised Arianna he’d try and take a break this summer, but he could never truly switch off. Too much rested on him. He flipped the phone over, his mood lightening when he saw his sister’s name on the screen, mentally calculating the time difference. It must be midnight in New Zealand.
‘Ciao, Luciana. E tutto okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
Dante suppressed a smile at the familiar voice. After a decade on the other side of the world his sister had an accent that was a unique mixture of her native Italian and a New Zealand twang, and she usually spoke English, even to him, liberally strewn with Italian endearments and curses. His chest tightened. How he wished she were closer, were here to help him raise Arianna.
‘It’s late,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘I’m surprised to hear from you, that’s all.’
‘I just want to make sure that you’re okay, mio fratello. Are you at the castello?’
‘Arrived this morning,’ Dante confirmed as he resumed his walk up the sweeping driveway, reaching one of the sets of stone steps flanking the terraces. ‘Arianna’s au pair will bring her along in a couple of days when I’ve made sure everything is ready.’
‘Good; it’s time she returned there. It’s not healthy to keep away. For either of you.’
Dante did his best to bite back his curt reply, but the words escaped regardless. ‘Her mother died thanks to the treacherous mountain roads. I was on the other side of the world. Arianna was left all alone...’
‘The roads didn’t kill Violetta,’ his sister cut in. She knew her cue; after all, they’d had this conversation more times than Dante could remember. ‘The mountains didn’t kill her...not even the ice on the road was responsible. It was the driver of the car she was in. It was the drink and drugs. Arianna was safe enough with her nanny, with all the rest of the staff. Stop torturing yourself, Dante. It’s been over five years.’
Over five years? What did years matter when the end result was the same? His daughter left motherless, his wife’s death a dark stain on his soul.
‘I know how long it’s been, Ciana.’ How long to the day, to the hour. Just as he knew how unhappy his wife had been. How, once she’d got over the initial excitement at living in a castle, she’d felt caged in by the mountains, isolated by San Tomo’s remote location, how much she resented him for travelling so much, working so much—although that work paid for her extravagant lifestyle. That unhappiness, that resentment, that isolation had killed her—and Dante knew exactly who was to blame.
It wasn’t the ice, or the car, or her lover, or the drink or the cocaine that had killed his wife. He had. And no matter how hard he worked he would never be able to atone, never make it up to his daughter. ‘I’m fine, Luciana. Looking forward to spending the summer here. To getting away from Roma for a couple of months.’ He glanced back towards the lake. ‘I’ve already been for a swim.’
‘The first swim of summer? How I miss it. I always knew it was the holidays as soon as I was in the lake. No study, no etiquette, no expectations for two whole months.’ Luciana’s voice was filled with melancholic nostalgia. Dante rolled his eyes, glad she couldn’t see him. He knew full well his sister’s house had stunning mountain views on every side, that she could walk down to a lake ten times the size of San Tomo in less than five minutes and her three sons spent most of their time on the water.
‘There’s plenty of room if you want to come for a visit any time.’ The offer was genuinely meant, but Dante knew she was unlikely to make the two-day flight back to her native country any time soon, not with three boys aged between five and eight and the extensive vineyard she owned with her husband to manage.
‘Grazie—it’s been too long since I saw my niece. Now, Dante, I wanted to ask you a favour.’
Here it was, the reason for the call. ‘Mmm?’ he said noncommittally.
‘My amico, Giovanna, you remember her? She recently got divorced—her husband was not a nice man—and she’s moved to Milan. She could really do with a friend. Will you take her out? Maybe for dinner?’ Luciana’s voice was sly and Dante didn’t try and hide his sigh.
‘I’m not planning to spend any time in Milan this summer,’ he said as repressively as possible. He should have known this conversation was coming; after all, it was at least three months since his sister had last tried to set him up.
‘She has a villa on Lake Garda and spends all her weekends there. That’s not far away. You could do with some time out as well, Dante. Just a few dinners, no expectations.’
‘Perdonami, Luciana, but I’m not looking to make any new friends, to date anyone. I know you mean well, but please, stop trying to set me up with your friends.’
‘I just hate to think of you all alone, brooding away.’ Luciana sounded throaty, a hitch in her voice. Dante knew those signs all too well; his sister was going to cry.
It would be different if she was close by, if she could just see that he and Arianna were both well, both happy. But he knew how much she fretted about being on the other side of the world, how much she blamed herself for promoting Dante’s marriage to Violetta. She just wanted him to be happy. How could he be upset with her for that? If only he could stop her worrying...
‘I’m not alone...’ The words spilled out before he had a chance to think what he was saying. ‘I met someone, but it’s really early days, so don’t get excited.’
A little, teeny white lie. What harm could it do? If it made Luciana happy—and stopped her trying to set him up with any newly single friend then surely it was allowable? Maybe even the right thing to do.
‘You met someone? Who? Oh, you man, you, why didn’t you say something before?’
‘It’s not serious. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’ Plus, the tiny point that he’d only just thought up his imaginary girlfriend.
‘So? Details?’ Luciana demanded and Dante stopped dead. Details? Of course his sister would want details. He swivelled, looking out over the lake for inspiration. His gaze fell on the jetty almost directly opposite, on the woman he had seen standing there, on the intense way she had watched him, as if he represented something she needed, something she yearned for.
Despite himself the blood began to heat in his veins, his heart thumping a little louder. He’d been annoyed, sure. His coming-home ritual interrupted, the sheer intentness of her stare intrusive. And yet... There had been something almost sensual about the moment. The two of them separated by hundreds of metres of water and yet connected by something primal. He’d felt a little like a stag in the prime of his life, preening for attention. She the doe, unable to look away, waiting to be claimed.
‘She’s English,’ Dante said slowly. ‘Tall, blonde.’
‘English? Okay. And? What does she do? Where did you meet? What does Arianna think?’
