she dared to decline his first invitation, she’d seen him everywhere she went during the week he spent on Castaldini. She hadn’t been able to breathe until he left. Then he’d come back within a month to issue another invitation and had continued to do so whenever he returned, and even more when he hadn’t. He kept asking her to hop over to Milan, Monaco or Madrid, to join him for a meal, Hong Kong or Tokyo or Rio De Janeiro to join him for the weekend, among a party or alone.
She turned him down every time, with one excuse or another, struggling to observe formal politeness and neutrality, since he was such an important man to her father and Castaldini.
But he’d left her that first night with the augury that there would come a time when she’d have no option but to do his bidding.
That time was finally here.
She wondered how he’d justified his demand to her father. He must have said something convincing, or her father wouldn’t have been so matter-of-fact about it.
So he’d finally have his laugh. That had to be his objective. If there’d been a shadow of a doubt that he’d been pursuing her to freshen his image with a coat of legitimacy, it had evaporated. He was a D’Agostino, would be proclaimed the future king of Castaldini. There was no higher status or recognition he could aspire to.
The limo slowed down, and with it her streaking thoughts.
That only made her anger gain momentum again. She’d been fuming since he’d sent his aides to summon her. She’d grudgingly let them escort her to his jet. She hadn’t found him onboard as she’d expected, had been stunned to find the jet taking off, whisking her away to his private part of the island without so much as an explanation or request for her token agreement.
And here she was. Approaching the only man-made construction and landscaping she’d seen in the last twenty minutes since the jet had landed at what was clearly a private airport.
There were no fences anywhere. The limo passed through a gate made by an opening in a row of towering cypress trees.
As they cruised down the driveway she realized the estate must cover hundreds of acres and the mansion at its middle must be over thirty thousand square feet. It sprawled in many levels, crouching over the highest point in the landscape, surrounded by manicured, mature gardens that on one side gave way to a mile-deep, golden beach, on another to the terrain where the road ended, and on the remaining sides to densely verdant groves ripe with fruit.
It felt like she was forging deeper into a tranquil paradise as they passed acres of oranges and tangerines, the fresh, tangy scent filling her.
The moment they stopped at the beginning of a stone path, she disembarked, more than usual unable to bear the pomp of ceremony.
Her chauffeur hurried to lead her on the path flanked by magnificent palms and a plethora of other Mediterranean flora to the entrance of the mansion. Her eyes wandered over its neo-Gothic stone facade as they neared. It looked as if it had been built centuries ago and transported through time the moment the last touch had been applied. The most characteristic features were the arched motif to all its windows, passageways and doors and the central tower.
She squinted up at the elaborate coat of arms that decorated the tower’s top. She wondered what it was, if it had any significance, or if it was just something that had appealed to him. It did bear resemblance to the D’Agostino family’s crest. Had he meant it that way, to express his affiliation, yet not wanted it to be the same, as he considered himself an outsider?
Her futile conjectures came to an end when the chauffeur opened the huge, arched antique oak door for her. She preceded him inside, but rather than following her, he closed the door behind her. She heard his steps receding quickly. Her lips tightened.
He’d delivered his master’s package and ran away as if he were being pursued by some malevolent force. It seemed everyone who must populate this place, who took care of all the immaculateness she’d seen, had the same orders. She hadn’t seen a soul so far.
She waited for Ferruccio to appear, her heart thudding. She’d never been totally alone with him. Even that first night when he’d followed her out to the seclusion of the verandah, masses of people had been within reach. She made sure he never found her alone from then on. Here in his domain where he ruled supreme, she felt cut off from the world. As she was sure he’d meant her to be. Another wave of resentment crashed over her.
And the worst part? She couldn’t act on her antipathy. More than ever she had to observe the dictates of diplomacy. Her position on the Council demanded that she strip her demeanor of any personal reaction, save only what would serve her mission.
But with every second that he didn’t appear, he was transforming that task from difficult to impossible.
Her hearing sharpened until every heartbeat was amplified to thunder in her ears. But she didn’thear approaching footsteps. There was only the distant drone of the waves and the tranquility of the internal courtyard in which she stood. It was at least two thousand square feet, paved in lava stones, lit with the impending sunset’s red-gold beams, which filtered from arched and round windows inset in the walls just below its domed ceiling.
He wasn’t coming. Not yet, at least. He must be letting her stew. She exhaled, moved. Might as well take a look around.
She strolled to the end of the courtyard, opened doors, her surprise rising as she found an olive press and wine-processing rooms. She wouldn’t have thought he’d go to the trouble of making his own oil and wines.
Mulling over this discovery, she headed to the other side of the courtyard where a corridor of arched columns ended in five stone steps. These led down to an arrangement of expansive sitting rooms with a unique take on Roman décor, in a combination of stucco and stone walls, and strewn with luxurious couches and low tables.
She wondered if he entertained a lot, if one of his many unspecified-destination invitations had been to come join him here. She wondered how she would have reacted to this place if she’d come here ignorant of the truth of his intentions, breathless with anticipation, ready to be swept away by the spell of his domain, to sink into its sensory decadence.
Shaking her head at the pointlessness of her musings, at the stupidity of letting them depress her with what ifs, she crossed into an amazing dining room with a round bronze table and a circular stone platform for chairs, with pillow seating.
This section had a medieval feel, with wall torches and large white cushions abounding in every corner. The floors were layered in old Sicilian pottery tiles, the designs flowing into variations as she progressed through the rest of the ground floor. Huge stone fireplaces sprouted in strategic spots, though subtle evidence of state-of-the-art electric heating was also present.
But what really amazed her was some of the most ingeniously placed and painted trompe-l’oeil she’d ever seen in the walls and ceilings. The murals’ optical illusions were almost indistinguishable from the three-dimensional imagery they depicted in depth and realism. They felt like portals into alternate realities.
She stopped in front of one, a tableau of a pigeon on a ferforgé windowsill, the glass behind it reflecting it and a distant sea and sky. It looked so real she almost thought the glass was there, did reflect that vista, that she could pet the gleaming feathers of the bird, that it would take flight if she tried.
Ferruccio must have spent untold millions here, from acquiring the land, to equipping it with a private airport and silksmooth roads, to building that incredible edifice that must be maintained
