Italy's Most Scandalous Virgin Read online

  So Mia had held it in, and held it in, and on an exceptionally busy day at work—Rafael Romano had been visiting the London office—when another debtor had called, and she had come close to a panic attack. Rafael had seen her distress, stopped and asked, ‘My dear, whatever is wrong?’

  It still touched her that during his own very difficult time—Rafael had himself just been asked for a divorce while, unbeknownst to his wife, undergoing a health scare—he still had taken the time to ask her what was wrong.

  Of course Mia hadn’t voiced her anger, just admitted to the hopeless position she was in.

  And, because of that conversation, more than two years later, here she was, preparing for dear Rafael’s funeral.

  But this morning, when surely it should be Rafael and his kindness and the help he had given to her family that should be consuming her, it was memories of being trapped in that car that had Mia literally shaking.

  She could still hear her mother’s voice from the passenger seat, calling out to her. Telling her to hold on. That help would be here soon and that she loved her.

  Except the report clearly stated that her mother had been killed on impact.

  Yes, Mia had gone over that report a lot.

  It scared her.

  More than that, it terrified her.

  At the age of twenty-four she was more petrified of the dark than she had been as a little girl, for she didn’t just believe in ghosts, Mia knew that she had heard one speak.

  ‘Get a grip, Mia,’ she told herself, and with breakfast done she dressed for the funeral.

  Her underwear was all black and new, and she had black tights that might be considered by some a little sheer for a widow, but she had bought them online. The soft wool dress she had bought in Florence, and from neck to hem it was adorned with little black pearl buttons. A stupid choice for a funeral, Mia decided, because her hands were so shaky, but finally every last button was done up.

  She did not darken her fair lashes with mascara, for though she did not cry easily—in fact, she could not remember when she last had—Mia did not want to chance it. Her hair she wore up in a simple chignon and she wore no jewellery other than her wedding and engagement rings, both of which would be coming off tonight.

  It was almost eleven and, though reluctant to leave the warmth of her suite, she picked up the orchid she had collected on her ride this morning and stepped out.

  Mia looked down to the foyer below and the family gathered there, all dressed in black. She could hear the sound of low funereal voices.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of Angela, who had vowed never to set foot in the house while ‘this tramp’ was here. Though Mia was rather certain that Angela would make an exception for the reading of the will!

  Mia was less than impressed with Angela, though of course she had kept her opinions to herself. The fact was that it was Angela who had wanted all this, yet loved the role of victim and, to Mia’s mind, played it a little too well.

  Dante turned as she made her way down the stairs, and stood watching her approach.

  He even announced it in English!

  ‘Ah, here is my stepmother now.’

  Dante heard the cruel ring to his tone and did nothing to temper it, for his loathing of Mia was his final defence. He had to constantly remind himself of the destruction she had caused to his family. As well as that, he had to retell himself over and over that his father’s wife was, and would remain for ever, out of bounds.

  Her blue eyes, for the very first time, shot him an angry look. It was a mere flash of her building temper, for Rafael’s death had released her from the role she had played for the last two years. But then she reminded herself there was still this day to get through.

  Just a few hours until she was free.

  Ariana very deliberately turned her back on Mia, and Dante saw it.

  Worryingly for Dante, he felt for Mia as she stood in the foyer so pale and alone.

  He did not want to care about her.

  He could not allow himself to care about her.

  And so he reminded himself just how much he despised her as he suggested they all head out to the cars.

  The funeral of Rafael Romano was to be a huge affair.

  The Romano hotel was full, not just with guests who had flown from afar to attend but also with the press, though they were kept back from the very private residence.

  Mia walked down the stone steps, doing all she could not to look at the hearse. She saw the door in the vehicle behind it being held open for her and she wanted to turn and run back into the house. She actually thought about doing just that for a fleeting second, but of course knew she could not.

  Dante was at the vehicle behind where his siblings were getting in, but he looked over and saw Mia stiffen, noticing how timidly she climbed in.

  Despite what he had said last night, the fact that she travelled alone was a clear slur, and everyone knew it. Mia sitting up front and alone made her even less than an outcast, for it signalled to all that she had never been part of the theatre of his family.

  They hadn’t given her a chance.

  Dante had no doubt that Mia Hamilton was in it for the money, but what if there had been some measure of love between her and his father?

  The flash of tears in her eyes that he had witnessed last night was still capable of moving him, and the strain in her voice when she had said she did not want to be in the car on her own played again in his mind.

  ‘I’m going to go and sit with Mia,’ Dante said to the twins and Eloa.

  ‘Oh, please,’ Ariana sneered. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  But Dante didn’t answer. Instead, he left the car and walked towards the one in which Mia sat.

  It was cool this morning and when the car door opened, a gust of wind burst in; Mia looked over and jumped when she saw it was Dante.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ He got in beside her. ‘I am sure we can manage a more united front on this sombre day.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mia said, relieved the animosity had been put on hold, and grateful to have someone sitting next to her, for his presence made this just a little less daunting.

  As the procession moved off, Dante stared fixedly ahead, rather than witness the tears from the staff.

  The car moved slowly and as they made their way towards the stables Dante’s hands tensed into fists when he saw that Massimo had been brought out. The stable manager wore a black suit and held Massimo, who pawed the ground as the hearse passed.

  And Dante remembered long ago summer treks with his father and tried not to break down.

  They passed the groundskeeper’s cottage. He wore a black hat, which he removed, and bowed his head. Then on to the vines, and Dante thought back to childhood summers, happier times. He closed his eyes and remembered the last conversation he’d had with his father.

  Dante had told him about the board meeting the next day, and that he was embroiled in yet another scandal.

  ‘Hey,’ Pa had said, ‘at least you’re not a Castello.’

  The Castellos were from over the valley and had a restaurant chain that had flourished in the UK. The sons used their wealth unwisely and were careless with women.

  ‘Don’t let the board dictate your life to you,’ Pa had said. ‘You have always had your own compass, Dante, just follow that. I’m proud of you.’

  Slowly, ever so slowly, they moved out to the perimeter of the estate, edged with poppy fields that were stripped of colour this cold January day. Roberto, his father’s lawyer, stood outside his cottage, and with a black handkerchief wiped his eyes as they passed, but Dante himself did not cry. He didn’t know how.

  Had Pa known? Dante pondered as they made a slow loop around the fields to allow the staff to make their way to the church ahead of the procession.

&nb
sp; Dante was sure he had sensed that the end had been imminent and that he might not get home in time.

  And they were leaving Rafael’s beloved home now.

  As the procession turned out of the private property, the curved roads were lined with tall thin cypress trees, like soldiers standing to attention as they passed. Beyond that, a tapestry of bare vines owned by Romano Holdings—thanks to the divisions in his family—and Dante took in a shuddering breath.

  They approached the village but even the red terracotta roofs looked dismal today. Mia turned from staring out of the window and looked over at Dante.

  He was locked in his own thoughts, his strong, haughty face pale and tinged grey, and she could see from the tilt of his jaw that he was holding it all inside.

  Her heart ached for him now just as it would have for anyone burying a parent, or perhaps it was that she wanted comfort of her own, for her hand instinctively reached out and closed over his bunched fist.

  Dante did not as much as glance down.

  His hand was cold beneath her fingers and she clutched it tightly to impart warmth, but was startled when she heard the black frost of his voice. ‘Mia—’ her name was delivered in a malevolent tone that caused her to shrivel ‘—get your hand off me.’

  Walking into the church, Mia made her way to the front and could feel way more than a hundred eyes drilling into her back.

  She took her place in the front pew and knew that she was not worthy of it. Behind her, Rafael’s family sobbed, none too quietly.

  Despite the cool day, there was sweat trickling between her breasts. She dragged in a deep breath. She sat there, her frozen English self, with her head held high, as the service commenced; later she sat, still rigid and upright, as Dante read the eulogy, wondering what he had come up with to say.

  ‘Rafael Dante Romano was born to Alberto and Carmella, and was the older brother of Luigi...’

  Mia could understand most of what was said, but was a step behind, as she had to translate Dante’s words in her head.

  ‘His life was a busy one, but then he always said there would be time to rest when he was dead.’

  She heard that Rafael had married Angela when he had been nineteen and that she had said it was a marriage full of love, laughter and surprises.

  Yes, Dante agreed, his father had always liked to surprise everyone.

  Mia struggled to translate the next part, but deciphered that Rafael had moved the small family business beyond Luctano to restaurants in Florence, always, always, buying more land with the profits, more vines...

  Dante spoke of the time his mother had thought he was building a romantic garden, and of her disappointment when she’d thought it was a bocce ball green, and then her bemusement when she’d realised that it was a helipad.

  ‘There would be no helicopter landing on it for a year,’ Dante said, ‘but soon he would supply the best restaurants in Florence, Rome, Paris, London...’

  Dante paused, for this part was difficult for him. Here he had to paint a picture of the happiest of families, and lying did not come readily to him because Dante was honest to a fault.

  His mother and father had fought when he had been little; he could remember hearing the rows and the dread and certainty he had felt that his parents would soon break up. The arrival of the twins had afforded them a second start, though, and so he remembered then the peace that had arrived in his family and pushed on.

  Mia saw that slight waver.

  Oh, why did she notice everything about him?

  Why was she so completely attuned to him?

  And why the hell had she touched him?

  Even now, sitting there holding an orchid in the midst of her husband’s funeral, her hand, where she’d touched Dante’s, felt tingly.

  Even now, as she sat in the musty church, she felt as if she were inhaling him again, inhaling the freshness of his cologne that she had tried not to notice in the car.

  Mia felt tears prick her eyes when Dante spoke of the twins’ arrival.

  ‘He had always wanted a daughter.’ Dante looked over at Ariana, who wept quietly. ‘And he was so pleased to have another son...’

  He spoke on until finally it was time for the most difficult part of this eulogy, and she stiffened as Dante switched from Italian to English. ‘My father loved his family, yet, being Rafael, there was room for more love in his life and still time for more surprises. Two years ago he married Mia...’ He paused again, though certainly not for effect. He was fighting the very private devastation that that chapter of his father’s life had caused. Dante forced politeness and made himself look at her as he spoke. ‘I know Mia was a great comfort to him, and brought him peace in his last years. I know, because he told me so on the night before he died.’

  It was the best he could do, for though he could not say that she had been welcomed into the family, or that Mia and Rafael’s love had shone like a beacon, instead he dealt in facts and tried to do so with the respect this day deserved.

  Then he switched back to Italian and Mia sat looking down now at the orchid as he finished the eulogy, touched that Rafael had said that about her, and grateful to Dante for sharing it.

  ‘Sadly,’ Dante concluded, ‘there are to be no more surprises. It is now your time to rest.’ His voice finally cracked. ‘We shall miss you for ever.’

  The burial was awful.

  Ariana was sobbing, and Stefano cried too, with Eloa holding him, as Dante stood alone with his hands still fisted at his sides.

  Mia stood alone, beneath a huge holm oak, feeling both sick and icy cold as the coffin was lowered into the ground. When it was her turn to throw the orchid, her thighs seemed to have turned to rubber and she was terrified that she might faint.

  Mia was sweating in the frigid air, but then an arm came around her and steadied her. Oh, she could have, possibly should have, retorted, ‘Dante, get your hand off me,’ as he had to her, but instead she gasped out, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Come.’ He guided her to the edge of the grave and then guided her hand to toss in the single orchid that she held.

  It was done.

  She closed her eyes in weak relief. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, as he removed his arm and they headed back to the car.

  Dante chose to walk back to the house.

  He had none of the damned antipasti and nothing to drink other than water, for he needed to retain every last ounce of sense he had.

  And so to the last will and testament of Rafael Dante Romano.

  Dove c’è’ un testamento, c’è’ un parente!

  Where there’s a will, there’s a relative, indeed!

  Luigi had a front-row seat and, as predicted, Angela did indeed deign to set foot in the house. They sat, all frosty and staring ahead, although Dante stood at the French windows in his father’s study, for he wanted to see every flicker of Mia’s reaction, whatever the will might say.

  In the end it was straightforward with no real surprises.

  Most of the divisions had taken place at the time of the divorce and following the terminal diagnosis.

  The family residence had been left to Dante, the Switzerland residence to Stefano, and it was Paris for Ariana.

  There was a property in the city of Luctano that was now Luigi’s to squander.

  And there was some jewellery and trinkets and portraits from each of the residences left to his ex-wife.

  Perhaps there was one slight surprise: for Mia Romano, his current wife—there were two residences in the UK, a relatively minor cash payment, as well as all jewels gifted during the marriage, on the agreement there would be no further claim to the estate. There was also to be a grace period of three months before she left the Luctano residence.

  Dante had expected Mia to get more, but then he knew she had been haemorrhaging money from him in the two years they had been together. It
was her lack of reaction to the relatively low figures that mystified him.

  Mia sat upright, listening to Roberto, and was her usual dignified, inscrutable self.

  Of course, there was no doubt in Dante’s mind that she would contest the will and he didn’t care if she did.

  He would simply set his lawyers onto her like hungry hounds for however long it took, and let her burn through her inheritance in fees.

  Roberto continued to speak.

  ‘He hopes his family will continue to represent him at the annual Romano Foundation Ball.’ Dante glanced at his mother, whose lips pursed. Well, he could remember her tears at having to miss the glamorous ball, which had always been her night of nights and, as his father would say, Angela was not just the belle of the ball, but the belle of Roma in the lead-up to it.

  He looked at Mia who, as his widow, would naturally be hostess each year until she married again, but he saw no reaction in her features. Or possibly there was, because her ears were a little pink. She shifted in her seat, so that she turned her back to him just a little, and he realised she must have felt him watching her.

  Yet still he watched.

  He looked at her lips, still a touch swollen, and those eyes still devoid of tears. He wanted to take her by the hand, leave the whole sorry mess behind, and carry her up to his suite and lose himself in her.

  Instead Dante listened as Roberto spoke on.

  ‘He trusts his children to oversee it with diligence and care...’ Roberto put down the paperwork for a moment and took a drink of water before resuming the reading. ‘There is to be a personal donation of one million euros to his favourite charity...’ As Roberto named it, Dante suppressed a wry smile that retired racehorses would get more than Mia!

  Yes, there was black humour in dark days.

  When Roberto had concluded the reading of the last will and testament there were drinks for those who wanted them, but most did not.

  Stefano and Eloa drove with Luigi and his wife back to their house, and a short while later Dante walked his mother and Ariana out. ‘I will be over to Luigi’s later,’ Dante said to her. ‘But first I want to speak with Roberto.’