Page 60 of Secrets of the Brother
So Bianca was holding me at arm’s length by hiding behind a gold-digging scheme her own family perpetrated against me?
The heavy stone of guilt I had been carrying around in my stomach since the morning I woke up lying naked next to Renata was suddenly pulverized into dust.
I blew a cloud of fragrant cigar smoke into the frigid air.
This changed…everything.
I turned and placed my hand on Cesare’s shoulder. “Thank you, brother. Suddenly, I’m in the mood to join the party.”
“Not going to lie. I saw you taking that news differently. What am I missing?”
I crushed my cigar out, twisting the stump until the hot flame weakened and gave out.
“Let’s just say I’ve decided I’m a true Cavalieri after all.”
CHAPTER15
BIANCA
Iclimbed the worn stone steps of Santa Maria Church.
Balancing the heavy tray ofcaggionettion one hip, I gripped the wrought iron handle and pulled on the massive oak door.
The somber interior of the church was even cooler than the autumn weather outside.
The moment I entered, the cloying scents of floral, clove, and frankincense made my stomach turn.
My gaze turned to the altar. It was already covered in large arrangements of yellow chrysanthemums and white candles in preparation for tomorrow’sTutti i Santicelebrations.
With my sister's recent passing, my mother was in full drama mode for this year’s All Saints’ Day, which was fitting since she only seemed to grieve when there was an audience.
One of the village widows, dressed in all black with the traditional black lace head covering, approached me. After eyeing my bare head with displeasure, she gestured to the platter in my hands. “Is this for tomorrow?”
Playing the dutiful daughter, I recited the speech my mother gave me. “Yes, my mother was up early this morning making it special from the chestnuts in our garden, in memory of my sister.”
Bitter bile roiled my stomach.
I hated that I still tried to please a woman who'd clearly never felt even the tiniest drop of motherly affection for me.
Hated that I allowed myself to be a puppet in the stupid pantomime she put on for those around her.
What did I think was going to happen?
That if I kept my mouth shut and did as I was told, suddenly she would wake up one morning and hug and kiss me and tell me she loved me?
That all the passive-aggressive digs about my art, my looks, my personality, would just be forgotten memories?
The widow bowed her head as she took the platter from me. “How kind.”
It was a lie of course.
The only time my mother entered the kitchen was to scream at our cook. She wouldn’t be caught dead baking, let alone making an involved traditional All Saints’ Day dish like chestnut, chocolate, and almond-stuffed sweet ravioli.
As the widow shuffled off, I approached the votive candlestand stationed in a small side alcove. I stared up at the serene gaze of the Madonna statue, which I had always adored as a child.
The black iron tier at her feet glowed from all the lit candles nestled inside ruby-colored glass votive candleholders. Placing a few euro in the metal donation box nearby, I selected a long, thin taper from the jar and held the tip to an existing candle flame until it ignited.
I then held the taper to an unlit wick. I wasn’t sure who I was lighting the candle for. I knew it wasn’t my sister. I refused to feel guilty for not mourning her death. There had never been any sisterly affection between us since long before her betrayal with Enzo.
