The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(45)

But it was too late. There, in the archway, stood my father, his hands planted on his hips, his wide stance swallowing the room.

Time stood still as I watched Rico cross the floor. Though he was a tall man, he seemed to shrink before the mountain of my father. If he had prepared a speech, it was forgotten.

“I love your daughter,” he blurted out.

“Fuori!” my father said. “Leave! Out of my house, now!”

“Papà!” I rushed to Rico’s side and linked arms with him. “Please, listen to him.”

My father turned to me. “Stai zitta!” he shouted. He flicked his hand. “Be quiet. Get this barbarian out of here. Now.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. How dare he be so cruel? I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to storm off and prove my love to Rico. But if I did, I would lose my family. If I chose my family, I would lose Rico.

Rico made the choice for me. He looked up at my father, his voice calm and certain. “I will leave, but you have misjudged me, signore. Nobody will ever love your daughter the way I do.”

My father huffed. “You know nothing. Paolina is engaged to marry a shop owner in America. She will have everything she wants, riches beyond belief, in this new land of opportunity. And most important, she will be with her family, something a German would not understand.”

“Papà!” I cried, my heart breaking for Rico. “Do not say that.”

He waved a dismissive hand in Rico’s direction. “I read of men in East Germany, leaving their fathers and mothers, siblings and wives, all for so-called freedom.” My father sneered. “It is not like that with us. The threads of the Italian family do not unravel.”

Rico’s jaw twitched, as if an electric current were passing through. But he kept his voice even. “You do not know of what you speak.” He turned to me and kissed my cheek. “Addio, mio unico amore.”

I started after him. How could I part with a man I loved, a man who called me his one love? But halfway to the door, Papà grabbed my arm, his thick fingers biting into my flesh. “Please, Papà. I love—”

My father’s hand swept across my cheek, so swiftly I heard the crack before I felt the sting.

Rosa ran to me. “Papà! No!”

He shot her a look, silencing her, before turning his attention back to me. “You are risking everything, everything, we have worked for, everything we have dreamed of!”

I swallowed hard, unable to speak.

“Ignacio is a solid man. He is willing to take you for his wife, and you, a second daughter no less. How dare you squander this opportunity, you selfish fool. You must stop this nonsense now. That is an order! You will go to America. Capisci?”

My knees nearly buckled. I grabbed hold of Rosa’s hand to keep steady. As my mind scrambled for a reply, Rosa answered for me.

“Sì, Papà. She understands.”





Chapter 24




Emilia

The wine bottle, empty now, sits beside a single candle in the middle of a cloth-covered table. Dusk has drifted into darkness, and streetlights reflect off the freshly washed sidewalk.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Poppy says, pulling her gaze from the window. “If I continue, you’ll miss your night on the town.”

“It’s okay,” I say, scooting to the edge of my chair. “What happened next?”

“Yeah,” Lucy says, draining the last drops from her glass. “Was our great-grandpa simply a bastard, or did he really think you’d be happier with that Ignacio dude?”

Poppy smiles, but her eyes are heavy. “My papà loved me. He and Mamma wanted the best for me.”

I choke on my wine. “You can’t be ser—”

She lifts a hand, silencing me. “I’ve found life much sweeter when I choose to believe the best of others, rather than the worst.”

The waiter appears with a tray of liqueurs.

“No Frangelico for me,” Poppy says. “I’ll take the check, please.”

Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “You still want to go out, Luce?” Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

She scowls. “Ye-es.” She breaks the word into two syllables, as if to emphasize the silliness of my question.

Poppy claps her hands. “You shouldn’t miss Al Volto, the oldest wine bar in Venice.”

“Never heard of it,” Lucy says. “TripAdvisor says the place to go is Il Campo. Music and craft cocktails and lots of ragazzi fighi.” She does a jaunty little shoulder shimmy when she says the Italian phrase for “hot guys.”

Poppy tsks as she signs the receipt. “Suit yourselves.” She reaches into her purse as she rises. “For luck,” she says, and places two coins on the table.

“Thanks, Pops!” Lucy says, snatching one of them. She looks at me and wiggles her eyebrows. “Here’s hoping we get lucky.”

A pit forms in my stomach. Poppy pushes in her chair and waves her fingers. “Ta-ta until morning.”

“Wait,” I say, panic setting in. “We’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

“Nonsense. It’s three blocks away. I’ll be fine.”

Yes, I imagine she will be. But what about me?