FORTY-ONE |

Arturo's hand was so tight I half expected to have crushed it. I instinctively pressed my body against his, heart hammering, terrified that we were under attack.

The armed man banged on the window again. "Out."

I looked to Arturo only to find his expression a stoic mask. "They're with my father," he explained, "do whatever they tell you."

"Are you serious?"

Without answering, Arturo opened the car door and stepped outside. Marco and the driver followed his lead, until I was the only person left.

"Florence, you need to let these men search the vehicle," Marco explained, holding his hand out to me while Arturo had a stare-down with the guards.

I took his hand shakily and climbed out of the SUV. The bright sun stung my eyes and I regretted leaving my sunglasses in my suitcase.

"You," one of the guards barked, "arms out."

I glanced to Arturo, but he was too occupied with the guard who had shouted at me. I raised my arms in compliance, wincing as I was patted down.

"Guarda dove metti le mani," Arturo snapped.

(Watch where you put your hands)

Finally satisfied, the guard released me from his grip and Arturo pulled me into his body at last. He watched with hooded eyes as the men searched our vehicle, even underneath it, for any sign of danger.

"Do they really think they'll find something?" I whispered.

"They're being careful."

"This is to do with me, isn't it?" I wondered. "It's about me being a Genovese."

"You're not," Arturo assured me firmly, stroking my hair.

"To them I always will be."

Once satisfied, the guards waved us through the imposing metal gates. I glanced out of the rear window, anxious to see if the car that Amber was in was still following behind.

"They're fine," Arturo assured me, reading the anxiety in my body language. "We're all fine. Please relax, Florence."

"Sorry."

I turned back around and tried to sit still, hoping we would arrive at any moment. But when ten minutes passed, then fifteen, it became clear that the sheer size of the Lucchese estate was even more astronomical than I had imagined.

"You own all this land?" I asked in awe as we passed yet another small villa with a pool, another grove of fruit trees, a field full of horses, a barn.

"My father's estate is quite the size, yes."

"You could get lost in it."

"Please don't."

"Wait until you see the size of the house," Marco chimed in from the front and I felt my cheeks burn red at the realisation that he would have heard everything Arturo and I said.

"Not helping, Marco," Arturo warned. "It really isn't that intimidating."

But of course it was.

The Lucchese villa was a masterpiece of Italian architecture, with elegant pillars announcing the entrance and a grand fountain gushing as a centrepiece for the circular driveway. It was at least twice as big as any property my father had ever owned.

I gulped, watching as the front door of the house swung open. "Your family know that I'm coming, right Arturo?"

"Madre knows," he nodded. "She's looking forward to meeting you."

"And your father?"

"He's aware."

"But he doesn't want me here?"

"This weekend isn't about what padre wants." Arturo kissed my hand. "Come on, the birthday girl is waiting," he said with a smirk.

I followed his gaze, my heart warmed by the warmth it held as a small woman stepped out of the open door.

"That's your mother?" I wondered, noting that the only similarity between the two was their dark hair.

"The one and only."

We climbed out of the car and I began walking around to the boot to get my luggage out, but Arturo grabbed my wrist as I went to open the door. "Let the driver do it. We're going to miss out on all the fun."

By fun, Arturo had apparently meant the sight of Cecelia bounding over to his mother and embracing her like a long-lost child. "Dina!" she exclaimed with glee.

Arturo's mother - Dina, apparently - stumbled back a few paces from the embrace, her face white like a ghost's. "Cecelia?" she asked, "Sei tu?"

(Is that you?)

Cecelia nodded fervently, causing a smile to light up the other woman's face. "Sono passati anni."

(It has been years)

Sensing my darkening mood, Arturo's hand reached for mine and he squeezed it reassuringly as we approached the crowd.

"Madre." Arturo cleared his throat and everyone, even Cecelia, paid attention. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, a fist clenched around my furiously beating heart. All eyes were on us. "Madre, I'd like you to meet Florence."

The world seemed to still as I felt her gaze on me. Her eyes were just like Arturo's, sharp and keen, but they were also lighter; golden; a honey colour. Like molten amber, as piercing as an owl's.

She was a short woman with a figure that told of long evenings with good food and longer nights with better wine. The lines around her mouth were kind, they softened the sharpness of her eyes and warmed her expression like silent laughter. It was difficult to tell, in many ways, that Arturo was her son. Except for the colour of her hair and the expression she fixed me with.

Arturo elbowed me lightly, encouraging me to speak.

"You must be Mrs. Lucchese," I stammered, holding my hand out. "My name is Florence...Genovese." Idiot. There was no need to put any emphasis on second names. Idiot!

I waited with bated breath to see how I would be received. I could feel that my palm had become slick with sweat against Arturo's, our skin clammy and stuck together.

When Mrs. Lucchese's face began to fall, forming a frown, I had to fight the urge to run away. She reached out her hand to shake mine, grip so tight I felt my teeth grind together. "Please," she said in a heavily accented voice, "call me Dina. Welcome to our family home."

Her expression was less than warm, but I was relieved that she had shaken my hand at all. The second her grip released she turned to Arturo. "My wonderful son," Dina beamed, "come here. How was your journey?"

"It was fine, thank you, Madre."

"And have you been eating properly?" she poked his stomach with a finger. "You look skinny! Has he been eating properly?" Her amber eyes swooped down on to me and my heart leapt into my mouth.

"I...uh..."

"Never mind! Lo faremo presto stufare. Parli italiano, caro?"

(We'll soon get him fed up. Do you speak Italian, dear?)

"I know a little," I admitted, "not enough to hold a conversation."

"Hm." Dina glanced to Arturo and silent words passed between them. Disappointed words, I imagined. "Cecilia, ti mostrerò le tue stanze. I will call Chiara to take everyone else."

(Cecelia, I will show you to your room)

"I'm sure I know the way by now," Marco interjected.

"Me too," Sofia agreed. "We can find our own way, Madre. Chiara can show Amber to her room."

And with that everybody went their separate ways, leaving Arturo and I on the porch.

"She hates me," I deadpanned when we were alone.

"She doesn't hate you."

"She hates that I can't speak Italian."

"You don't know that."

"I heard it in the tone of her hmm." I folded my arms. "What if she doesn't approve of me."

Arturo placed his hands on my shoulders and rubbed them gently. "Please relax, Florence. She will love you just as much as I do once she gets to know you."

"How will she ever get to know me if she's too busy fussing over Cecelia?"

"Is that what this is about?" The tone of his voice dropped a little.

"What?"

"Madre hasn't seen Cece for years. She's entitled to be a little surprised."

"I know that," I said too quickly, my voice coming out strained. "I know. I just felt like her greeting was a little more chilled when it came to me."

"Sit next to Madre at dinner tonight. Get to know her," Arturo suggested. "Come on, I'll give you the grand tour."

The Lucchese mansion was just as beautiful and decadent on the inside as it looked from the outside. Everything was light and airy; the ceilings were so tall they felt impossibly high, with windows stretching floor-to-ceiling, allowing a wash of sunshine to tint the interior with a warm glow. Arturo's hand in mine was similarly warm, the familiarity of his grip calmed my racing heart.

"Everything is so stunning," I observed, pausing on the stairs to glance out of the window. The lush

landscape stretched for miles, set against the impossible azure of the sky.

Arturo's eyes met mine and he placed a hand on my cheek, soft and comforting. "You are so stunning," he said, running a hand through my hair which seemed lighter in the rays of sun.

We continued up even more stairs, pausing every few seconds as I glanced at the photographs hung on the walls. For some reason, I hadn't expected there to be many photos in the house, let alone so many family photos.

"This is you?" I pointed at the small, slender face of a young boy playing in a pool. I could tell immediately it was the pool just outside of the house, framed in the background by the same rolling hills.

"Yes."

I glanced at Arturo, who was stood a few feet away from me on the staircase, looking away. I wanted to confirm the details of his face, to compare the boyish features of his younger self. At the mention of his childhood, however, he seemed to have gone stiff.

I looked closer at the photo, framed in gold, and found my finger tracing another figure in the background. Long, dark hair, a pastel pink swimming costume with a strawberry print. It had to have been Sofia, before she cut her hair and she grew taller, withdrawn and reserved. She was lounging on a pool inflatable, a half-melted ice lolly clutched in her right hand. It looked like Arturo had said or done something funny because she had thrown her head back in glee.

I felt my heart ache faintly for the people they had once been.

Although I wanted to ask about the picture, it was clear that Arturo felt uncomfortable. I followed him in silence to the top of the staircase, running my thumb over the back of his hand.

"Have you missed this place?" I asked as we approached what I assumed was his old bedroom.

He grabbed the handle without speaking and swung the door open with an emotionless push. I imagined it hadn't been used regularly in years, but the door opened without a squeak. Although it had probably been kept in good condition by the maids, stepping into the room felt distinctly like stepping into a place of abandonment. I felt the empty memories swallow us up.

Arturo led me past the double bed, to the French doors at the far side of the room. I was reminded of my own bedroom, thousands of miles away, in England. Of the morning when I had stepped out on to my balcony and everything changed.

I closed my eyes, lost in memory. If I focused hard enough, I could feel the slick balcony under my bare feet, the damp air pressing against my skin. The sight of my crushed bed of dahlias was like a photograph, unchanged when I recalled it after years.

The click of a handle dragged me from my thoughts. Arturo pushed open the French doors, a current of warmth blowing into the room. I could feel the heat of the terracotta paving through my thin sandals as we stepped out, the dryness of the summer air in the back of my throat.

When I looked up, Arturo's eyes were closed, his head tipped up to the sky. He seemed so lost in thought, so frozen in time – perhaps in past memories – that it startled me when he spoke.

"I miss who I was," he said, pausing. "Home isn't a place anymore."

His hand reached for mine, but his eyes didn't open. I closed mine, too, before I replied. Remembered the cold wetness on my feet, the crushed flowers, the promise of a storm. Maybe we'd finally weathered ours.

"Home hasn't been a place for me for a long time."