A Dark Sicilian Secret

“Can you imagine attending a play or a concert here?” Jillian asked, doing a slow circle to fully savor the amphitheater’s grandeur.

“Now and then concerts are still performed here. It doesn’t happen often anymore—the last time was ten years ago—but it’s a magical thing to have the theatre come alive, with all the performers lit by moonlight and candlelight.”

Jillian sat down on a stone bench that was still largely intact. “We’re in a field with a secret Roman amphitheater that’s just an hour from your home. I’m jealous!”

“It is beautiful. And the amazing thing is, we have ruins like this all over Sicily. Every couple of miles you’ll find the tumbled stones of a Doric temple, Byzantine church, Norman castle, Greek and Roman amphitheaters. But the ruins aren’t merely in the countryside. Our cities are filled with ancient gates and bridges, tombs and altars. We have two thousand years of history on this island, and it’s all created the strong, modern Sicilian character.”

“You’re proud to be Sicilian,” she said, looking up at him.

Vittorio nodded. “Very proud. Sicilians haven’t just been shaped by thousands of years of different cultures and rulers, but also by the land and weather. Here in Sicily we have six months of perfect warm weather followed by months of torrential rains. The interior of the island is dry, rocky and arid, while our exterior is one of endless coastlines with picturesque beach towns and breathtaking views. We’re surrounded by water and yet at the center is our Mount Etna, Europe’s largest, most active volcano.”

“A place of extremes,” she said.

“Exactly so,” he agreed, extending a hand to her. “Shall we go so I can show you more?”

They stopped in Bronte, enjoying a simple meal in the restaurant’s charming, shady courtyard before Vittorio ducked into a boutique and emerged with a silk scarf and pair of sunglasses. “For your hair,” he said, tying the scarf under her chin. “And your eyes,” he added, slipping the sunglasses onto her nose.

Touched by his thoughtful gesture, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him. “Thank you.”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, a small muscle pulling in his jaw. “My pleasure.”

And then they were climbing into the Lancia sports car and heading to Paterno. Riding home in the sleek two-seater convertible, Jillian felt very chic in her sunglasses and scarf. “This was a really nice afternoon,” she commented as he slowed to allow a shepherd and his flock of sheep to cross the road.

“It still is,” he agreed, dark eyes holding hers, before focusing again on the road. As he drove they sat in silence, mellowed by their meal, the warmth of the sun and the scenic drive.

It wasn’t until they were on the outskirts of Paterno that Vittorio spoke again. “I want to call your parents when we return and personally invite them to the wedding. I will let them know that I can handle all arrangements, and have a plane at their disposal—”

“Vitt, not this again!”

“Jill, you are their only daughter.”

“Maybe, but they won’t come. They just won’t.”

He shot her a swift glance. “How do you know if you haven’t asked them?”

“Because I know them!”

“But I don’t, and if we’re to be a family, I want to know them, and I’d think they’d want to get to know me.”

“They don’t. It sounds dreadful put like that, but it’s the truth. They don’t want to know anyone anymore, not after Katie’s boyfriend—” She broke off, bit down hard into her lip, astonished that she would once again say so much.

He shot her a swift glance. “What did Katie’s boyfriend do?”

Jillian closed her eyes, hating herself.

“Jill?” he demanded.

She looked at him, expression stricken. “Marco hurt her.”

“He was the one that killed her?”

“Yes.” She ducked her head, studied her laced fingers, remembered how when she and Katie were young they’d hold hands when they crossed the street. Held hands when Katie got scared. Tears burned her eyes, but they were nothing compared to the emotion tearing up her heart. “So now my parents don’t go anywhere or meet anyone. They just live in their little house in Fort Lauderdale and soak up the sun and maybe play a round of golf.”

For a moment Vittorio said nothing and then he spoke quietly, flatly. “I am not Marco. I would never hurt you, or your family—”

“That may be, but we will not call them. I will not call them.”

“Then I will.” He glanced at her. “I have their number, Jill. Home and cell