The Man Who Risked It All

For some reason her promise did not seem to make him any happier. ‘You can come to the funeral if that’s what you want to do. But I tell you this, Lexi: move one half-inch away from my side and I will do something we both regret—got that?’

Wanting to ask why he had changed his mind, Lexi gauged the sizzling tension emitting from him, pressed her lips together and just nodded her head.

He moved back to the door with the grim stride of a man glad to leave the room. An hour later a car arrived to deliver a selection of outfits suitable to wear at a funeral for Lexi to choose from.

Franco had shut himself away in his study and she did not see him again for the rest of the day. It felt as if she was being punished for standing up to him and spoiling their few days of harmony. By the time they met up again for dinner his father had arrived home, and their meal was a very stressful, sober affair, with the prospect of what was to take place the next day hanging heavily over all three of them.

The two men excused themselves from the table as soon as the meal was over. They disappeared into the study—to talk business, Lexi presumed—and in a lot of ways she was glad they’d left her alone. Franco might be talking to his father again; but throughout dinner his tone had been flat and stilted and Salvatore was either too jet-lagged to bother taking on his son in the mood he was in, or he was as aware as Lexi that Franco was treading a very fine line emotionally.

That night she slept in her own bed. She wasn’t sure why she made the decision to do that, but when Franco made no effort to come and find her she assumed that he was glad she’d given him the space to be on his own.

Not that it lasted. Halfway through the long, empty night she’d spent lying wide awake, worrying about him because he’d become so distant and withdrawn, she gave in to the craving that had been eating away at her since she’d heard his bedroom door close hours ago and got up, sneaked into the darkness of his room, then slid into the bed beside him.

He was awake. It didn’t surprise her.

‘Shh,’ she whispered before he could say anything. ‘You don’t need to talk. I just needed to hold you.’

And he let her. He took her advice and said not a word, but at least he curved an arm around her to draw against him. They stayed like that for what was left of the night, paying silent vigil to the ordeal to come.

CHAPTER TEN

THEY came to mourn Marco in droves. Masses of people packed the church, spilling onto the grounds and onto the street. He was well known and well liked, and the tragedy of his young age and his spectacular death made the mourning of Marco all the more poignant.

Lexi stood quietly beside Franco. His father flanked his other side. Behind them stood the full White Streak team, although in their sober black suits, Lexi had not recognised them until they’d lined up outside the church, waiting in turn to commiserate with Franco over Marco’s loss. Each one of them had cast a curious glance at Lexi before moving respectfully away.

In front of them stood the Clemente family. Marco’s mother and father, his sister Claudia and his many other relatives, all grief-stricken and bereft, but still eager to commiserate with Franco over the loss of his lifelong friend. When they’d arrived inside the church Marco’s mamma had thrown herself against Franco’s chest to sob her heart out. He’d held her close and murmured soothing words to her that had thickened his voice and driven the colour from his face. They’d all asked concernedly how Franco was doing. His stilted dismissal of his own injuries made it clear to Lexi that he found his situation in all of this almost too hard to bear.

She began to appreciate why he had locked himself away from it all. Survivor guilt, she thought, listening to his quiet voice making sombre responses and feeling his tension like a swarm of stinging bees attaching themselves to her flesh. She knew that he did not want people’s sympathy and commiserations, though he had to accept them. And as the ordeal lengthened through the Catholic Mass she could feel the stinging buzz of Franco’s tension increasing, until she worried he might actually turn and make a bolt for it.

What he did do almost snapped the fine thread of her own self-control.

It was Marco’s father who turned to him and gravely invited him to say a few words for their son. Franco must have been expecting it to happen, because he stepped out from their pew and onto the podium with no hint of hesitation—yet she’d felt the fine tremor rip through him a second before he’d moved. He spoke with a quiet, grave fluency about his friendship with Marco, spanning its twenty years with precious memories, causing a fresh wave of aching grief to spread through the gathered assembly. Even Salvatore became overwhelmed.

Had Franco been composing all this while he lay awake last night? Was this the reason he had shut himself away in his study for half the day?

Lexi felt a sinking twist of guilt: she had not appreciated what he must have been struggling with while she’d fought with him yesterday. He had not wanted her to come. He’d wanted to get through the day without the need to worry about her and the curiosity he knew her presence beside him would evoke. He’d tried to block out all reference to Marco since the accident—yet here he stood, having to open up his grief and loss in front of hundreds of people. She hurt for him—hurt so badly she reached out and clung to Salvatore’s hand. She fought back her own rush of tears—for Marco and for Franco.

From the church they moved in sombre procession to Marco’s final resting place, and still the day did not end there. Next they drove to the Clemente estate, with its world-famous vineyards and beautiful cascina.

‘OK?’ she dared to whisper to Franco as the three of them sat in the rear of Salvatore’s Mercedes.

‘Si,’ he responded, but that was all he said.

‘You did well, Francesco,’ Salvatore said huskily. ‘I am proud of you today.’

This time Franco did not make an answer—for what could he say? This was still not over. They had a wake to attend, time to relax a little and socialise; but all he wanted to do was tell Pietro to turn the car around and take them home.

He got through the first hour by choosing to avoid those people who

knew Lexi from their summer together. They were all there—the golden people, as she’d used to call them, most of them friends of his still. People who seemed, thankfully, to want to respect the politics of reverence and politeness by keeping their distance. Though he could see they were curious to see Lexi with him—and perhaps a little uncomfortable too, for none of them had treated her particularly well.

Even Claudia kept away from them, which he found coldly amusing. She must have worked out by now that Lexi would have told him the part she’d played in breaking them up. They ate delicate finger food from platters extended to them by circulating waiters, talked when they needed to, and then, quite suddenly, it all became too much for him. He was standing with Lexi by his side, talking to a lawyer friend, when it happened. From the corner of his eye he saw Claudia making her way towards them, and he knew he could not be pleasant to her—no matter how much today was about putting personal grievances aside. Abruptly excusing them, he grabbed Lexi’s hand and walked her out through the French windows and along the terrace until they’d put the majority of the people at a distance.

He didn’t know why it was happening but he felt so hot, and his heart was pounding. Leaning a shoulder against one the stone pillars that supported the loggia, he let go of Lexi’s hand so he could loosen his tie and drag open a couple of buttons on his shirt, then he breathed in a lungful of humid air.

‘Are you all right?’ Looking up at his face, Lexi felt concern clutch at her stomach because he looked as if he might just pass out.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just hot and …’