Wood and broken shards of glass crunched below our feet as we stood in what used to be the kitchen. A large hole in the ceiling in the center of the room while charred beams lay methodically in the midst of black charcoal remnants. I can practically hear the crackle of the flame and the creak of the timbers above me as they fell down to the ground. I can still smell the burnt wood.
I gasped, “What happened?”
“Faulty wiring is from what everyone understands,” Lorenzo says quietly.
My fingers hesitantly touch the sooty black coals on the wood pile in front of me. A kitchen completely destroyed by fire.
“Your great-grandfather, his name was Carlos. He took it the hardest when his daughter left. He made some rash decisions, and your great grandmother paid the price,” he says.
My brows furrowed in serious confusion, “What do you mean?”
“Mia was cooking lunch with your grandmother’s brother, Thomasso. He was three at the time.”
The realization occurs that my great grandmother and grand uncle perished in the fire in front of me. Dread sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow the bile deeply in my throat.
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
“The fire started so quickly, and they couldn’t get out. The smoke was too much,” Lorenzo continued.
I can hear the insistent cries for help. The sounds of a scared little boy crying for his mom.
“They both died,” I say. Not a question.
“I’m sorry,” Lorenzo replies.
My hand covers my mouth to stop myself from a gasp of emotion. My Nonna had no idea. She left and had no idea.
“Princessa,” he says, his voice trailing off.
“I can feel them here,” I whisper.
“Their presence was unyielding from what I hear in the stories about them,” Lorenzo tells me.
“What about my great grandfather? What happened to Carlos?”
“After their funeral, he packed up his bags and never looked back. No one knows where he is.”
He walks to me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me out of the charred kitchen. As we walk through the darkened hallway to the foyer of the villa, I stop. My thoughts creeping to the surface, finally thinking clearly. Only Lorenzo’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“I probably shouldn’t have brought you here,” he says timidly.
He stands stoically in front of me. My fingers grasp his tattooed hand. His rings brushing against my skin.
“No, I’m glad you did. I feel closer to my family than I’ve ever felt.”
“You belong here,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine.
“Maria knew my name. Said I looked like her.”
Pushing himself away from me and out of the grasp of my hand, “She’s old and talks nonsense,” he says angrily.
My anger and frustration at the emotional stoicism whiplash he has been given me. I have had enough. I grip his shoulders and pull him back to face me. Frustration blankets my face.
“It’s more than that and you know it. Her eyes welled with tears when she asked about Armando. She knew my grandparents,” I say firmly, my voice escalating.
“Everyone knows the Marcelli name here in Sicily. Everyone knew of your grandparents!” Lorenzo exclaims.
Our blood boils, powering up for a fight of the century if he doesn’t give me the answers I need.
“I do not need your permission to talk to her,” I seethe.
“She’s in my house,” he says, his teeth gritted angrily.
“Your father’s house. My grandparents had to flee Sicily because of their family. Antonio hates me. He hates me because I am a Marcelli,” I exclaim.
Throwing his hands up in the air defeatedly, “Antonio hates everyone.”
“Does he know my grandfather’s family? No one will say their name. They aren’t fucking Voldermort,” I say, my anger getting the best of me.
“It’s been talked about for generations about why it happened, how it happened,” his voice soft, callous.
Something is off. Something doesn’t feel right. Trust fleeting from him every second, secrets swirling in his eyes.
“You are keeping something from me.”
“No.”
I am immobilized by the anger within me. His hand grips my shoulders and pulls me into him. His breath against my neck. My resolve wavering with his closeness. My hands fall down his t-shirt, feeling his muscled abs under his thin t-shirt.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lorenzo whispers.
“Why?”
“I shouldn’t have let you come here. You should go back home, or back to Finn,” he says.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I say, raising my eyebrow in obvious defiance.
“That is the truth, princessa,” he breathes.