“In your ‘courting period,’” Marietta said using air quotes, and snorted with laughter. “What a joke. What twenty-three-year-old woman and twenty-six-year-old man need a courting period?”
I laughed at her sassy tone, but then soberly replied, “Ones who don’t know each other at all? Ones who have to see if they can stand each other’s company before sealing their marital fates forever?”
Marietta shuffled closer. “You know as well as I do that you could hate this so-called prince, detest everything he is—and he you—and I’d still be your maid of honor at your wedding on New Year’s Eve.” She sputtered a laugh. “The very fact that the date has been set says it all. This marriage is happening.” Marietta held up her glass, got to her feet and, with arms spread wide, shouted, “Welcome to the life of the European blue bloods of the Upper East Side! Drowning in Prada and Gucci, dripping in diamonds, but having no free will to call our own!”
I laughed, pulling her back down. She broke into hysterics as her ass hit the couch, spilling champagne all over the expensive upholstery. But our laughter waned as the house lights came on one by one. The last of the dance music drifted into silence, and the rich patrons of Manhattan’s most exclusive nightclub began making their way to their limos and town cars. It was three o’clock in the morning, and I had six hours left in the city I loved beyond measure.
We stayed silent as the club emptied. Eventually Marietta rolled her head on the back of the couch to face me. “I am going to miss you so much, Caresa. You have no idea.”
My heart broke as Marietta’s tears fell hard and fast. Lunging forward, I hugged my best friend. In fact, I gripped onto her for dear life. When I pulled back, I said, “Don’t worry, Etta. I’m sure your suitor will be coming soon.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said through a thick throat. “My father already has a list of potential husbands for me. It makes me sick. Expect a call very soon, telling you of the pot-bellied, snobby, pompous lord or duke I’ve been betrothed to.”
I tilted my head. “Well, you’re kind of snobby and pompous yourself, you know,” I said playfully.
Marietta’s mouth dropped open in outrage, before she nodded in defeat and admitted, “Yeah, I kinda am.” I huffed out a laugh, but the humor drained from me immediately, lost to my thoughts of Italy.
Marietta’s head landed on my shoulder. “I know you’re worried, Caresa. But you needn’t be. I’ve seen your prince. As much of an arrogant, slutty tool as he is rumored to be, he’s totally gorgeous to look at.” Marietta tapped my leg. “And he’s getting you. Not only are you the sweetest, kindest person I know, but you’re equally as beautiful. That dark hair, those huge dark eyes and tanned Italian skin. He’s going to be smitten the minute he sees you.”
“Yeah?” I doubted that was true. I knew the rumors. Prince Zeno didn’t strike me as a man who could get smitten with anyone that wasn’t his own reflection.
“Definitely.”
Silence stretched until I said, “I’m going to miss you, Etta.”
Marietta sighed in agreement. “You never know, maybe I’ll be married off to a fellow Austrian baron and sent there. That wouldn’t be so bad, because you’d be near.”
“No, that wouldn’t be bad at all.”
“Come on, Princess,” Marietta said, getting to her feet. “Let’s get you home so you can fly away bright and early to your prince’s palace.”
I stood and linked my arm through Marietta’s. Just as I was about to head outside to my waiting limo, Marietta ran back and grabbed the barely touched bottle of bubbly. She shrugged. “Or we can continue getting trashed in the back of your limo as we take one last farewell tour of Manhattan?”
I smiled, a sense of relief settling in my veins. “That sounds perfect.”
An hour later, with my head through my limo’s sunroof, Marietta and I drinking in the bright lights of New York, real fear began to set in.
I hadn’t lived in Italy since I was six years old. I had no idea what to expect. So I carried on sipping champagne and laughing at Marietta, and I let myself forget about the prince, about duty and tradition.
At least until the sun rose again. When the next chapter of my story would begin.
Chapter Two
Caresa
As my papa’s G5 began its descent, I looked out of the window beside me and waited for the plane to break through the clouds. I held my breath, body tense, then suddenly the burnt-orange remnants of daylight flooded the plane, bathing the interior with a soft, golden glow. I inhaled deeply. Italia.
Fields and fields of green and yellow created a patchwork quilt below, rolling hills and crystal-blue lakes stretching as far the eye could see. I smiled as a sense of warmth ran through me.
It was the most beautiful place on earth.
Sitting back in my wide cream leather chair, I closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for what was coming. I was flying to Florence airport, from where I would be swiftly taken to the Palazzo Savona estate just outside of the city.
I would meet Prince Zeno.
I had met him twice before—once when I was four, of which I had no memory, and again when I was ten. The interaction we’d had as children had been brief. If I was being honest, I had found Zeno to be arrogant and rude. He had been thirteen at the time and not at all interested in meeting a ten-year-old girl from America.
Neither of us had known at the time that that our betrothal had been agreed upon two years prior. It turned out that the trip my papa had taken to Umbria when I was eight was to secure a forever-bond between the Savonas and the Acardis. King Santo and my father had planned for their only children to marry. They were already joined in business; Zeno’s arranged marriage to me would also strengthen both families’ place in society.
I thought back on my New York farewell of nine hours ago and sighed. My parents had driven me to the private hangar and said their goodbyes. My mama cried—her only child was leaving her for a new life. My papa, although sad to see me go, beamed at me with the utmost pride. He had held me close and whispered, “I have never been more proud of you than I am right now, Caresa. Savona Wines’ stock has plummeted since Santo’s death. This union will reassure all the shareholders that our business is still strong. That we are still a stable company with Zeno at the helm.”
I had given him a tight smile and boarded the plane with a promise that they would see me before the wedding. And that had been that.
I was to marry Zeno, and I hadn’t protested even once. I imagined to most modern-day women living in New York, the process of arranged marriages sounded positively medieval, even barbaric. For a blue blood, it was simply a part of life.
King Santo Savona died two months ago. The shareholders of his many Italian vineyards, the stakeholders in Savona Wines, had expected his son, Zeno, to immediately step up and take charge. Instead, Zeno had plunged himself into the party scene even harder than before—and that was quite a feat. Within weeks my papa had flown out to Umbria to see what could be done.
The answer: our imminent union.
I knew I had been fortunate—for our social circle—to get to age twenty-three and still not be married. That had been no decision of mine, even though it pleased me greatly. It had all been down to Zeno. The king had wanted his son to sow his wild oats. Get the “playboy behavior” out of his system before we wed. But no one had expected King Santo to pass away so young. We all thought he would be around for many years to come.
It was decided—mainly by my father, Zeno’s uncle Roberto and the board of Savona Wines—that Zeno needed to grow up and become responsible. And quickly.
The date for our marriage was immediately set. The board was satisfied.
My stomach lurched as the plane dipped. I opened my eyes, trying to shed the deep unease I felt in my veins, and saw the twinkling view of the Florentine city lights below. I let my forehead fall against the window and stared, unseeing, out of the glass as the plane touched down and parked in the Savona private hangar. Antonio, the G5’s air steward, opened the door of the plane and motioned for me to exit. A limo waited for me at the bottom of the stairs. The driver greeted me kindly, and I slipped into the back seat.