Because King Santo had told her of you and how you were a rightful prince. He told his wife that he wanted to publicly declare you as his. He wanted Zeno to have his brother in his life. He . . . he was happy you were his, son. He wanted to know you. He wanted to love you.
But his brother Roberto and his advisers warned him against it. His reputation would be ruined. His wife would be humiliated. I was so angry at him when he chose to listen to them and deny you. But then he never left the estate. He began to visit you frequently. And every time he came, he fell more and more in love with you. And I could see you liked him too.
When your schooling became difficult for you, I asked him for his help. Rumors of how you looked like him had already begun to spread throughout the school you attended when he tried to intervene. He pulled you out, and I trusted him when he said it was because he wanted what was best for you. It quickly became clear that he was hiding you. My beautiful boy was being kept away, a secret, so his affair wouldn’t be exposed. And I am ashamed that I allowed it. I know now that I gave in to your request to not return to school because I also wanted to protect your mother. But I was wrong to do so. The king loved you, yet he could not rise against the blue-blood world he ruled to accept you.
Then you became indispensable to him because you were my heir. You would follow me in making the Bella Collina merlot. And you were better than me. I believed the king loved you like a son, but he knew keeping you from reading and writing would encourage you to stay at the vineyard. I could see you wanted that too. But I failed you. I liked you working by my side; I cherished each day. So I let it happen. I will regret that forever. Sometimes I wonder if I was as selfish as the king, keeping you sheltered so I could keep you as my son.
I will always be your father, Achille. You were mine and I raised you the best I could, but you have a right to know the truth. I never told you when I was alive as I knew you weren’t ready. You lived in the small world the king and I had created for you, and I knew you wouldn’t be ready to hear this truth until you took it upon yourself to seek out more. I knew someday the boy I raised would conquer his demons. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew he would. And when that day came, I knew you would finally be ready to hear the truth.
To accept your birthright.
Achille, my son, you are a Savona. For all intents and purposes, you are an ancestral prince of Italy. You were always better than me—sweeter, kinder, and more talented. You are not merely a son of a common winemaker, but a bearer of blue blood from centuries’ breeding of kings and queens.
To me, you will always be my son. But you need to know the truth.
I love you.
Your mother loved you
As did the king.
Be great, my son. Be the prince you were born to be.
Your proud father.
As I read the last word, with my heart torn into shreds, I realized I couldn’t move. So I sat there on the bed, with shaking hands and tears streaming down my cheeks. Because everything I had ever known was a lie.
For the first time in weeks, I wished I had never met Caresa. Because Caresa had brought me the gift of words and books. But she had also brought me this truth, this truth I didn’t want.
So I’d just sit here some more . . . and at some point, when I could muster the courage, I would move . . .
. . . and do what?
I had absolutely no clue.
Chapter Thirteen
Caresa
“I think you’re convincing them. Brava,” Zeno whispered as he spun me around the ballroom, all of the guests looking on with smiles on their faces. My cheeks ached from the smile I wore as we waltzed around the room.
I wanted to step back and tell them all that this whole thing was a joke. I wanted Achille to walk through the main doors. Wearing a suit and tie with a mask adorning his face. I wanted to dance with him as if he were my prince. The prince I loved and adored and wanted to be betrothed to.
When the song came to an end, I bowed at Zeno as the crowd clapped and flooded the floor to dance again. As the people rushed between us, all twirling in one direction, I turned and walked in the other. Zeno didn’t even try and stop me as I fled for the main doors.
Pia took hold of my hand as I passed her, bringing me to a stop. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I just need to go to my rooms for a moment. If anyone asks, tell them I have gone for fresh air.”
“Caresa,” she went to say, about to tell me again that I didn’t have to do this. But I shook my head, silently begging her to not start. She released my arm.
I ducked out of the large doors and went straight up to my rooms. As soon as I was safely inside, I pressed my hand over my corset and tried to breathe. I walked into the living room, feeling a breeze coming from my bedroom. I moved into my bedroom to see my balcony doors open. My heart raced. “Achille?” I whispered, searching my bathroom and closet. They were empty. But he had been here, I was sure.
Then I caught a familiar sight on my pillow. A single white rose lay where I slept. But as I looked around the room again, something didn’t feel right within me. Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t he wait for me?
I rushed across the bedroom and saw the light in his cottage was on. I struggled with what to do. The ball was nowhere near over. I was dressed in a gown and mask. But I ripped off the mask, and despite the snow and the fact that my arms were bare, I ran off the balcony and toward Achille.
My breath was bursts of white as I ran as fast as I could, slipping on the icy ground in my vintage Renaissance-inspired heels. It felt like it took forever to get there, and with each step I took, I felt an ominous feeling settling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right with Achille. I could sense it. He was easy to predict. Ordinarily, he would have waited for me in my bedroom. But he hadn’t stayed, which made me think something was most definitely wrong.
I pushed past his gate and through his front door, my chest raw from breathing in the winter air. His fire was unlit, making the small room feel cold and dark. “Achille?” I called out as I dashed through to his bedroom.
I froze in the doorway. He sat on the edge of his bed, holding a letter in his hand. My stomach dropped when I saw that he was deathly still but for the torrent of tears that was flooding down his cheeks. His face was so pale I was sure he was ill. I lurched forward and dropped to my knees before him. “Achille? Amore? What’s wrong?”
I reached out and placed my palms on either side of his face. He was stone cold. My hands became drenched from his tears. Tears of sympathy built in my eyes too as I waited with bated breath for him to speak. He slowly lifted his head and worked his mouth . . . but nothing came out.
I watched him struggling to find something to say, when instead, he just handed me the letter. I took it from his trembling hands. “You want me to read it?” Achille nodded his head. His eyes locked on mine, as if he were searching for some kind of relief, some respite from whatever was haunting him.
“Okay, amore,” I soothed. I sat back on the floor and began to read. And with every new line my emotions became a kaleidoscope—sorrow, happiness, intense shock and sadness . . . and then . . . then . . .
“No,” I whispered as his father’s secret was revealed. “Achille . . .” I read of King Santo and Zeno, of Achille being pulled out of school and why, and with every word scanned, my heart shattered apart, fleeing my chest piece by piece and leaving a darkness in its wake.
When I had finished the last line, I dropped the letter to my side. Achille was still a statue on the bed. But his eyes were on mine—desperate and hurt and soul-shatteringly destroyed. “Amore,” I said as I wrapped him in my arms and held him close. His response was delayed, shock still clearly setting in. Then with a pained sob, he launched into me, his arms around my waist and his head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. And he fell apart as he purged the pain and hurt from his body. The knowledge that he was King Santo’s son.
Achille was a prince.
My Achille . . . was born a prince.
“Shh.” I brushed my hand over his hair. I was so wrapped up in comforting my Achille, that I didn’t hear the footsteps enter the house. I didn’t hear someone move into the doorway of Achille’s room until a voice spoke.
“Well, it’s nice to know that my suspicions were correct.”