Dante's Dilemma (a Dante Legacy Novella) (2 page)

The village of Santa Lucia, Tuscany, Italy

Early June 1956

Spring sweetened the air of the Tuscan countryside, and Romero Dante breathed it in as though it were some rare nectar. And perhaps it was. He’d spent so many years in Florence, both attending University and apprenticing with his Dante relatives in order to learn the craft of jewelry design and creation, he’d forgotten how amazing home smelled. How would his friends and family react to the man he’d become? Would they welcome him? Or would they still consider him the town bastard, the bad boy of Santa Lucia? Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be staying long.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and slung it over one shoulder before rolling up the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt to expose the light smattering of dark hairs across sun-kissed forearms. A battered truck, its flatbed piled high with vegetables, slowly approached from the direction of the small village of Santa Lucia, heading in the opposite direction. Rom lifted an arm in greeting. Dust containing the rich, alluvial soil that fed the nearby grapevines rose behind in a magnificent rooster tail. Picked up by a light breeze, it coated the wild garlic growing along the roadside.

The driver honked and rattled to a slow stop, the metal railings surrounding the flatbed clanging in protest. “Is that you, Romero?”

Rom waved aside a lingering cloud of dust and grinned. “Alive and in the flesh, Aldo. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. I see you’re just in time for Tito Rossi’s engagement party. Have you met his bride-to-be?”

“I will tomorrow night at the party. Why?”

Aldo’s dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “You should see the girl he’s had to settle for. No one else would have him, of course. Not when
il
Rossi
is as stupid as he is poor.”

It was a running joke since Tito was the eldest son of the richest man in their small town and a success at any business endeavor he attempted. “How ugly is she?”

“She is as round as she is tall, with a face every bit as lovely as my prize sow.”

Rom lifted an eyebrow. “Then why is Tito marrying her?”

“Your good friend has decided to become a vintner and compete with your stepfather and his sons. The family of his precious bride-to-be owns land he wants for his vineyard.”

“They’re refusing to sell it to him?”

Aldo nodded. “They claim it must remain in the family. If Tito becomes family, they are happy to sell the land.” He grinned, a slash of white teeth against his dark olive complexion. “For a hefty price, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Eh, you know how it is,” Aldo said. “Tito Rossi is rich. His bride has a dozen sisters—”

“Truly? A dozen?”

Aldo shrugged. “Maybe only six or eight.
Non me ne frega niente
. What does it matter? It is a business arrangement, even if Tito appears smitten with the girl.”

Rom patted his trouser pocket, relieved to feel the small bulge made by the box containing Tito’s engagement ring, a ring his friend had commissioned him to design. He’d be in deep trouble if he lost it. “I’m relieved to hear Tito has serious feelings for her.”

Serious feelings or not, Rom hoped the ring he’d designed, and named, “
L’amore Vero
”—or True Love—wasn’t meant to forever join a couple in a marriage of convenience. His ring possessed a heart and soul, as did all the pieces he created. It was meant to celebrate the sort of love that lasted a lifetime.

Aldo gave a short, cynical laugh. “Has a woman existed who Tito hasn’t fallen in love with? My sister hasn’t stopped crying since the banns were read. Your friend broke her heart, though I tell you privately, I think it is a good thing. He would not have remained faithful to her.”

“If I had any sisters, I’d lock them away whenever he showed his pretty face,” Rom conceded. “But Tito doesn’t do it on purpose. He simply loves women.”

“Not my sister, he doesn’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Aldo ground the gears of his truck. “Now he will marry his vineyards, my sister will wed Vincenzo, and that will be the end of it,
lodare Dio
.”

Rom nodded. “Praise God, indeed. Vincenzo is a good man. He works hard for a living and is honorable and even-tempered. You couldn’t ask for better.”

“Best of all, he puts up with Caterina’s nonsense. For that alone, I thank him.
Vado,
Rom. I have a delivery to make and am already late.”

“Ciao,
Aldo. I will see you tomorrow night, no?”

“Ma, che sei grullo?
Of course, you’ll see me there. Wine will flow. Food will burden the tables. There will be a full moon. So, we will laugh and sing and steal kisses from many women. I wouldn’t miss it.” He released the clutch and continued down the road, his arm lifted in farewell.

Rom noticed some wild sorrel growing beside a limestone wall bordering the road and tugged free several stalks. It would be a perfect gift to offer his
nonno.
His grandfather possessed a vegetable and herb garden that sparked the envy of the entire village, as well as an unrivaled talent in the kitchen, a gift he’d passed on to Rom. The sorrel would be a welcome addition for
Nonno’s
chickpea soup or perhaps to add to the sauce for tomorrow’s eggs. Rom hopped the limestone wall bordering the road to take advantage of a shortcut across an uncultivated field filled with wildflowers and blossoming orange trees.

And that’s when he saw her.

From one heartbeat to the next, The Inferno, the bane of his family, forever changed his life. Time skittered to a stop, stilling all sound and slowing all movement. In that moment Rom knew the image before him would remain part of the fiber of his being for the rest of his life, indelibly branded into the weft and warp of who he was…and who he’d eventually become. He sensed the change, like a page turning on the book chronicling his life, opening to a new chapter with an unexpected twist in what was to come.

She knelt in the shade of one of the trees, surrounded by royal purple hyacinth, chaste white daisies, and a smattering of bright red poppies, her innocent bloom of youth just ripening into the heady flush of adulthood. A straw hat rested in the grass beside her, trailing soft pink ribbons, while a large basket squatted at her elbow, half filled with a selection of blossoms. She wore a simple cotton dress, the afternoon sun shooting soft rays of gold through the thin material, outlining her full, round breasts and the tiniest waist he’d ever seen.

She is yours,
whispered the sun
.

She hummed while she worked, her hands moving gracefully among the flowers, snipping the choicest ones. A gentle breeze kicked up and stirred the orange blossoms overhead, sending them raining down on to her hair. They landed like dainty white stars captured in an endless current of hip-length ringlets containing every shade of brown imaginable.

She is meant for you,
sighed the wind.

His heart and soul concurred. He wanted her as he’d wanted nothing before in his life. He didn’t know who she was, didn’t really care. He simply understood on some primal level that she belonged to him, just as he belonged to her.
Take her! Take the woman.
The earthy words echoed through him, filling him, overwhelming him with a desire so strong, he shook with it. He didn’t dare approach her, not until he regained his self-control. He lowered his head, fighting for focus. For clarity.

He knew what this was. How could he not when his mother, Nicci, had warned him from the time he’d been a baby? Warned him about the Dante curse that ran through her side of the family. It was the dreaded Inferno, a disease of the blood, passed from one generation to the next. A craving that overcame all inhibition and stole intellect and reason, leading those who suffered from it to their ruin. It was an inescapable desire that drove sense and sensibility from the mind, leaving behind a lust so strong he didn’t have a hope of evading it.

After all, The Inferno was responsible for his conception and birth… as well as his mother’s shame. His mother had experienced the curse and had indulged in an ill-fated affair. Then her lover had died, leaving her pregnant and disgraced. The fact that Rom’s stepfather had overlooked her indiscretion and had even given her bastard child a home—if not his name—was considered a marvel by everyone in Santa Lucia. Since then, Nicci had led a pious life, keeping a spotless home, devoting herself to the care and feeding of her family, all the while attending daily Mass. But she’d warned Rom of the dangers. Warned Rom that the Dantes were cursed.

Not that it changed a damn thing. The words came again, echoing from head to heart, seeping into his very bones.
Get. The. Woman.

The young woman clipped another blossom and lifted it to her face, the red of the poppy the same shade as her sun-kissed cheeks and ripe, full lips. A molten ribbon of passion burned through Rom and seemed to stretch toward her, connecting them. And all the while, he heard the desperate demand urging him to cross the field to her side. To take her into his arms and strip away the clothes separating them, and make her his. Make her his right here, with wildflowers for their bed, orange blossoms for their canopy, and the scent of love perfuming the air.

He must have made some sort of sound of desperation, for her head jerked in his direction, and her eyes widened in alarm, like a lamb spying its first wolf. She reached for her basket of flowers, clutching it close, as though for protection. He paused, waging an impossible battle between caution and desire.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he finally said, the words low and hard-won. “I was cutting through the field on my way home.”

She glanced uneasily in the direction of Santa Lucia. “You live near here?”

“Another couple of miles. I’m Rom Dante.”

“Julietta Bianchi. My family and I live a few hours further west. We’re… visiting.”

He grinned at that, amazed he could find anything the least humorous about his situation. “Romero and Julietta? What are the odds?”

That had her laughing, a sweet, pure sound that called to him. He answered the call, slowly approaching. He could see her eyes now. They were a lovely hazel, an intriguing mix of green and gold and brown, the expression wavering between caution and something else. Attraction? He could still hear the whispering voice of sin hammering at him, filling him with an unsettling awareness he could do nothing to suppress. Slowly, her amusement faded, replaced by a matching awareness. She stood, the basket of flowers tumbling to her feet, the contents surrounding her in a colorful pool of innocence and passion. The wild sorrel for Rom’s grandfather slipped from his grasp, forgotten before it reached the ground.

He simply held out his hand, waiting to see if she took it. Eve tempted by the apple. Slowly, oh, so slowly, she slipped her hand into his. Eve biting the apple.

And that’s when The Inferno took fire.

Rom felt Julietta’s start of surprise, her expression reflecting shock at the burn passing from his palm to hers. It didn’t actually hurt, certainly no more than a spark of static electricity. But the warmth lingered, sinking through flesh into bone, strengthening and quickening with each beat of their hearts, bonding them physically, as well as on some deeper, more spiritual level. Where before desire wove them together, now that same desire sealed the bond, joining them through their linked hands.

This was a curse? Curses should be taken seriously. His mother had taught him so. Rom shook his head. No. The Inferno didn’t seem evil. Not even a little. How could something so incredible be considered wicked? It wasn’t possible. Instead, this felt… A strange certainty filled him.

The Inferno felt like a gift. A blessing.

And as that certainty took hold, he gazed down at Julietta, his Inferno mate. “You’re mine now,” he stated.

Julietta stared at Rom in disbelief. Belatedly, she snatched her hand free from his. Not that it helped. The lingering effects of the electric shock when they’d first touched remained. She scrubbed her palm across her hip in an attempt to erase the sensation. It didn’t help, either.

Nor did it stop the insistent tug of attraction. It washed over her, a determined tide bent on claiming all that stood in its way, forcing her relentlessly in a direction she’d never anticipated taking. While it stung, it also thrilled, awakening parts of her that had slept until this moment. No one’s touch had ever affected her this way. Not even the one man whose touch should have stirred her to passion.

“What did you just do to me?” she demanded. “What was that?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “My family calls it The Inferno.”

“The Inferno? Dante’s
Inferno?
Oh, very amusing.”

She glared at her palm, relieved to see The Inferno, or whatever Rom had done to her, hadn’t left a visible mark. She’d never have been able to explain it to her family, let alone her fiancé. Of course, that didn’t erase the other mark—a mark invisible to the eye but which had somehow seared her heart and emotions in ways she’d never experienced before.

“We don’t consider The Inferno a joke.” A shadow edged his expression as though his thoughts had turned dark. “The Dantes take it very seriously,” he added in a low, pained voice.