“Nothing about our families matters.” Sandro shifted to look down at her, a frown buckling his forehead. “It only matters who we are. They’re the past, and we’re the future.”
Elisabetta blinked, her heart lifting.
“You and I have our own lives, and we can make whatever life we want. And someday we can make one together, if you want.” Sandro met her eye evenly, and his smile turned serious. “I know we’ve been friends, but I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“You have?” Elisabetta asked, her breath taken away.
Sandro kissed her softly, and Elisabetta felt the warmth of his mouth on hers, just as she had that day by the river. She realized that Sandro kissed differently from Marco, more slowly and perhaps less expertly, but when she kissed Sandro back, she could feel what he was thinking, as if the two of them were communicating, having a conversation without speech.
Elisabetta loved the feeling, understanding that all kisses weren’t the same but each one unique to the man, and she could feel Sandro answering her question in his kiss, affirming that he had fallen in love with her, and the notion filled her with happiness, just as it had with Marco, who had told her above Piazza Navona.
Elisabetta didn’t know if she loved Sandro, Marco, or both, so she let herself feel what she was feeling, hoping that someday, her heart would tell her its secret.
Until then, there was kissing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marco
March 1938
Marco passed under the bower over Elisabetta’s front door and entered the entrance hall of her house. She had said she would be home, so he thought he would drop by and surprise her with a bouquet of roses. He knocked on the door to her apartment, which was opened by her father. Ludovico D’Orfeo blinked sleepily as if he had just been awakened, naked to the waist in droopy pants. His hair was greasy and his beard untrimmed. Marco had never seen much of him, though he had always suspected the man had a drinking problem.
“Marco!” Her father glowered at him, unsteady on his feet. “What do you want?”
“Buona sera, Signor D’Orfeo. Excuse me for disturbing—”
“Flowers? What for?”
Marco could smell the wine wafting off the man. “They’re for Elisabetta. Is she—”
“No, she’s not here!” Her father exploded, enraged. He snatched the bouquet from Marco and threw the flowers to the floor, where some broke, their petals scattering.
“Signor D’Orfeo, what are you doing?”
“Are you fucking my daughter?”
“Sir, no!” Marco recoiled, shocked.
“Don’t lie to me! Are you?”
“No, I swear to you!”
“Then why bring her flowers?”
“I love her.”
“No! No, no, no!” her father shouted, practically spitting. “You do not love Elisabetta! You may not love her! I will not allow it! Never!”
“Why do you say this, sir?” Marco had no idea why the man didn’t like him. “I assure you, my intentions are honorable.”
“Don’t talk to me about honor! Terrizzis have no honor! Your father fucked my wife, did you know that?”
Marco gasped. It was impossible, as his parents barely knew Elisabetta’s. He had no idea why her father would say such an awful thing.
“Yes, believe it, your father fucked my wife! Everybody knows it but you and my daughter! The great Beppe Terrizzi is not the honest man he pretends to be! I may be a drunk, but I’m an honest man! Not a scoundrel!”
“That’s not . . . possible,” Marco stammered, hushed.
“Oh yes, it is! Your father, he ruined my wife! She was never the same! She took one lover after the next! It was the beginning of the end for me! For my family!”
Marco edged away. “My father would never be unfaithful to my mother.”
“Terrizzis ruined my wife, but you will not ruin my daughter! Get out of my house! Go! Don’t you dare tell Elisabetta or I’ll throttle you with my own hands!” Her father showed his gnarled hands to Marco. “They still work! Don’t doubt it! Never see her again!”
Marco turned and flew out the door.
PART TWO
Rome is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of longing.
—Giotto di Bondone
Rome is our point of departure and reference. It is our symbol or, if you wish, our myth. We dream of a Roman Italy, that is to say wise, strong, disciplined, and imperial. Much of that which was the immortal spirit of Rome rises again in Fascism: the Fasces are Roman; our organization of combat is Roman; our pride and our courage is Roman: Civis Romanus sum.