“I don’t,” Elisabetta shot back, defensive.
“Don’t you?” Marco squeezed her hand. “We could go out a lot more, but you always want to stay home and take care of her.”
Elisabetta knew he was right, but it bothered her. “I have obligations you don’t have.”
“You also have my ring. I wish you would wear it.” Marco lifted her hand, eyeing her bare fingers. “It would look so pretty on your hand.”
Elisabetta had no immediate reply. She kept the ring in her jewelry box and tried it on from time to time. But she never kept it on long.
“So what do you think, about getting married? Do you feel ready yet?”
“Not really, I’m sorry,” Elisabetta forced herself to say.
“Why not?”
“For the same reason that I can’t go out as much. I have so many responsibilities. It’s just a hard time for me.”
Marco stopped, looking at her with those dark eyes and a soft expression. “That’s what I’m for, to make those hard times easier. I want to do that for you, for the rest of your life. You work so hard, and I want to lighten your load.”
Elisabetta felt touched, but she couldn’t ignore her feelings. “I appreciate that, but I need to take care of my business on my own.”
“We don’t have forever. War seems a certainty now.” Marco frowned. “With so much disruption, wouldn’t it be good to have something we can count on? You and me, as man and wife? Living in our own place?”
“But I can’t move out on Nonna. She has no one but me.”
“Again, Paolo should do more. You’re not family.”
Elisabetta felt stung, unaccountably. “I feel like I’m her family.”
“You’re not. Blood is blood.”
“Paolo has a wife and family, so he’s busier than I am. Nonna’s on her own, Marco. I live with her, and I can’t turn my back on her. I won’t.”
“Okay.” Marco took her arm. “But I still don’t see why you won’t wear my ring.”
Elisabetta swallowed hard. “I don’t feel ready to say yes, yet.”
Marco sighed, pained. “Is it Sandro?”
“No,” Elisabetta answered, but she wasn’t exactly sure. “It’s things I have to take care of and do, before I get married.”
“Like what?”
“Like become a journalist or a novelist.”
“But you’re not writing anything, are you?”
“Not now, only because I’ve been so busy. My responsibilities come before the things I want for myself, and marriage, too. Can’t you understand that?”
“No, I can’t,” Marco answered, gentle but persistent. “I can support you, so you won’t have to work so hard.”
“But these are my obligations. My life.” Elisabetta meant what she said, but she also hurt to see the disappointment flickering across his handsome face. “Do you want your ring back?”
“No, of course not. Keep the ring, cara.” Marco opened his arms, enveloped her in an embrace, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be more patient.”
“Thank you.” Elisabetta nestled against his chest. “Please try to understand.”
“I will,” Marco said, with a resigned sigh.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Marco
April 1940
Marco hurried down the crowded sidewalk to the Piazza Venezia, his heart thundering with anticipation. He had been summoned to see Commendatore Buonacorso, who had been promoted to working for the Partito Nazionale Fascista, the National Fascist Party. The commendatore’s office was now in Palazzo Venezia, which was the very seat of Fascist power, located in the heart of Rome. Il Duce himself had his office there and delivered his speeches from its iconic balcony.
Scores of Fascist officers in black uniforms hurried in and out of Palazzo Venezia, climbing into waiting cars or hustling off in groups. There was a stronger military presence in the capital and an undercurrent of urgency, now that war loomed larger. Palazzo Venezia had become the most important building in all of Italy, and Marco couldn’t wait to see inside. It had been built in the 1400s and was medieval in aspect, with a crenellated roofline like a castle and its turret soaring into the blue sky.
Armed guards flanked the entrance, their demeanor exemplifying military professionalism, unlike the jovial guards back at Palazzo Braschi. Marco saluted them crisply, they saluted him back, then he was shown into a security office, where he identified himself. Fascist officers hurried to and fro, their expressions grave and conversations conducted in low tones. There was no talking, laughing, or joking around, also unlike Palazzo Braschi.