THE FUNERAL WAS held the same weekend the wedding had been supposed to take place, although Rocco scheduled the private burial service for the day after the wedding, so as not to draw too many comparisons.
The funeral was very small as Rocco Cosentino wasn’t interested in a drama-filled service for Marius, his younger brother, and only member of his family. Marius had been everything. His world, his responsibility, his hopes, his dreams. But then daring, fun-loving, bighearted Marius died after being thrown from a horse, doing what Marius loved—and knew—best. Polo had been Marius’s passion, and so Rocco grieved, but it was his private grief, and he refused to have others there to witness his pain and loss. He’d raised his brother since Marius was six, and now Marius was gone.
Unfathomable. The aristocratic Cosentino bloodline ended with Rocco then, as Rocco would never marry, not again.
Rocco had politely, but firmly, told all that it was a private funeral, only family would be in attendance. But Rocco couldn’t refuse Clare Redmond’s attendance as the twenty-four-year-old American had been Marius’s fiancée.
If Marius hadn’t broken his neck, Clare would have been Marius’s wife by now.
One could say, if only Marius hadn’t played that final match on Wednesday, Clare would have been his sister-in-law, but it was too late for that. Accidents happened, and a most tragic accident had happened, and Marius, the little boy who’d become a brilliant, generous man, was forever gone.
Rocco stood next to the young American woman who’d arrived for the service shrouded in black, head to toe, wearing even a veil as if she’d stepped from a Gothic novel. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to—he could hear her weeping during the brief service, making Rocco wish the service was over.
It was said that funerals were for the living, not the dead, but Rocco had attended far too many in his life, and never once had he been glad to be there. Never once, had he thought ah, thank goodness for this archaic service filled with prayers and scripture that mean nothing to me. He’d never found comfort in the priest’s words, not when he’d stood in the family plot for his father’s funeral, his mother’s funeral, his young bride’s funeral, and now his brother’s funeral.
The fact that he was the last of the Cosentino line meant nothing to him. He viewed his family as cursed, which in of itself was problematic, so perhaps it was a good thing there were no more of them. He was the last, and he would remain the last, and there would be no more to grieve. No more funerals to attend. No more good people to be missed. No more guilt for being the sole survivor.
Once today was over, he’d shut the Cosentino ancestral home, sell off Marius’s Argentinean estates and move to one of his smaller estates, far from Rome. Far from everyone. He was done with death, done with grief, done with caring for anyone.
Clare had cried so much the past few days she didn’t think she could shed another tear, but somehow during the service, listening to the lovely eulogy for her beloved Marius, the tears started again. Tears because Marius was truly one of the best people she’d ever known—strong, kind, honest, loving. She never knew how he’d grown up to be just so loving when he’d been raised by his stern older brother, who she found nothing short of cold and disapproving, but Marius always defended Rocco, saying Rocco might not appear affectionate, but he was fiercely proud and protective of him, and would die for him if need be.
Those words, die for him, came to her now, and Clare cried fresh tears because it would have been better if Rocco had died and not Marius. Marius was so full of light and love whereas Rocco barely interacted with the world, living like a hermit in his monstrously big house, a house he’d inherited as a sixteen-year-old when his parents died just weeks apart from an infectious disease they’d picked up on their travels. Clare hated visiting the big dark house, but Marius would drag her there every six months for either Christmas or New Year’s, and then again late July for big brother Rocco’s birthday.
Rocco was never friendly on those occasions, barely speaking two words to her. When Marius proposed, her first thought was yes, yes, because she loved him desperately, but later, when she’d gone to bed that night, her new ring so wonderful and strange on her finger, it crossed her mind that now Rocco would be her family, too.
And that thought hadn’t been pleasant.
In fact, that thought had kept her awake far too late.
Now she stood next to the man who’d never be her brother waiting for the service to conclude. She would be leaving as soon as they returned to the house. She had a car already arranged to pick her up and take her back to the airport. No point remaining in Rome longer than necessary. It’s not as if she was wanted or needed here. Rocco didn’t need comforting, at least not from her. Marius didn’t have a will. The estate in Spain was all in his name. There was nothing else to be done but for her to return home and figure out how to continue without her heart, as that had been buried with Marius.
From where Rocco stood in the drawing room he could see outside to the manicured circular drive where a big black Mercedes waited for Clare.
He admired the young woman’s foresight, appreciating her desire to not prolong today’s events. Any mourning Rocco would do, he’d do in private. He suspected Clare felt the same.
“I see your car has arrived,” he said, hands clasped behind his back.
She still wore that heavy black lace veil, but he could see the haunting lavender blue of her eyes as she looked at him. “Yes.” She hadn’t sat down, either. The two of them were standing still in the formal room. “I hate to leave you like this—”
“But you don’t,” he said, cutting her short, raw pain in his deep, gravelly voice. “We’re not close. We have no desire to grieve together.”
She lifted her head, and again he could see that lavender of her eyes beneath the lace. “Will you grieve for him?”
“He is all I had left.” The moment the words left his mouth, Rocco felt foolish. Exposed. It was easier if others believed he didn’t care or feel. Easier to let strangers believe he was as hard as he appeared. He gestured toward the tall ornate doors. “I have no wish to keep you. You mustn’t miss your flight.”
Her head inclined, once, and then she folded the lace veil back, exposing her golden hair and her pale face with the deep violet shadows beneath her unusual lavender eyes. “I probably won’t see you again,” she said, “but maybe it will help for you to know just how much Marius loved you. He said you were the best brother, father and mother a boy could have.” Then she dropped the veil and giving him another faint nod, walked out of the house to the car.
That should have been the last time Rocco saw her. In any other situation it would have been, because he had no desire to be reminded of Marius, or the others he’d lost, but when the envelope finally reached him, catching up to him in Argentina where he was supervising a harvest on his late brother’s estate in Mendoza, Rocco had set it aside, and then it had been covered by other papers and mail, and when he went to open it, the envelope had gone missing. He’d searched everywhere and then feared it had been thrown out. Instead it had simply been misplaced, gathered with an expense report and filed for end of the year taxes.
When he’d finally discovered the envelope amongst his tax paperwork, eleven months had passed. Opening the envelope Rocco discovered he wasn’t the last of his family.
Beautiful American Clare Redmond had delivered a healthy baby boy two years ago.