Casartelli chuckled. “Nevertheless, Matteo will be good for Viola. And that’s what counts in my book.”
Would he? Matteo didn't love her. Of that, Marcus was sure.
The memory of the two of them together rose in him. The look of pure joy as they gazed at each other, in each other’s arms.
Darcy. You can't believe how happy I am.
A tight twist in his chest made him breathe out in a sharp burst.
“Marcus?” Casartelli frowned with sudden concern. “Are you all right?”
No, he wanted to say. I'm dying inside. “I am fine,” he stated. “Perfectly fine.”
A hard hand slapped his back. “Glad to hear it. I would not want the best man to come down with anything right before the wedding.”
“No worry on that score.” He succeeded in giving the man a tight smile. “I’ll be there.”
“And once my sister is happily married and our two families are joined, we will finally sign the deal you've been pestering me about for months.” The man’s mouth, usually firm and tough, edged in a wry quirk.
“Si.” The deal he'd wanted to seal for what seemed like forever. The deal that would cement his hold on a large segment of the Eastern European bond market. The deal that would send him into the stratosphere of money and power.
The deal that would steal the man Darcy Moran loved away from her.
Thankfully, Casartelli walked away to greet some guests. If he hadn't, Marcus was very sure he would have not been able to utter another sentence. Not past the painful coil in his gut or the talons of guilt clutching his throat.
He glanced over and straight into his brother’s eyes. Dark, questioning eyes.
Marcus looked away. He’d arrived in Italy three days ago, yet had successfully avoided his brother’s attempts at cornering him. Spending long days at his Rome headquarters had helped. The endless parties surrounding the wedding had done the rest. There’d also been the one furious glare he’d shot Matteo the moment he’d seen him hugging Viola. His look had brought a blank shock to his fickle brother’s face. Maybe this had been enough, in and of itself, to keep him from approaching.
In any event, he’d been left alone to stew in his own pain.
He had nothing to say to Matteo. Nothing to say about his duplicity regarding the two women in his life. It was wise of his younger brother to stay away from him. He had nothing to say. But if the idiot kid got near him, he’d very likely do something.
Like plant a fist in the bastard’s face.
Marcus gave himself a bleak smile. What would his dear momma say if her darling arrived at his wedding with a black eye? Grim amusement ran through him for a moment. However, it quickly dissipated, replaced by the churn of regret and confusion he’d suffered with for the past three days ever since he walked away from Darcy.
He’d gone to get her because of the fear in her voice.
How ironic that what he’d found had reinforced the fear he’d held inside for most of his life.
Abandoned. Once more. Abandoned.
The memory of her in the limo slipped into his head. The blue gaze stark with hurt. The tiny hands clutched in her lap. The whiteness of her skin.
It had taken him all of an hour to rescind his command regarding her father. Lashing out at her parent because she loved another man was beneath him. The rushing fury he’d felt at the sight of his brother and her together had fallen away within minutes of entering his office. In its place, a dull ache at the core of him burned. An ache of loss which had stunned him. Before he’d lost the last of his pride, he’d hightailed it to the airport. Putting distance between he and the sprite was the only way he’d known to stop himself from going to her.
Begging her.
Like he had with Juliana.
He turned sharply and walked away from the party. Pacing down the hallway, he entered his library and closed the door. Leaned back and sighed.
Shadows and silence and memories.
He’d put the past behind him long ago. Succeeded in convincing himself he’d been merely young and foolish. The yearning to love, to luxuriate in another’s acceptance, to create a circle of connection and intimacy—all of these were only a youth’s dream. Not something he’d inherited from his father. At twenty-one, when he’d been rejected by Juliana for the richer man, he’d made sure, through painful months, to pull every desire for love out of his soul.
Or so he’d thought.
Walking over to the fireplace, he placed his hands on the cold marble and stared down at the ashes from last night’s fire.
The memories of his boyhood passed by him. His father’s laughter as he lifted his son onto his shoulders. His father’s joy at his accomplishments. The love on his father’s face as he gazed at his wife. The pure happiness of his father as he’d sat with his friends at the corner café, enjoying the Italian sun.