You are strong.
He had told her so.
And so she did her best to get through the eulogy and the hymns and the hell.
Gian had been through this before, Ariana reminded herself as she did her level best not to stare at the coffin.
There had been three coffins in this church when his family had died. Pink peonies on his mother’s, white lilies on his father’s and a huge spray of red poppies on his brother’s.
‘I don’t like this, Papà,’ she had whispered, for she’d been ten years old and the chants and scent of incense had made her feel a little ill.
‘I know, bella, but we are here today for Gian,’ her papà had said.
‘Shouldn’t we sit with him, then?’ Ariana had asked, for even beside his aunts and such he had looked so completely alone.
‘We are not family,’ her papà had said. ‘Hold my hand.’
His warm hand had closed around hers and imbued her with strength, but she had looked over at Gian and seen that there was no one holding his.
And there was no one holding Ariana’s today.
It was an emotional service, but Gian refused to let it move him and stood dry-eyed even as the coffin was carried out to the haunting strains of his favourite aria—Puccini’s ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’. Oh, my dear Papà...
Ariana looked close to fainting, but her damned mother was too busy beating at her chest to see.
‘Hey,’ Gian said. To the frowns of the congregation, he broke protocol and joined the family on the way out. ‘You are doing so well,’ he murmured quietly.
‘I am not.’
‘You are, you are.’ He could feel her tremble. As the family lined up outside the church, instead of guiding her to join them, he took Ariana aside and held her.
She leaned on him for a moment, a blissful moment that smelt of Gian, and she learned something more about him. There were no tears in his eyes, he looked a little pale but unmoved, yet his heart beat rapidly in his chest and she could feel his grief as he held her in his arms.
As they held each other.
‘You’ll miss him too,’ she whispered.
‘Ever so.’
It was the closest she had ever been to him, this blissful place on a terrible day, and she wanted to cling on, to rest in his arms a while longer, but he was pulling her back and returning to his usual distant form.
‘Gian.’ It was so cold to stand without him, especially when she wanted the shield of his arms. ‘I don’t think I can face the burial.’
‘Yes, Ariana, you can.’
But hysteria was mounting. ‘No. I really don’t think so...’
‘Would it help if I came with you?’
It would, but... ‘You can’t.’ She gave a black laugh. ‘Stefano practically had to put in a written request to Dante to have Eloa attend, and she’s his fiancée. Mamma has been denied. God, Gian, I don’t...’
‘Take this.’
From deep in his coat pocket he handed her a cornicello...a small gold amulet. ‘Your father gave me this to hold when I buried my family. You can do this, Ariana; you will regret it if you don’t.’
It was the most private of burials.
Mia, who could barely stand, held a single lily.
And Dante, who loathed Mia possibly the most of all Rafael’s children, was the one who had to take her to the graveside so she could throw the flower in.
Stefano wept and was comforted by Eloa, and that left Ariana standing alone, holding onto the little sliver of gold.
Ariana had never felt so cold as when she returned to the house and stood by a huge fire, grateful for the large cognac someone placed in her hands. Looking up, she saw it was Gian. ‘Thank you.’
‘How was it?’ Gian gently enquired.
‘It is done,’ Ariana responded, without really answering and then held out the amulet. ‘Here, I should give this back to you. Thank you.’
‘Keep it.’
‘He gave it to you,’ Ariana said, suddenly angry at his lack of sentiment. This man who would sell a priceless ring, this man who would let go of a gift from her father. ‘Why would you give it away?’
‘Did it help?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘Then you yourself might pass it on someday when someone else needs your father’s strength.’
Never, she thought.
Never, ever.
For it was her first gift from Gian and it almost scared her how much that meant.
‘It seems strange to be here without him,’ Gian admitted, trying to gauge how she felt, but for once the effusive Ariana was a closed book. She gave a tired shrug and her black lashes closed on violet eyes highlighting the dark shadows beneath them.
‘It has felt strange to be here for quite some time.’ Her eyes opened then and came to rest on Rafael’s widow, and Gian followed her gaze as she spoke. ‘My father and I used to be so close.’
‘You were always close,’ Gian refuted.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It fell away at the end.’
He would like to take her arm and walk her away from the funeral crowd, to walk in the grounds and gently tell her the difficult truth—the real reason her father had pulled away from his family and from the daughter he had loved so very much.
It was not his place to do so, though.
Oh, today he loathed being the keeper of secrets, for the truth would surely help her to heal.
‘How long are you here for?’ Ariana asked, determinedly changing the subject, then wishing she hadn’t for the answer was not one she liked.
‘I’ll be leaving shortly. I just wanted to see the house one last time and...’ He hesitated but then admitted the deeper truth. ‘To see
