The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize

“Grandmother, may I present Mr. Alex Di Sione. He is here to talk to you about The Lost Love.”

“Yes,” her grandmother said, gesturing for them to come deeper into the room. She turned her laser sharp focus onto Alex. “My granddaughter tells me you’re interested in the painting.”

“Yes,” he said, not waiting to be invited to sit. He took his position in a chair opposite her grandmother, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his forearms resting on the arms of the chair. He looked exceedingly unconcerned with the entire situation. Almost bored. Her grandmother, on the other hand, was tense.

“What is your interest in it?” she asked.

“I am acting on behalf of my grandfather.” Alex looked out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the garden beyond. “He claims the painting has some sentimental value to him.”

“The painting has never been confirmed to exist,” Queen Lucia said.

“I’m well aware. But my grandfather seems to be very confident in its existence. In fact, he claims he once owned it.” His dark focus zeroed in on the queen. “He would like very much to have it back now.”

Silence settled between them. Thick and telling. A fourth presence in the room. Gabriella noticed her grandmother studying Alex’s face. She looked... She looked stricken. As though she was seeing a ghost.

“Your grandfather, you say?” she asked.

“Yes. He is getting on in years and with age has come sentimentality, I’m afraid. He is willing to pay a great deal for this painting.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” the queen said.

“And why is that?” he asked, a dangerous note in his voice.

“I don’t have it. I haven’t possessed it for...years.”

“But the painting exists?” Gabriella asked, her heart thundering in her ears.

This was... Under any other circumstances, this would have been incredibly exciting. But Alex Di Sione was here and that just made it feel fraught.

“Yes,” her grandmother said, her voice thinner, more fragile all of a sudden. “It is very real.”

“Why have you never mentioned that before?”

“Because some things are best left buried in the past. Where they can no longer hurt you,” the queen said.

“Do you have any idea where the painting might be now?” Alex asked, obviously unconcerned with her grandmother’s pain.

“Yes, I know exactly where it is. Unfortunately, it’s on Isolo D’Oro. One of the many reasons I have never been able to reclaim it.”

“Where on the island is it?” he asked, his tone uncompromising.

“You wait outside for a moment, young man,” the queen said, her tone regal, leaving no doubt at all that she had ruled a nation for a great many years and expected her each command to be obeyed without question.

And Alex didn’t question it. Strange, since she imagined he wasn’t a man who bowed to many. But at her grandmother’s request, he stood, brushing the creases from his dress pants and nodded his head before he made his way out the door.

“You must go with him to find the painting,” her grandmother said the moment he was out of earshot.

“Why?” Gabriella asked, her heart pounding in her ears.

“I... I should like to see it again. One last time. And because...because just in case, I shouldn’t like for this man to be in possession of it if he is a fraud.”

“I don’t understand,” Gabriella said, trying to process all of the information being given to her. “If he’s a fraud in what way?”

“It isn’t important.”

“I think it must be quite important. We’ve never discussed the painting, but I’ve long suspected that it was real. I know...I know it was controversial. I know that it concerns you.”

“Yes,” her grandmother said. “At the time it was quite controversial. Evidence that...that the princess had a lover.”

Her grandmother had been the princess then. Young. Unmarried. And it had been a very different time.

It was difficult to imagine her grandmother taking a lover. Difficult to imagine her doing anything quite so passionate or impetuous. She was the incomparable matriarch of the family. The figurehead so established, so steady, she might very well already be carved of marble, as she would now no doubt be in the future.

But if the painting existed, then she was the subject. And if that were the case, then of course it had been commissioned by a lover.

“I see,” Gabriella said. “And...did you?”

Her grandmother let out a long, slow breath, raising her eyes to meet hers. In them, Gabriella could see so much. A wealth of sadness. Deep heartbreak.

Things Gabriella had read about, but never experienced.

“It is very easy when you are young, Gabriella, to lead with your heart instead of your head. You have seen this, time and again, with your parents. And they no longer carry youth as an excuse. This is why I have always told you that you must be in possession of your wits. It does not do well for a woman to lose her mind over passion. It doesn’t end well. Not for us. Men can carry on as they see fit, but it isn’t like that for women.”

Gabriella nodded slowly. “Yes, I know.” She thought of her brothers, who most certainly carried on exactly as they pleased. Of her father, who seemed to escape the most scathing comments. The worst of it was always reserved for her mother. She was a renowned trollop whose every choice, from her wardrobe to which man she chose to make conversation with at a social event, was analyzed, was taken as evidence of her poor character.

Gabriella knew this was true. It was just one of the many reasons that she had chosen to embrace her more bookish nature and keep herself separate from all of that carrying-on.

“Our hearts are not proper guides,” her grandmother continued. “They are fickle, and they are easily led. Mine certainly was. But I learned from my mistakes.”

“Of course,” Gabriella agreed, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Go with him,” Queen Lucia said, her tone stronger now. Decisive. “Fetch the painting. But remember this conversation. Remember what I have told you.”

“I don’t think there’s any danger of my heart getting involved on a quest of this nature.”

“He is a handsome man, Gabriella.”

Gabriella laughed. “He’s a stranger! And old enough to be... Not my father, certainly not. But perhaps a young uncle.”

The queen shook her head. “Men like that have their ways.”

“And I have my way of scaring them off. Please, tell me when a man last danced with me more than once at a social function?”

“If you didn’t speak so much of books...”

“And weevils.” She had talked incessantly about weevils and the havoc they played in early English kitchens to her last dance partner. Because they had been the subject of the last book she’d read and she hadn’t been able to think of anything else.

“Certainly don’t speak of that.”