The Italian's Forbidden Virgin (Mills & Boon Modern) (Those Notorious Romanos, Book 2) by Carol Marinelli (reading books for 4 year olds .txt) 📗

having to comfort her mother through the day, and at night, though exhausted, she could barely sleep. She felt as if she were holding a million balls in the air and that at any moment one might drop, for her family, scattered by Mia’s presence, had not been under one roof since the divorce, let alone the roof of a church.

Surely her mother would not create a scene?

Or her aunts or uncles...

As well as the worry of that, as she headed out to the waiting cars, the loneliest morning of her life felt even more desolate when Dante decided to take a seat in the front vehicle with Mia, rather than make her travel to the church by herself. That left Ariana with Stefano and Eloa, which lately felt like the equivalent of being alone.

As the cortège moved through the hills to the village, Ariana tried to come to grips with a world without her father while acknowledging a disquieting truth.

Since her father had found Mia, he too had pushed her aside.

For two years, she had felt like a visitor in the family home and later at his hospital bedside. Perhaps she could have accepted Mia more readily if they had accepted her more into their world. Yes, she regretted now not going to the wedding, but the truth was her father hadn’t exactly pushed for her to attend.

In fact, he’d seemed a touch relieved when Ariana had declined.

Once she had been the apple of her father’s eye and they would talk and laugh. They would fly to the London office together, and she had felt there was a real place for her on the Romano board, but since Dante had taken over all she had felt was supernumerary.

Ariana didn’t just miss her father today; she had missed him for the last two years of his life. And now she would miss him for ever, with no time left to put things to rights.

‘We’re here,’ Eloa announced, breaking into her thoughts, and Ariana looked up and saw they were at the church.

The doors were opened and the trio stepped out. Her legs felt as if they had been spun in brittle steel wool, and might snap as she walked over the cobbles and into the church. Her heart felt like a fish flopping in her chest that might jump out of her throat if she let out the wail she held in. The sight of her father’s coffin at the front of the church, though expected, was so confronting that she wanted to turn around and flee, unsure whether she was capable of getting through the ceremony.

But then, just as she felt like panic would surely take over, came an unexpected moment of solace.

Gian was here.

Of course he was, but it was the actual sight of him, the glimpse of him, that allowed Ariana to draw a deeper breath.

He looked more polished and immaculate than she had ever seen; his black hair was brushed back from his face and she could see both the compassion and authority in his grey eyes.

Yes, authority, for him standing at the back with a full view of proceedings instantly calmed Ariana.

Gian would not let things get out of hand.

He would keep things under control.

And then she knew that it wasn’t the hotel, or the haven in Rome that Gian had created, that calmed her.

It was Gian himself who made the world safe.

The look they shared lasted less than a moment—Gian gave her a small, grim smile of sympathy, a nod of his noble head, more by way of understanding than greeting—but time had taken on a different meaning, for the velvet of his eyes and the quiet comfort they gave would sustain her through the service.

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