BASTIANO CONTI HAD been born hungry.
And born a problem.
His mother had died giving birth to him and had never disclosed who his father was. All she had owned had been left to him—a ring.
It was Italian gold with a small emerald in its centre and some seed pearls dotted around it.
Bastiano’s uncle, who had four children of his own, had first suggested that the nuns raise the orphaned baby who’d lain crying in the small maternity ward in the Valley of Casta. There was a convent that overlooked the Sicilian Strait and orphans had usually been sent there.
But the convent was on its last legs.
The nurses were busy but occasionally one would take pity and hold Bastiano a little longer than it took to feed him.
Occasionally.
‘Familia,’ the priest had said to his uncle. ‘Everyone knows that the Contis look after their own.’
The Contis ruled the valley to the west and the Di Savos held the east.
Loyalty to their own was paramount, the priest told him.
And so, after a stern talk from the priest, Bastiano’s zio and his reluctant wife had taken the little bastard to their house but it had never, for Bastiano, been a home.
Always Bastiano had been considered an outsider. If something had gone wrong, then he’d been the first to be blamed and the last to be forgiven.
If there had been four brioches for lunch, they had not been split to make five.
Bastiano had done without.
Sitting in school next to Raul Di Savo, Bastiano had started to understand why.
‘What would your parents save in a fire?’ Sister Francesca had asked her class. ‘Raul?’
Raul had shrugged.
‘Your father,’ she prompted, ‘what would be the first thing that Gino reached for?’
‘His wine.’
The class had laughed and Sister Francesca, growing more exasperated with each passing moment, had turned her attention from Raul.
‘Bastiano,’ she snapped. ‘Who would your zia save?’
His serious grey eyes had lifted to hers and Bastiano had frowned even as he’d given his response. ‘Her children.’
‘Correct.’
She had turned back to the board and Bastiano had sat there, still frowning, for indeed it was the correct answer—his zia would save her children. But not him.
He would never be first.
However, aged seven, Bastiano was sent to collect the brioches and the baker’s wife ruffled his hair and so unused to affection was he that his face lit up and she said that he had a cute smile.
‘You do too,’ Bastiano told her, and she laughed.
‘Here.’ She gave him a sweet cannoli just for brightening her morning and Bastiano and Raul sat on the hill and ate the gooey treat.
The boys should have been sworn enemies—for generations the Contis and the Di Savos had fought over the vines and properties in the valley—yet Bastiano and Raul became firm friends.
The small encounter at the baker’s was enough for Bastiano to learn that he could get by better on charm.
Oh, a smile worked wonders, and later he learnt to flirt with his eyes and was rewarded with something far sweeter than cannoli.
Despite their families’ protests, Bastiano and Raul remained friends. They would often sit high on the hill near the now vacant convent and drink cheap wine. As they looked out over the valley, Raul told him of the beatings his mother endured and admitted that he was reluctant to leave for university in Rome.
‘Stay, then.’
It was that simple to Bastiano. If he’d had a mother, or someone who cared for him, he would not leave.
And he did not want Raul to go, though of course Bastiano did not admit that.
Raul left.
One morning, walking down the street, he saw Gino storm out of Raul’s house, shouting and leaving the front door open.
Raul was gone and, given what his friend had told him, Bastiano thought he ought to check that his mother was okay.
‘Signora Di Savo...’ He knocked on the open door but she did not answer.
He could hear that she was crying.
His zia and zio called her unhinged but Maria Di Savo had always been kind to Bastiano.
Concerned, he walked inside and she was kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, crying.
‘Hey.’ He poured her a drink and then he got a cloth and ran it under the water and pressed it to the bruise on her eye.
‘Do you want me to call someone?’ he offered.
‘No.’
He helped her to stand and she leant on him and cried and Bastiano did not know what to do.
‘Why don’t you leave him?’ he asked.
‘I’ve tried many times.’
Bastiano frowned because Raul had always said that he’d pleaded with her to leave yet she’d always refused.
‘Could you go and stay with Raul in Rome?’ Bastiano suggested.
‘He doesn’t want me there. He left me,’ Maria sobbed. ‘No one wants me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You mean it?’
She looked up then and he went to correct her to say that what he had meant was that he was sure there were people who wanted her...
Not him.
She put a hand up to his face and held his cheek. ‘You’re so handsome.’
Maria ran a hand through his thick black hair and it did not feel like when the baker’s wife had; this felt more than an affectionate ruffle and, confused, Bastiano removed her hand and stepped back. ‘I have to go,’ he told her.
‘Not yet.’
She wore just a slip and her breast was a little exposed; he did not want Maria to be embarrassed when she realised that she was on display, so he turned to leave.
‘Please don’t go,’ she called out to him.
‘I have to go to work.’
He had left school and worked now in the bar that was a front for the