Bellissima by Anya Richards

sockets. And when he next spoke, his voice had fallen yet was no less filled with rage and determination.
    “Fabrizio Bertuca’s daughter is coming to London. When she arrives here, you will marry her. If you will do nothing else for your family, this you will do.”
    It was not completely unexpected. How could it be when they had married Marco off the same way, bringing him a wife aligned with one of the best intaglio carvers in Rome? Fabrizio Bertuca was one of the foremost goldsmiths in Italy. Another attempt by his father to solidify his trade aspirations through marriage should come as no shock. Yet the words made Sergio freeze, a ball of icy rage and denial forming in his belly.
    And just like that, in an instant, he thought of Jane. His sweet, licentious Jane, whose memory he had willfully tried to push aside while he sat at his mother’s table, surrounded by his family. A memory that hovered, just beneath all other thoughts, despite his best intentions.
    And instead of increasing his anger, somehow just that brief whisper of her name through his head, the equally quick recollection of her smile, steadied him.
    “Marco,” he said quietly into the thick silence, without taking his gaze from his father’s face. “How many designs have I brought to the shop in the last six months?”
    “Um,” his brother hesitated, whether to count or with the wish he hadn’t now been brought into the argument, Sergio didn’t know, or care. “Twelve, I think.”
    “Fourteen.” Sergio corrected him, watching Ennio’s face get redder. “And do you know if any have sold?”
    “All of them,” Marco said.
    “And my payment?”
    “You refused payment, even though I offered it.”
    “Thank you, brother.”
    “That signifies nothing.” Ennio was shouting again, both fists planted on the table, ready to pound, just as he’d like to pound his will into his son. “We could have sold double that, triple that, if you dedicated yourself to the task. Since you will not do that, since you will not help us in that small way, you will marry Lucretia Bertuca. Then I can once more consider you a true part of this family.”
    Sergio put down his cutlery, distantly surprised to realize he’d been clutching it so tightly his fingers ached as he let the knife and fork go. Picking up his napkin from off his lap, he set it beside his plate and pushed his chair back from the table, aware of the entire family watching him, waiting to see what he would say.
    “I’m sorry my production hasn’t met your expectations.” His teeth were clenched so tightly it was all he could do to speak. “And I’m sorry you feel my contributions are too paltry to be considered worthwhile.” He paused, watching his father’s face, letting the older man see his anger, letting it bleed out through his eyes, even as he kept any hint of it from his voice. “I will not promise to do better. In fact, I find myself too busy to continue supplying you with designs. I also suggest, sir, that you inform Signor Bertuca his daughter will not be marrying me when she arrives on England’s shores.”
    He turned away then, ignoring his father’s shouts, his brothers’ interjections, Sophia’s wide-eyed shock. By the time he was shrugging into his coat in the small entry hall, his mother was by his side, her hand on his arm.
    “Sergio, please…”
    “ Non , Mama.” He tried to be gentle with her, not wanting his anger to color how he spoke, but wasn’t completely successful. “In this I will not be moved.”
    “Too much like your papa.” She made a sound, half laugh, half sob, and, surprised, he looked down at her. There was the unmistakable sheen of tears in her eyes, and his heart wrenched to see them. “Stubborn. Pigheaded. Will you tear our family apart over such a little thing? You must have known your father would arrange a marriage for you. It is our way.”
    He shook his head, unable to explain to her his reluctance—no, repugnance—at the thought