Page 1 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
Marchesi’s Marriage Mandate
Louise Fuller
Prologue
The Marchesi apartment, Parioli district, Rome
‘IFORGET,it’s two sugars, isn’t it?’ Ettore Marchesi glanced at his lawyer, Carlo Biondi. He could have asked Mariana to stay and serve the coffee, but sometimes he liked to pretend that he was someone else. Someone other than the heir to the largest private estate in Italy.
There were other, older families. There were wealthier ones. Largely because his father and the rest of his freeloading relations preferred to tap into the Marchesi wealth to cover their expenses rather than work for a living.
Even his younger sister, Sofia, was happy to spend the family money. She had moved out of the Castiglione Fiana ten months ago, citing her need for freedom and independence, and was currently moving around the globe on the pretext of finding herself. But apparently freedom and independence didn’t prevent her from using her title when it suited her to do so. And of course, his father, Edoardo, the current Duke of Marchesi, was still paying her bills.
His father.
Ettore rubbed the back of his neck, pushing against the knot of tension that had been there since Edoardo had been rushed into hospital two days ago.
Carlo cleared his throat. ‘So how is he?’
Ettore met his gaze. Carlo was not just the Marchesi’s’avvocato, he was one of the few people Ettore trusted with delicate family matters. Which was fortunate because his family were experts at creating chaos and drama.
‘Mariana found him on the floor. She said he was barely breathing. But when I saw him earlier, he was playingbriscolawith the nurses.’
The old man was due to be discharged today. He would then have to wait until the doctor agreed that he was fit to fly back to Puglia.
The tension in Ettore’s spine felt as if he were being racked. Edoardo wasn’t even supposed to be in Rome. But Ettore’s father was as incorrigible as he was stubborn. Being told that he couldn’t do something simply intensified his desire to do so.
It was the story of Edoardo’s life. Only this time his body had protested. He had collapsed, thankfully at the Marchesi apartment, and been taken to hospital. Bed rest and medication had stabilised his condition, but he was an eighty-six-year-old man, and his heart was failing.
‘Have you called the family?’
Ettore shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t let me. And it’s probably for the best. I don’t need them roaring up in their supercars.’
‘Will anything be leaked?’ Carlo said softly.
Ettore shook his head again. ‘I’ve dealt with the hospital before. They’ve always been very discreet.’
‘That’s good. We don’t want any silly stories about the family curse doing the rounds.’
They did not.
Throughout history, many great dynasties had been rumoured to have a curse on them. The Kennedys. The Grimaldis. In Italy it was the Marchesi family who had been troubled by unhappy marriages and untimely deaths across the generations.
His thumb moved to the now near invisible scar on his left wrist. There was another on his right shin and others on his stomach and back. Mementos of the bike crash that had killed Edo.
Despite their differences, he had loved his brother and still missed him. Sometimes he even missed his mother. Although she had made no secret of her preference for Edo. His father had been no less partisan in favouring Sofia, but he had never blamed him for the accident.
It was Edo’s death that had elevated Ettore to the status of heir apparent. But he had been reluctantly managing his errant family since his grandfather died nearly twelve years ago.
Circling back to his original question, he lifted up the delicate porcelain sugar bowl.
‘Not for me, sadly.’ Carlo grimaced. ‘I’m pre-diabetic and Carolina and Silvia are being very strict. One I could resist, but…’ Carlo Biondi sighed, his face settling into an expression of resignation at the powerlessness of a man confronted by the combined willpower of his wife and daughter.
‘And they’re right. I know they are. Just because we want something doesn’t mean we should allow ourselves to indulge our desires.’
Their eyes met briefly.
There was no need for either man to remark on the fact that indulging his desires was something Edoardo Marchesi did so often, it could have been the family’s motto.
