Eighteen
Ellory
I swear the Devil invented Mondays as payback for peaceful weekends.
I miss them. Him. Her. Us. The quiet joy of pancakes and pajamas.
And now, he’s gone silent, and I’m back to wondering if I imagined all of it.
He never called last night and didn’t respond to my text.
And just to twist the knife, today’s weather is perfect—clear skies, warm sun, a soft breeze.
Okay, fine. I’m just grumpy.
I tossed and turned half the night, replaying Willow’s dig about my earrings. Who even says that? As if I couldn’t afford my own. Sure, I got them at cost, which is a fraction of what we sell them for, but still. That’s not the point.
It’s not like I’m broke. I own forty percent of Olivier, gifted to me when I turned eighteen per the terms of my parents’ divorce. I’ve never had to stress over a paycheck, rent, or where my next meal’s coming from.
But her judgment still stings.
Then again…I judged her too. Showing up in stilettos and a dress made of attitude, trying to seduce the father of her child? That’s…a choice.
Still, I could’ve been kinder. Compassion doesn’t come with a quota.
After my work out with Vince, I dress in jeans, a sweater, and an old pair of running shoes.
Richard picks me up, and we swing by to collect Antoine before heading to the private terminal at the San Francisco airport.
I’m genuinely excited. A day with Dante and Matteo, learning about the business from the inside? Yes, please.
Inside, Richard walks us to the desk.
“Mr. Marino is here,” the receptionist says. “I’ll let him know you’ve both arrived.”
I duck into the ladies’ room to deal with the consequences of two coffees and an early-morning workout. After washing up, I swipe on fresh lipstick, take a few steadying breaths, and try to talk the butterflies in my stomach into calming down.
When I return, Dante and Antoine are deep in conversation. Luca greets me with a warm smile.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “Matteo’s dealing with Willow today. He couldn’t make it. So I’m standing in.”
I school my face, keeping the disappointment tucked behind my smile. I tell myself it’s fine. That work and custody battles come first. But my heart? It’s less practical. “I’m sorry he’s dealing with that, but I’m glad you’re here.”
He leads us outside to a sleek, gleaming Learjet. “We adore Amelia. But Willow? We could do without.”
Inside the Learjet, I settle into a leather seat that feels more like a luxury recliner than something meant for air travel.
“Today, you’ll meet the man who stepped in after our parents died,” Dante says. “Tom Caruso. He was our dad’s best friend. Without him, our father’s business would have been sold off and we never would’ve found the diamond pipes.”
“I’ve never had a tour of a mine,” I say. “Are the diamonds packed inside something that looks like jagged concrete?”
He chuckles. “I won’t steal Tom’s thunder, but yes. Each pipe produces different types of stones. One yields diamonds with a frosted sheen. The other gives us large stones with this fascinating bubble-like texture.”
“How does that even happen?”
“We’re still figuring that out. Nature’s got her secrets.”
The captain’s voice comes over the speaker, welcoming us aboard and estimating the flight will be under an hour,—barely time to finish a drink before we land.
“This is the only known diamond pipe in the U.S.,” Dante continues.
“Our dad was actually searching for gold when they hit mica, garnet, and zircon—clues that diamonds were close. He and our mom were killed not long after they found the mineral deposit. When they died, Tom stepped in. And when we were old enough, we started mining the gems.”
“I’m very sorry about your parents,” I say softly. “I had heard your dad won the mine in a poker game.”
Dante laughs. “That’s partially true. He won the land, but the guy had owned it for years and had been trying to sell it.
My dad bought real estate, and not far from there, they had found gold, so he agreed to the land deal for the guy’s gambling debt.
He was hoping for gold but got diamonds instead.
And really, my parents never knew what the diamonds were like.
They died before they really started mining. ”
“I grew up without my mother. I’m sure it was difficult for all of you.”
He nods. “Thanks. It hit us all differently. Matteo was only eleven. He struggled the most. He’s always been the wild one, the risk-taker. But now, with Amelia…he’s different. He’s looking for more.”
I glance at him. “You think that ‘more’ is me? Just because I had lunch with him the day he found out about her?”
“That was a coincidence. But what he sees in you… That’s not luck. We’ve had too many Willows in our world. People who chase power and status. You’re not like that.”
“I know the feeling.” I’ve had many men interested in my bank account and what my father’s business can do for them.
“You ground him,” Dante says simply. “He’d be lucky if you could see past the chaos and love him.”
“I wouldn’t call Amelia chaos,” I say gently.
“She’s not,” he agrees. “But her mother’s a whole different story.”
I snort. “That’s an understatement.”
He grins. “As his brother and business partner, I’ll just ask one thing. Please don’t give up on him. Loving a Marino? It’s not easy. But I think it’s worth it.”
“And you have someone who can back that up?” I tease.
“I promise—we’re a lot,” Dante says with a wink.
When we land, a long, three-row golf cart waits beside the tarmac. My cell phone pings.
Matteo: So sorry about today. After you left, I realized I needed to put this thing with Willow behind me. I hope you enjoy the tour and call me when you’re home. Or better yet. Come over with an overnight bag.
I don’t know why I was so worried about him. We exit the plane and standing next to the golf carts is a man who could moonlight as a retired linebacker—massive, at least six-six, with forearms like tree trunks and a grin that takes up half his face.
“Welcome to Marino Holding’s Diamond Mine,” he booms. “Or as we call it, The Mine.”
“Thanks for having us,” I say as Antoine practically vibrates beside me, already wide-eyed.
After an unnecessarily enthusiastic handshake—Tom’s hands could crush boulders—we suit up in hard hats, rain gear, gloves.
Antoine and I came prepared in jeans and running shoes.
I’ve never toured one, but I was warned they’re always colder and damper than you’d expect, with just enough claustrophobia to remind you you’re beneath the earth.
Tom gathers us near a glass case filled with rough stones.
“Before Stefano and Maria passed, Stefano had been searching for gold to fund a jewelry line Maria had been designing. Her sketches were extraordinary. But instead of gold, we found something better.” He tells the same story Luca told me but is much grander, and he reminds me of a Ringmaster.
He gestures toward a board lined with pale yellow, crystal-like stones.
“These are from Pipe One. When polished, they develop a frosted finish. Not ideal for clarity, but visually striking.”
“Are these average size?” Antoine asks, leaning in, practically drooling.
“They are,” Tom confirms. “Though we get plenty smaller. Those go to industrial use—tools, abrasives, that sort of thing.”
We follow him to another display.
“Pipe Two was a fluke,” he says. “A lateral offshoot of the original. The diamonds here have a bubble-like texture—solid all the way through, no air pockets. We think it’s due to trace elements being drawn down from aboveground during formation.
The composition is totally unique to anything else that has been discovered on Earth. ”
It’s fascinating. The mine hums with purpose and precision. We watch a conveyor belt carry rock into a massive water tumbler, where it’s rinsed clean. From there, it flows onto a sorter, categorizing stones by size and density.
“The large rocks go to construction. Fine sand and gravel get sent to our concrete operations. Diamonds are pulled and passed to the geology team for grading.”
As we descend into the tunnels, the air cools and the ground underfoot becomes slick.
I keep my breathing steady, though flashes of cave-ins and flood warnings tug at the back of my mind.
The glow from the overhead lamps casts the walls in uneven light, revealing streaks of volcanic rock shot through with veins of pale minerals.
In places, the earth is scored open where heavy machinery has cut into the kimberlite pipes—the volcanic conduits that once carried diamonds to the surface.
The stone looks mottled and dense, peppered with darker inclusions that, Tom explains, are what his team watches for, the promise of hidden gems still locked inside.
We pass piles of crushed rock stacked along the tunnel wall, waiting to be hauled up for processing.
The air hums with the low thrum of conveyor belts deeper in the mine, a mechanical heartbeat in the darkness.
The deeper we go, the more the walls glitter faintly, as if the light catches on something just beneath the surface.
It’s not the bright flash of a polished stone but the raw suggestion of one—diamonds trapped for centuries in ancient magma, waiting to be coaxed out.
The sight leaves me with a strange sense of awe, the reminder that beauty often begins buried in darkness.
When the tour is over, lunch is catered right on-site. The food is sandwiches, and I’m struck by how the crew interacts with Tom—respectful, familiar, genuine. The kind of loyalty that isn’t bought but earned.
Afterward, we board a helicopter for an aerial view of the property. Fifty thousand acres stretch out beneath us, rugged and sun-scorched desert. Tom’s voice comes through our headsets as we sweep over vast patches of untouched terrain.
“This is as far as we’ve explored,” he says.
I lean toward the window. “Who owns the land next door?”