Chapter 22
DANTE
Fucking hell, women are a nuisance.
I’d hired Jessica two years ago because she was good at keeping track of my calendar, and really good at sucking me off under my desk.
But she seems to keep forgetting that our relationship is a business arrangement—not a personal one.
For the first time since I brought her on, I’m seriously starting to regret hiring her at all.
True, I’ve used Jessica to my advantage.
More than once, I’ve flirted with another woman just to get her to agree to something filthy I wanted to do in bed.
It’s been surprisingly easy. It’s always been easy to bend Jessica to my whims, and never once have I worried about her feelings.
As for her, I know she hopes to get more from me than a signature on her paychecks.
She made it clear on day one that she’d happily do whatever it took to move up the company ranks.
But ever since my new wife entered the picture, Jessica has become insanely possessive.
She isn’t just pandering to me like usual.
She’s holding nothing back in her bid for my attention, her jealousy over my wife unbecoming in a causal sex partner and flat out unacceptable in an employee.
It’s made me realize that her cheap tricks are exactly that.
It doesn’t seem to matter that I haven’t slept with my assistant since I got married—it only seems to spur Jessica on even more in her efforts to get me back into bed. I’m not even sure if this is about me at all, or if Jessica’s just trying to prove something. To win.
Which is a losing game, because I’m the one with all the power around here. And I wouldn’t touch that pussy again with a ten-foot pole.
Not because of my wife, obviously. I can still do whatever I want with whomever I want; the marriage is a sham anyway. But sex with Francesca is…it’s different.
Because I can do whatever I want with her. To her. She’s nothing like Jessica. Nothing like any woman I’ve ever fucked before. And the way she takes her own pleasure…it somehow makes mine even more fulfilling.
Fuck, that’s stupid. Sex is just sex. Love is for people without a plan.
Walking the stone path to the tasting room, I check my phone for messages and reply to a few but my mind isn’t fully focused on what I’m typing.
I can’t stop thinking about Francesca bent over my desk, her legs spread wide, her skin flushed, her eyes flashing those damn daggers at me.
God, the way she looks at me. The way she fights me, tooth and nail, in our lives and in bed—every time I take her, in fact.
She hates me. Yet she never says no. It’s so fucking hot, I—
No, I’m not going there. Who cares why it’s different with Francesca? I’m overthinking it, something I never used to do until I married her.
Opening the tasting room doors, I step into the showroom and stop dead in my tracks, momentarily confused. It looks like I’ve walked into the wrong building.
Ridiculous. Of course I haven’t. But the room is completely rearranged. Who the hell did this? Nobody came to me to ask for permission. And I sure as hell didn’t approve it.
The room is free of guests at the moment but there’s another tasting soon. I see employees milling around, tidying, adding bottles to shelves while talking to each other. They’re working, sure, but I notice they seem more relaxed than usual. They’re…are they…smiling?
They are. And not in that polite, polished, retail worker way that I demand from all my public-facing employees. These are real, actual smiles.
“Hello, Mr. Bellanti,” someone says quietly, but I wave them away dismissively.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I start a slow walk around the room, taking in the changes.
I realize instantly that the place just…
looks better. Somehow. The flow is better, the arrangement of the furniture and accessories are more inviting.
The staff turn and watch me, their happy expressions fading, their conversations dying off.
It’s like they disappear when I appear, turning brittle and giving me the plastic versions of themselves.
Flashing the same stilted smiles that everyone gives me—a little nervous, a little too big. And completely fake.
Greg, the manager, gives me a hesitant wave of greeting. He’s been here for years, and it bothers me that he’s still uncomfortable around me. Perhaps I haven’t given the best impression to my staff. Not that I’ve paid much attention. That’s been Jessica’s department for a while now.
I give Greg a nod in return and do my best to appear unintimidating, though I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pull that off. I move my hands from behind my back and take a more causal pose as I finish my walkthrough.
The changes are impressive, and I decide that I approve.
Though I can’t say for sure, I suspect my wife is behind this development.
If so, she’s caught my attention twice now when it comes to the family business.
Maybe I’ve been too reluctant to give her some rein, though I’ll have to wait and see what else she has up her sleeve before deciding.
I realize just then that the staff have paused in their work to look at me, as if waiting for some kind of reaction from me. So I check my watch, then give them all a nod. “The room opens again in ten minutes, and everything had better be in place when it does. Back to work. Now.”
Striding out, I start to head back in the direction of my office, but quickly change my mind.
Francesca is likely still there, and I don’t want to deal with any more of her accusations right now.
I sent Jessica to the house earlier to pick up a file I’d left in my room, and I really don’t want to run into her, either.
Being caught between these women is making me feel…
less in control. And I may not be a lot of things, but I’m always in control.
Guess it’s time for a surprise inspection at the vats, then.
Slipping into my car, I drive to the heart of the winery.
The familiar long, low, steel building makes me feel instantly calmer.
This is where Bellanti wines are made, and immersing myself in the process has always brought me peace.
I’ll do a walkthrough of the press before I inspect the vats, maybe take a sample or two of the wines coming out of aging.
I haven’t had a chance to taste the product from last year’s harvest, and it’s a family tradition to drink some before the vats are prepared for the current season.
This preparation includes making sure the vats are scrubbed to an exacting standard before the harvest begins in earnest next month.
But my brother Marco is in charge of it—and God knows he always needs a supervisor.
Which is exactly why I need to check up on things.
With all the time he spends chasing tail, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t set foot in this building in weeks.
At least not for anything other than copious amounts of “taste testing.”
I park my car outside the steel structure but I don’t move to get out. Instead, I find myself yet again thinking about my wife. She hasn’t toured this building yet, as far as I know. I should bring her here, give her the full tour, considering she’s hell-bent on being a part of the business.
A groan works from my throat as I flash back to the blow job she gave me the other night.
Unbidden, the images play out in my mind like a porno.
Her eyes looking up at me as she sucked me off.
The way she pushed me onto the couch and dropped to her knees.
Fuck, she’s got a hot little mouth. My cock twitches at the phantom feel of her tongue circling my head, sucking hard on my shaft.
There’s an innocence in the way she touches me, in the sounds she makes while I’m fucking her. Like sex is something new to her.
It’s not that she’s actually inexperienced—more that she isn’t experienced in the way she wants me to believe.
She might be a little hellcat, but when it comes to sex, Francesca is learning the depths of her lust for the first time.
Virgin or not, this passion is new to her.
It’s obvious to me that I’m the first to draw it out.
That nobody has ever fucked her like I do.
I swallow hard and twist my thoughts away. If I keep this up, I’m going to have to find my wife and throw her over my desk again.
The winery is running like clockwork as I wander through. Staff pause to greet me, but otherwise don’t turn from their work. Which is exactly as it should be. They’ve got more important things to do than kiss my ass.
When I finally sit in the dim light of the cellar to mull over a glass of wine from last year’s harvest, my mind instantly wanders back to Francesca.
I already gave her the AmEx and the Jag back.
She has unlimited funds, a name that has clout both in Napa and around the world.
A massive house full of domestic workers (and a personal chef) ready to jump at her every whim.
She has everything, including my blessing to work here at Bellanti Vineyards.
She certainly doesn’t need to use sex to get what she wants from me.
It’s all been handed to her already. So why is she acting the way she is?
The woman is a puzzle.
I lean back in my chair and stare blankly at the cellar wall. Could it be that my wife just…likes having sex with me? That she doesn’t want anything in return?
Does she actually want…to be with me?
It’s a good thing I’m alone in the cellar, because I laugh out loud. What a ridiculous thought. When has a woman ever had a legitimate interest in me, and not what I could give her?
Tossing back the rest of my wine, I head to the vats for my inspection.
I take the maintenance sheets from their hook on the wall and go through them page by page.
Then I visit each vat, making sure they’ve been prepped and prepared to receive the influx of product coming their way.
Before I realize it, an hour has passed, and I haven’t thought about my personal life for one second of that time.
Escape from one’s burdens—this is the boon of being a workaholic.
The moment I’m finished, though, the familiar restlessness comes back.
I want to blame it on Jessica, on my shitshow of a marriage, on Marco’s even-more-selfish-than-usual behavior lately, on the lingering shadow of my father’s death and the fact that I’ll likely be avenging his murder if my wife can dig up some names…
but none of those things are what’s really bothering me.
I look to the ceiling and take a breath.
For the first time in a very long time, and for some unknowable reason, I’ve somehow let emotions get past my walls. There’s a crack in my armor. And now I feel the weight of something I haven’t allowed myself to acknowledge since I was a child.
I miss my mother.