Chapter 12 Julian
TWELVE
JULIAN
PRESENT DAY
It’s been many months since something other than the need for numbness got me out of bed.
After Lana and Lisandru’s summons, I went to my usual dive bar. It was like the veil had been lifted and I could see it for what it was. A sad escape, always meant to end somehow. Just a place to drown my sorrows, try to forget the man I love and how he chose everyone but me over and over again.
But right now, they don’t want to be drowned.
They want to rage, and I let them. Igor would be proud.
Out of the two of us, he’s always been the most attuned to his emotions, even if they confused him.
It’s not fucking fair that he gets to escape me when all I can think about is him and his absence.
I twirl the ring held on a thin chain around my neck. I removed it from my finger a while ago, only to wear it at night like my dirty secret. I wanted to throw it in the Mediterranean Sea but could never manage to launch my arm into action.
I’m due to join Lana to meet the kid she talked about but that’s at one pm. It’s now nine am. When was the last time I was awake at this hour?
Dressed in casual blue jeans and a cashmere dark sweater, I put on a wool coat and decide to drive to the vineyard.
Another place I haven’t visited in months.
Fuck, my downward spiral is worse than I thought if I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot into the place that gave me hope when I had none.
As it comes into view ahead of me, surrounded by snowed-tipped mountains, my heart hammers in my chest.
I’ve been avoiding my mum.
No matter how shitty I am to everyone around me, I’m still her golden boy. I can’t stand it. I don’t deserve her kindness. I don’t deserve all that love she always seems to have in spades. I’ve been a wretched son, refusing to give her my time or my attention. And she never faults me for it.
Why won’t she just yell at me? Cut me off. It's worked with everyone else.
Almost.
They also don’t give up on me fully, which is really hard to accept.
He did.
He gave up on me.
Why is everyone else so intent on showing me they won’t do the same? There’s something defective in me, I just know it. He’s simply the only one who’s been brave enough to show me.
I drop my forehead to the wheel once I stop the car in the parking lot.
With the sharp winter just around the corner, it’s almost empty save for three other cars.
I recognise my mum’s Fiat 500 and our cellar-master’s mini-van.
The third one is a sleek blue Maserati I’ve never seen before.
I doubt we have clients on tour at this time of year, and our shop isn’t open for individual shoppers during winter.
I drag a hand over my face and exit my vehicle before I can talk myself out of it.
When I slide my badge over the magnetic lock, the door opens without a sound. The few steps to the first floor of the warehouse where the offices are located creak under my weight, disturbing the silence of what used to be my sanctuary. It makes me cringe a little.
Fuck, being sober is way harder than I thought it would be. I haven’t been back since the harvest. Five months. It’s not that bad, right? Any company can surely function without a CEO for five months?
“Can I help you?” a nasal voice asks, pulling me out of my self-indulgent deprecation, grating on my nerves. I hate to be interrupted. I was having a nice time hating myself. It felt uncomfortable. Deserved.
I size the man up. Average built, middle aged, bald. He’s unremarkable. He’s wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake. No one in their right mind would wear a suit in a vineyard. The land requires dirty hands, and sweat and tears.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Pierre Dubois, the oenologist of the Bartoli Estate. And you are?”
An incredulous laugh makes its way out of my mouth. I calm down, but his disgusted face telling me he thinks I’m insane threatens to have me double over all over again. I wipe tears out the corners of my eyes.
“You’re funny,” I say, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. I wish my hands were dirty. Or better, bloody, making him run for the hills.
I continue towards the back office where I believe my mother is, but Pierre steps in front of me, a hand in front of him like that can stop me.
I indulge him.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You can’t be here. How did you even get inside the building? This floor is employee only.”
I raise a brow, and let a manic smile take over my face. I long for a fight. I just know he won’t give me one. His presence here makes me murderous. I don’t get it. Why is he here? I am the fucking oenologist of the Bartoli Vineyard.
“Pierre. I am the Bartoli Estate.”
His eyes widen before he sputters about being an honour to meet me. Fucking ass-licker. I hate liars and doormats.
“What the fuck are you even doing here, Pierre Dubois? I’ve never even heard of you.”
“Well… Umh… Sir… Your mother hired me.” He straightens, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “And I worked at The Plaza Athénée in Paris for…”
I sidestep him, raising a hand and waving dismissively.
“I don’t give a fuck. Get the fuck out of my property.”
“Sir, I have a contract for another year. Your mother…”
I whirl around, seizing the lapel of his stupid suit jacket.
“Do you know who I am, Pierre?”
He nods, lips trembling in fear and eyes wide with surprise at my outburst. Fair enough.
I’m not a violent man. Sure, I’ve killed men before.
Sure, I’ve been known to be involved in bloody fist fights at The Happy frog.
And sure, I don’t balk at the sight of blood, and I’ve killed a few people in my pursuit of knowing Igor’s location.
And right now, I bet his brow would paint my knuckles a pretty crimson, but I’m not violent.
I swear. He just pisses me off with his fucking suit, his job title that’s mine, his walking around like he knows the place. Like it’s his business.
It’s not his. It’s mine.
“So, you’ve heard of me. Good. Whatever you heard that has you ready to piss your pants, French boy, they aren’t rumours. Get the fuck out of here before I make you regret you ever crossed my path and thought you could take what was mine.”
I let him go.
He rights himself up, slides both hands on his jacket, and flees without another argument. Tail between his legs.
It doesn’t make me feel any better.
My nostrils flare. Maybe I should follow him to his car and make good on my threat anyway.
I’m too sober for this shit.
“Was that really necessary?” my mum asks from behind me.
Her voice is too kind for what she just witnesses.
Embarrassment slowly spreads inside me until I think my shoulders are up to my ears.
I'm a kid once more, berated by his parents after being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
Except my mother never raised her voice at me.
Nor my father. Not really. Maybe they should have. I’d be less of a mess. I don’t know.
I turn around to take her in.
Bea Bartoli is the type of woman who never ages.
Her long blonde hair falls on each side of her face, all the way to her belt, complimenting the same blue eyes I see every day in the mirror.
Her uniform made of ripped wide legged jeans and a knitted sweater—a deep terracotta colour complimenting her olive skin—is the same it’s ever been.
With her soft smile, I could almost believe I saw her just a few days ago at dinner. Not six months ago after my last meltdown.
“Hello baby,” she says kindly as she embraces me. “It’s good to see you.”
I have to dip my body down so she can reach over my shoulders and press my head against her cheek. My nose tingles. I clench my jaw to the point of pain.
She even smells the same. Palo santo and fresh rosemary. She probably cleared the house with one of her bundles this morning.
I kiss her cheek and try to step back but she holds me to her.
“I’m not done,” she murmurs. “And you aren’t either.”
Before I make any deliberate decision, my arms frame her smaller body. I let her hold me. My shoulders shake.
“I know, baby.”
The soothing caress of her hand on my back is the last straw, and I sob into her neck.
I don’t know how long my mother holds me as I fall apart. The office remains empty save for the two of us, and I’m not strong enough or numb enough to hold the tears that have been begging to be released for years.
I never cried when Igor and I have been separated by events beyond our control. Not when he left to protect Lana as she went to study in London. And when he sacrificed himself to save her, exchanging his life for hers.
I was so sure we could get him back within months. That was three years, two months and a day ago.
After what could last for another day or two, my mother frames my face with her hands, half full of paint, chipped nail polish on her short nails.
She kisses my cheek without a word. Then, she smiles mischievously. “You should work on your anger, baby. Come. You’ve missed a lot and we have to get ready for spring. Nino has been working on a new blend I think you’re going to like.”
“You’re not going to tell me to apologise to Pierre? Hire him back?” I say his name like it personally insults me.
My mum just shrugs. “Nah. He’s a pedantic trout.”
“That’s not even an insult, ma. You could try harder.”
She waves a hand before grabbing a heavy file on her desk and marching to the stairs to the cellar.
“Since you’re here, you should check what the intern has done with our social media. The girl’s great.”
She prattles on and on about the changes that happened in the past few months, from this new intern I didn’t know we had, to the change to the logo she wants me to approve.
And Nino is the same when he shows me the new blends he’s been working on and this year’s vintage he’s keeping in whisky casks.